There is no real accord to waiting to do something.
You do or don’t.
Pondering is still don’t.
I convinced myself of this rancid idea about 12 years ago.
52 with a dream to grow up and being a damned saint left me 11 years old.
Emo as hell.
In North Carolina.
Rally with me, Children.
Obey in the command-o-chaos.
The Shiner and Shriners’ and the feast presented of the world.
Apple Dish Baked Pork Chops + Poinsettia Scramble (Sicilian Potato Salad)
I’m only but otherwise diplomatic to the growing needs of nutrition.
Sacrifice for tumbles at the stove.
Prevent a heart attack – take my food out the oven before I call it ups time.
Rush me at unlimited lives at my puzzle.
For the gal waiting for the Champloo of Detectives y Agency.
I got no idea why I sit here all day. Not much comes up.
And all the juniors working below me in teir that are mandated to live with me or some shit like that, that are somehow above a spec in being a squatter – I put diced tomatoes in there instead of fatback. Garlic cloves regardless.
Crime Scene the damn spice rack.
I missed smoked paprika.
But the nutmeg pours audaciously.
And I’ve learned to use less thyme for your cirrhosis hardest working livers of the world.
And I spit up aqui-quadratic organellic regions. A
D stummer in med-school spellings and specifics.
I’m throwing up brain cancer dawg.
And like alcoholism and opioid addiction from IEDS and DEA Scheduled NarcoTrafficking.
Hired orrryyeee some Shit.
The autocorrect chose “Portuguese” for that.
Suadade ain’t Shit.
It’s most working hours for least pay and most bills paid.
That’s how you win.
That’s how you know you’re creative.
That’s how you find worth.
And in-between.
It smells like petrichor, before ya get to the granite cliff side holding dem daisies + daffodils.
Huh?
Ya think.
Bc I think so.
=]
petrichor - archive 