WORKING TITLE

***

"Slap me."

"No."

"Slap me!"

"No!"

***

laziness precedes the fade

so-be-it attitudes rear

their Dragon-Heads

throughout life, we all humans realize these emotions:

love

trust

pleasure

addiction

pain

betrayal

forgiveness

resignation/resolution

their fucking Dragon-Heads.

there be many again there before me

who'd lived his life as though he's free

but then in the end, he had realized his gaffe

that all that all Life is is a big ole Laugh

***

I smoke too much. I have been known to drink too much. I don't eat the most healthful foodstuffs. I possess, however, a great big ole heart. I care. I empathize. I'm no fucking saint, for sure. But I get down-and-outedness. "There but for the grace of God, go I."

Whistle past the graveyard, if'n it pleases ya.

***

It was windy in the graveyard. Every breath and gust of wind brought the smell of decay.

***

Decay. Sure, bodies decay. But, too, emotions and relationships decay.

***

The dreaded red pencil plays a part in a majority of Life. I always wonder--and do believe--that the red pencil comes equipped with an eraser.

THE TITALODGE.

Once upon a time, there was Peace.

There were good times and randily-drunk brews.

There was...Nothing.

The Nothing has returned.

There was a "goodboy" and there was Silence.

The Nothing has returned.

[cue V. Price, cackling]

Have you ever heard the phrase, "Between a rock and a hard place"?

Me either.

I'd like to be a rock, but I am just a frail human man, warts and all.

There *is* no game. Everything is as serious as a heart attack.

I have Faih, but my Faith is splintered.

I love God and I know he loves me...for whatever reason.

[If the sheriff tells you to jump, you jump; he holds the cards.]

Then again, if God looks at me, he'll see my good. Do ya know?

Have you ever heard of the "tortured artist"?

***

My gun snucked him clearly in his left temple. It--the gun--is a .45, a big gun. He died. His name was James Oliver. The left side of his skull was dented, in a way. Someone else did it to him. I'd not had the power.

***

Someone had stolen my gun.

***

My gun? The death weapon? It'd been stolen.

***

thru feudal fielded flecks we froom.... anger is at no premium; i hate it; it sucks. there is a jank-o-lantern. see it Fire! i rest. thru feudal frocks...we hide.

***

I asked him straight-out: you take my gun?

***

"Who died?"

I said, "Jummy? James Oliver? He died."

"Jummy was a piece of shit." Allen stretched out his six-six frame. He lit a Pall Mall. He cleared his throat. He made it known, non-verbally, that he has no idea of Jummy's demise. Al sent mucus flying.

"Al," said I, "I do believe you're full of shit. The party was done. man! Only you knew where my gun was!"