I couldn’t tell you if it is or isn’t. Or wouldn’t be. Cause hey, c’mon, we’re in and out this together. And that’s good and is bad too in a good way, but furthermore it helps not to help helping and instead just like, chill. And maybe spill up a hill. Or down. Whichever works in a world filled with what I can’t help but think of as tomorrow. And yesterday’s tomorrow. At least I know that beyond a shadow of a cloud. High above. Like a glove. But no, can’t be. That’d just be a shameful mixing of real and unreal reality that people like to call courage. And I have nothing against courage. Keep on fighting that epic battle captain, cause hey, if not, what is there beyond that. It’s foggy. Foggy as the cloud’s shadow. And past that we’re just talking clouds. And man o’ man, I don’t wanna be in that neighborhood when that stuff comes around. Best to steer clear. Over the mountainous hilltops and beyond October, November, March, whatever. Seasons come, but do they go? Is it not just a wedding cake of epic proportions? Since when were wedding’s proportional? Not by a long shot to the extreme. Weddings. Sheesh. What’s with that? And that too. And one of those. A whole stack of the blue ones. Nothing against yellow, but you know. Some of us are blinded to colour. There’s a name. But no, there isn’t. But why name things? Seems a little too yadda yadda. With a capital “P” for Rock and Roll. Rock and London Roll. It’s not about the sound, it’s about the sounds. To the ears of the ones privileged to beyond certain certainty. And at last, there’s the rub. On the back of society. Society’s rub is like society’s milk. Except without the taboo of what we call the “butter factor.” And yet if butter is neither cream nor wheat, who’s to say there’s a pronoun to contain both? Not me. Or me. Us neither. Me either. But no, back up, I must change my prominent stance lest I get tumbled upon by a stray conundrum without a name nor a past nor a future in which upon we could make an assumption. What then is there an assumption to be made upon? On that? But why should you go in its way of standing when there’s an ever blossoming curmudgeon hiding beneath in mucky underwaters? Finally, some relief to life the straw off our backs and back to our hats. Sun sun sun, we have not even halfly begun. You crazy ball of chaos pretending to dance in an infinite stage of mediocrity. Is there anything worse beyond mediocrity? Challenge if you must but only if you’re wielding the sword of lexicon to defend the land that our so called chief of salutations has so kindly enveloped us under. And mailed to the land of speech bubbles and happy happy complacency. But when does complacency lose its time factor and manufacture a brand of knowledge that we’ve only started to dub, “the great facilitation between sky and innocence, love and fanatical fantasies and the lesser metaphors we have not bothered to conceive. Only a truly metaphorical metaphor can achieve a beautiful metamorphosis of body to bodyness. Fly on you silent butterfly, pick your trail but don’t leave too much space for a stray hurricane of ponderous particles to implode onto a glass marble leaving a love lost and a glimpse of whimsy. Alas whimsy. Where have you been the last quarter of a decade? Without whimsy, a cat could go along it’s merry ways and never to stop to think about deeds done by the doers of deeds. Those guys. Can’t even pretend to continue along a path first set out by microscopic pioneers and then forked, knifed and spooned into the way we see ourselves on the very same glass marble. But inside too. Intricate tubes of oblivion. And more. Yet I can’t help but think, how could we be what we are when at one point we weren’t what we were meant to be? Even more so, if we be what we are being, what then aren’t the being that are still trudging along, hands on their own crippled shoulders which in simpler terms imply the train of thought has chew chew chewed its way through the muddy delta and is now keeping it’s eye on the back but not yet determined enough to look in the way the very same train did not but six hours ago. But when did six become the end all, alabaster candlestick we must hang our grief upon in hopes to squint at a miniscule spark of what may be something hopeful? Not today it isn’t. At least not today’s today. Without what they call “a carpenter’s minority” it’s really up to the moon in its fantastic crescentry. Crescentry to those lucky enough to have been born in a world of chiastic structures with the back forth forth back to a point that it’s like, c’mon let’s just stop and think. But not too much cause if every thought was overthunk we couldn’t be standing here, up on this crescendo and thinking and wishing and fishing that at least the wind will keep in time with a rhyme but not to the point of a delicious reenactment of a supposed aplufãnt from the days of yore. Or the days of mine. That’d be just fine unless you know a strong whoosh of entropy lines up parallesque to a young obstruction only just beginning to enter