. Attempting just the other day to emulate my betters, I was seizing a sliver of time in a supine position, sort of, as has been the case for what many silly humans consider eons in their locally acclaimed mumbo-jumbo misnomered as an advancement in language, floating on the Pacific Ocean. Precious jewels were sparkling nearby with no money down.
Most of the top notch animals have been floating successfully for as long as eons for real, dolphins, birds, beavers, whales, chimps, in the only language that has ever made sense and depth in real time, fifty million years of credulity at a minimum.
Floating may be highly variable due to to conditions, which tend to appear often in the forms of multiple contradictions, the second most basic building block of the multiverse, as well as disappear, but there is a core there, somewhere, touching and abutting, or close. It helps deeply to breathe.
There is a lot to be said for floating in my book. Isaac Newton understood floating, as did Walt Whitman and Miles Davis. Floating sends me. So far has been so good, sort of. I’ve never not come back. Floating though, seems to have acquired a bad reputation these days, as styles shift, bulls swagger, talkers walk, asses jiggle in classes, henchmen clutch at new acquisitions, curses are slurred, tails wag, tops pop, dicks protrude from pants that sag, bag, slink, and then scrunch up.
These dicks, too, have been around and about for what seems like another long time, charging up hills, shooting bullets. What’s the fucking point? Oh yeah, mo’ money honey. Once dicks learned to calculate, odds plummeted big time. Shooting dicks now number in the billions and clamor for more. Too many dicks? Like, duh.
I know I can’t go hardly anywhere anymore without some itchy dick popping up and off. Dicks hide behind cloaks, screens, robes, boots, sandals, beards, sermons, and funny hats. They congregate in great numbers, lesser evils, takeoffs and landings. The funny hats are accessories that go well with the itchy suits and the straight jackets that embody that special glow. Knees are encouraged to bend at regular intervals while listening to a whole lot of blah, blah, blah. The beat goes on, no rhythm, no mind, no matter.
“Stand up straight”
“Shoulders back, bend at the crotch and knee”
“Eyes ahead, look back, gain ground, defend, defend, defend.”
“Yes sir, don’t shoot.”
Isn’t it clear by now that when sharp objects jab, punch, and puncture, they hurt like fucking hell? What’s so special about the shortest distance between points in which dicks attempt to excavate, level, and smooth, before setting out to conquer, straight, no chaser? Even in the murk, and suffering from terminal myopia, it’s not hard to see that far. Shouldn’t there be an algorithm for that by now?
The least common denominator continues to wield power and influence with electrifying results. It lights up the sidewalks and gutters. That creates good blow jobs. Who in the lofty name of high consciousness could be against that? All I need to know is more. Mo’ money shakes mo’ booty leading to mo’ money. Do you think that electricity grows on trees? Dollars, yuan, rupees, pesos, more fucking and sucking.
What if each addition subtracts? What if the signs point the wrong way? What if the The Jerk and The Crawl are not the rhythms your body seeks? If you can’t dance to the music, what else are you prevented from doing? What if that dick sticking out is too sharp and that’s why you are bleeding?
The arithmetic is simple. The Pacific Ocean as a spot for floating trumps a lumpy bed of gold doubloons any day. Sink to that bottom only at your own risk. The blood I give earns interest compounded daily. Knees bend with little resistance. No money ever honeyed up to me like that to this very day.
And it still never hurts to breathe.