I am Jane Goodall's Tanzanian monkeys typing about bananas. My fingers are Santa's little helpers. My hope is a sporadic rainfall - yet a torrential downpour in all creative environments. I am Theseus, unspooling golden yarn. Sisyphus, sweating uphill. Bukowski, scribbling away in rooming houses. A river always flowing. I am the nightmare of stagnancy and a God of Imagination.
Monday, November 17, 2008
1 of 64
I felt it earlier
wanted to
and now that I'm here
I'm not feeling it
Like Hannibal sending the elephants back home
Like Hannibal telling crazy Murdock that he can bug B.A. incessantly
Like Emilia Earhart and Charles Lindbergh to turn back
Like telling moonlit Werewolves and hungry zombies to turn back
Like rewinding immaculate conception
Like Autobots ignoring deception
Like John Holmes sleeping off an erection
Not feeling it
I'm not
Saturday, November 08, 2008
Friday, November 07, 2008
Bukowski?
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