its time of need. And need not. To just keep it all condensed in a manageable plethora of Petrarchean callousness. Then who’s feeling the pain and in that sense of the word, seeing it too? It’s hard to just see through the granola blur when we know it’s not us who have walked all the back through the wishing pond, glistening in the fluorescence of our indignance. And indignant may it be so, but for how long does so guarantee the sorrow of a score of birds flapping in united and rhythmic mayhem. It just seems a little shallow for the teachers to turn around and say, we taught and you fought but now it’s time to just allow the lugubrious fireflies to spell out the Braille names of retired fisherman and invisible clergy people without a care in the ground past the time they left the right and began the path that in its former glory was simply considered a narrow trinket but has exponentially subtracted a lot of that very same tenacity. Zero is less than nothing because we can’t even know when the ending began to find its shape and look like the standard paradigm that lives beneath the shackles of the flowerless trees in the epicenter of the forest. When did heltering and/or skeltering become so proficient that not even the wisest of numismatists can find that flat, shiny disc of inconceivable lucidity. Lucidity is just about the last we could collect in out basket of adjectives that until now is only halfway to the bottom both in an ethical and fanatical perspective. It’s both a criminal buttress poking the eyes of the decision makers whose only so far and so yet couldn’t go over that lump and crack its way into an almost lascivious concoction of the most and least symphonic tastes yet discovered by the likes I would wholeheartedly agreed to salute if not for the injury. Not injury of self mind you since that bring back thoughts of old days when we dreamed to our hears content since the rest of our being could never indeed be content. Constantly poking holes like a children’s monocle, only used once for an embargo and adventure not yet recorded and stamped but instead, sent up to the heavens to find it’s calling. And call on brave souls, your help is both satisfactory to the factory and satisfaction to the factions. But don’t think, “hey, if it’s that, well then right on forward,” because that is just about a fascist as an imaginary butler on his way to the local butlery. But not. And yet, efstoons it can’t be more yes than it isn’t but will be. For example, unless you fall upon a timid island floating among various artificial calibrations conceived alone and in tune with a man sitting on a hammock of sincerity without a care nor a chair in a misplaced cacophony of bellicose symphonies, there will be repercussions only a bag of circles can contain. Unless not. Sometimes the very thing that we want to grasp as graspable will prove to be as asymmetrical as a rose standing in a pedestal of sycophants whose only goal is to procure a cure to a pure life that is not just smaller but a little more endearing than just a flick of the wrist and a curl of the ol’ eyebrow. Kudos old sir, that clock has ticked its last tock and you alone are the keeper of whatever will come along next in the crazy but surprisingly tranquil filibuster rocket ship that only pauses ever so slightly on its journey to let off the kings and things but so obscure that there’s never an issue of trust to be dissolved into hot sugar water of only the finest quality. We demand the best and if not for that, well then keep asking for gold when the real glistening is in your soul and yet you can’t really appreciate these slight subtleties since there’s too much coming at you and jumping and thumping seem to be the best bet. Just don’t get wet. It’ll drop from your brow and you won’t know how it came to be like this when at one point, it was just all so rocking. Back and down and further around and it’s still so unfortunate we can’t just get along and sing a song and at least for once or twice back up and be like who. The farmer does it in the early morrow and yet that friendship with the dew is all but known to the happy little conductor, still watching the parabola from the aforementioned train of thought which has slipped onto an inappropriate rail and will not prevail lest the creatures of the day pitch in and finally give a penny farthing over last night’s inedible delicacy which in my opinion has dissolved into less than a kindly notion a more to a subtle motion between the up and black and down and white and the very sight is enough to keep the rebellion from finding its way back to the reformatory where decrepit calendars still flutter with forgotten days whose sole purpose was to prolong a love that could definitely not yet be allowed into the very same fruit bowl that the peach, banana and awkward glance are currently residing. These will go with the slumbers of the people who not once ran when walking seemed just too damn practical. It’s just a flaccid beacon of shame that can’t be quenched with a