In the many nether areas between extreme and unyielding points of heat, light, distance, density, strength, mass, and combustibility, where much settling occurs, in most cases out of balance, because balance floats like a butterfly and stings like a bee, like duh, which is not subject to popular marketing techniques rammed down gullible throats in charming schools, and especially those latest and greatest to absolutely die for, I was looking on a clear gray morning for a single sweet spot to happen upon for a landing with no crash.
Because the basis of any enlightened ideology that don’t tolerate no fucking bullshit includes the general and specific rotation of hips aspiring to achieve an elongated figure-eight with necessary and sufficient elasticity to stand up like no putz to withering gravity, I started to move in the direction of my good foot along with the aid of James Brown.
I forded treacherously across the stream where the machines that play disembodied notes were maximizing. I was careful to step lightly, and remain shallow. Any onslaught of expectations is hard to survive for long. How better to remain unconcerned that robots are waiting to take my place? I have few doubts that hip shaking potions of James Brown will become accepted medicine in another fifty-nine thousand years, give or take, mostly take by a ghastly margin, when it is too late. There is nothing humans crave more than a good batch of tasty medicine. The next great growth industry not envisioned by Elon Musk will provide correct posture in the chill way to die right. It will include many melting points. Terminal locations will thrive on Earth, Mars, and lucky way stations in-between. Along with the many points will be many ends of the line. I will be looking for a full pardon by then when the life sentences are handed out with no possibility of parole.
Until then, and knowing that these gratuitous expectations will never be more or less lethal than they are right now, I expect to continue to settle for less. It’s worked great so far, sort of. It’s fairly easy to deny that I smell gas leaking from the open cracks under my feet. That hiss, too, must only be fleeting.
I feel fabulously unfettered and free to chose between pink and persimmon, slop or swill, low-cal or lite, fake or false, guts or gore, pancakes or potatoes. What more could any fucking ingrate want? I’ll bet whatever it is will make you feel guilt.
As our hearty black holes continue to expand exponentially, what risk is more grave than forging a dependency on definitions concocted by forked tongues falling off of assembly lines? Is that distended voice hawking double time shares on the turnip truck really you? Are you prepared to come hard and fast? It’s enough to bring tears. You go bouncing down that crooked brick road on the surface, unaware of the silly synthetic putty molding underneath, and then, wham, bam, over, done, out. Head hurts, holes leak, gunks ooze, vision clouds. You better get it because you got it so use it.
In the vaunted language of the animal best able to reach around and pat its own back, the one with the mostly unused big brain that claims one of a kind ascendancy over a planet spinning for billions of years before the doofus caught on, healthy specimens that are called black look like innumerable shades of shiny brown, and odd specimens that are called white suspiciously resemble creamy and vanilla and frosty. And brilliant.
I’ve been made to feel strongly as if I’d better learn how to breathe deeper, and then some, while lifting my head higher to allow the hollow chest to expand, in order to leave the premises carrying some higher consciousness than these fucking dregs that were lying around in the dirt when I arrived. I know for sure that I should know better than I do, and especially when I don’t. If I can’t distinguish a jolt from a jerk in my own sweet, dip-shitty way, as well as an indigenous zip from the latest fashionable wisp passing, then what lofty hijacker will I be impersonating next? How else to account for the pressure I feel from the tension between yellow and red?
The scuttlebutt is successive numbers of robots tend to clump in bunches before crumbling, often. In the areas of property, a singular noun, and stepping stones, a plural verb, chaos reigns, you betcha. People, places, and things are coerced into counter-reactions.
Better take that fucking good foot and run with it.
Good luck and God speed reaching above the limit.