is to **** a joke

but death can be funny

why?

stuck in this rut, reveling in reaching, ricky and louis laughing at twisted tales like sherlock on a good manic day, goofy with hysteria throw happiness in cyanide, worse for fever and worse for cold, worse for hangover, too conscious of the trifecta of time, not conscious enough of growing old, massive teeth baring ***** and snitch and ******, all the ***** words thrown into a frying vat, frothing and frolicking in mixtures of mundane, however twisted in the opposite, do come again?  

worse, then worser, then the worsest you can imagine, thrown into the sea for some sort of great escape, some sort of greater story, to retrieve a golf ball that was planted at the beginning of the joke, the joke is funny, and we laugh

and perhaps the man that is somehow removed from this time lapse will lose his ability to know hysteria, the man who no longer knows seriousness will live his life better but not contribute humor to the mix, but will be, as a tree, indifferent

given away, given up, given to suit, to jacket, to shade, to gray, gray gray, fifty shades of ****** up, I laughed at that one, but later I whipped and she screamed with pleasure, the truth hides and has a loving eye and a whipping tail

a red faced ******, hysteria, the cure for cancer, to humor, to understand truth yet purposefully mislead, the bit, and finally, the bow

jesting at the marble staircases, approach the first, the second, the third, with some sort of head held high, with a body painted head to toe, holding a stiff upper lip, raised brow, this is what you came for, this is what you planned all along, to dance the ***** dance across the sacred, to leave some kind of art, the ancient art, all over the constitution, marbles in molasses, forever more making music for the horror villains, who haunt for redemption, who haunt for their pride,

and the point of the story is to be reunited, twisted, as the village burns the people become more and more suspicious, too many stories, the superstitions, spawn across a canvas, held high at talks with tall chairs, tall chairs, the tallest chairs, and microphones, and everyone is a cowboy

who is haunt, and who pales, who feels the repercussions of curse?  of cameras flying overhead, something new to be found or said, practicing this and that, entitled to the wild, entitled to the flesh of story, running so deep in the veins, santa clause wearing a veil and his green eyes suddenly turn him a troll, his sleigh lead by dreadful red

its a circus, my friends, and I long to think myself a ring leader, with a whimsical voice of Shakespeare, longevity, to live forever, while the haunts pluck out their tunes on their strings made from cowhide that brings about the pale, pale moon, sinking teeth into fish, and finishing with a gist, a clever remark, that forgiveness is good but not a given, finish with flesh, the cowboys make their music, and the haunting continues

on and on and on

only at certain times

doesn't make out the sunlight, too bright

sensitive to this and that, to everything

there is warmth, against the skin

thin, thinner, thinning

when its perplexing, near to ******, but never ending, never ending need

and the paranoia

the backlights next to the large bottles of forget

and they are appealing on the surface

but behind them there is dust

fleeting, window surfing, window shopping

judgments quickly make you stuffed

you think you got it all figured out

but then you're left in the white room with your dark pencil, again

scribbling frustrations, oh the strategies never end

is it the chase?  the chase can be fun

is it fun?  the fun can be dangerous

is it the danger?  Perhaps

flip a coin, you win one

flip it twice, win twice,

flip it three times, and the chase is fixation

banging pots and pans together, tin  to block out the noise

the coins, the metal, seeping into the skin,

wash the hands, start all over again

burst!  burst out, flame!!

almost there, came, came to

and the world stays still, and the people out the window,

go about their business while I give in to what I see fit

and my body is fit

and the mind is of acceptance

what many would have done I do, glazing the surface with my ski, freer than the notes from the truck, the ice cream

oh rupture, rally and cry, do as you like, wear it as a a sash and remember or forget, put in your bag and remember a few days later, gaze again, and again, and another thought enters,

rupture, relentlesslessly, and go out that way, to delay dying or to sustain living, oh, one in the same, oh the irony in our ways, the moments of hysteria, taking over the senses!  charm and poise, laughter, the cure

and comfortable with it

letting go of that grasp, of the desire for immense power

something deep inside of anyone deprived of it

one has to ask themselves, how much do they really need?  how much anxiety must one endure, go through in order to grasp it?

the peaceful mind, is it enough?   there's truth in all kinds of things, its flakey like most things, but its comforting enough when it rolls off the tongue, in the opportune moments

scenes from a play, seems from a hat, don't know what you'll get, or where your head will be at

predictability, or to be comfortable with the uncertainty

oh, pass it on, pass it on, say yes to that one