Inhale.

post-ponderance pondering what I should possibly ponder or (more probably) protracted procrastinations and meditations: Of pre-assemblage on my upcoming attempted proto-creation

Woah, wait, weird wordplay. My apologies for my frenetic chaotic and occasionally caustic case of contrived iambic clauses. It's a cause for much distress and discourse and I could probably teach a course, which would be (of course) about the crash course (from the most natural source) of the human sort, this discourse requires no retort or recourse or retweet (though I cringe at the cliche that that may one day be), about our adroit exploits wrought through blood sport as opined by yours truly: Me.

Again I cringe as there is still the contrived tinge of a voice which has been reared from earth singed with terse verse ( and the occasional drinking binge), as well as artistic visages that smile with self ascribed eminence who fail to bestow the worthwhile tenants to those 'neath their tutelage and only instill a voice which is resonant with their own scent of resentment (I wonder if it's clear here, just what I'm getting at), and I'm betting that most of them don't even know it yet.

I live lost in our meca-era. I say fuck Richard Serra, I prefer the wisdom of Caswell Berry and Steve Berra. Whats missing is mystery. If you don't know those people than you'll Google them quickly and, perchance, contort your face sickly (cause wisdom on wheels is like getting slipped a mickey). I wish (washily) to live amongst the reeds and plant seeds instead of subscribing to RSS feeds. To attend to needs that have escaped us (or simply scraped us) and have been tossed in the wind, like so many weeds; whose fate (to be doomed) has been deemed by the popular populace who thinks their thorns are obscene. This I scorn like the coming of morning, interrupting my dreams.

Again, once more, as before; I despise my own contrivances that I constantly find burning the surface of mine minds open mindedness (I'm constantly reminded of this). It makes me remiss; no, it makes me pissed, that I can talk like this, that I can balk and squawk like this, occasionally walk as such, with bravado that's motto is: Push come to shove. What happened to life and what happened to love. Where's my proverbial olive branch and turtle dove?

(Exhale.)