dozen clichés since it is those very same tired dragons that melt the milky snow, not by heat but by sheer serenity in the starlight. Stars are just beyond the scope of deliberate coincidences because they just don’t seem to care enough. Enough can go a long way when pushed over into a tiny rubber basket that seemingly is pretending to know answers to questions only yet dared to be pondered and still cannot help to adhere to time-honored dream-like landscapes of the most practical of hues. But more so, since it is those very same hues that force the “me”s to run to a faraway sailboat that is only kept afloat by the moral dilemmas faced solely by the twinkler of tears and the cherisher of cheers. Hip-hip. Cheers are like ever consuming pounds of fairy dust which when sprinkled cause one to blink with frustration when it would just look a more like a cartographer’s notebook that only the upper echelon of loyal comrades are privy to leap upon in ecstatic glee, because yes it’s true and sometimes we cant help but want to open up a hole in the raindrops so we could just zip on through without the inconvenience of living life without a pencil. Pen’s too but they in their own way seemingly discourage the pursuit the velocity in exchange for the languid of an open desert sand dune not yet tampered with b the haters of the elevation and the increasers of rumination. And why shouldn’t a nation have a little room to just shimmy a couple furlongs in any ol’ direction on might please to discuss. Just don’t constrict the elastic any wider since a keener sense of buoyancy is exhibited by a precious few gems speckled beneath a hardworking treble clef. It’s hard not to hear the music if your head is turned ever so mightily to the gentle breeze through the fallen trees that have only just started to give rest to the teary traveler whose mind and magnets are both pushing and pulling in the same 3 dimensions. Seems like a good bet since if we stop dimensionating the very being we have first encountered in our misconstrued middle-youth, then the entire plateau of exactitude will bend like the forgotten rainbows that have crept slowly through our memory and polarized their symbolism on the back of the doppelganger’s postcard still waiting to be sent on its journey to the May-Queen where it will be driven off a cliff of broken kaleidoscopes and at last some peace and in the least, pieces of peace. And so the story continues, not with the same solitude as that original calibrated hallmark, but a little more meaning and just a tad more gleaming cause we all know what happens when an apple tree is dissolved and dissolved until we can no longer sleep in our tired bedlam and the classic triad of double “u”s- the which, what and who is just not daring enough to cut it. Or cut anything for that matter, since just a small hum of dissent will seep through the California membrane that supposedly shields the bridges of accomplishment but still, please, a little pith. Just a little. Please. Even the next of kin can successfully defenestrate a barrel of cold independence when the sky is emitting languid beads of limited voluption. And therefore it is not our fallacious futures we must venerate, but a larger, Rastafarian tempest that is colliding with a fractured watering can who is not just the best walker but an exquisite chalker in the mind of a winter’s day. Don’t let the scriveners drawl belie you, that’s a common assumption that is difficult even in a time when biscuiteering looks like a national catharsis. Which in that case, it’s definitely yes but a slight indecision will cause not even a pinch of alacrity to find its way into our hearts. But there’s gotta be at least a space in that organ to organize a blue revolution in mind and soul. Mind and soul are two concepts constantly being overlooked and underrated and never dead on, neither too high or too low and too low can be a low blow if you don’t know where it is to go and it’s all so and so, but hey, what could you do? Pretty much nothing. Especially when nothing has become so dramatically disappointing we don’t know what to think anymore. But more any can become many if you just try hard enough in a hyperbolic sense. But don’t go bald in that attempt for sense cause no lives half foot in on a dangling step ladder of charming harmony. Sing that song the old matrons taught underneath the basement at the local hartigan chicanery. But lift up that shady brow of happenstance cause you know sometimes its just better when the pegs of the chatter keeps clicketing to the cricket endomorph’s pulse-beat and beat the odds the next opportunity you get cause they’ll just stop. You know it’s the truth that being preached and stopping is on the list of 5 things not to do on a rainy night. BuI couldn’t tell you if it is or isn’t. Or wouldn’t be. Cause hey, c’mon, we’re in and out this together. And that’s good and is bad too in a good way, but furthermore it helps not to help helping and instead just like, chill. And maybe spill up a hill. Or down. Whichever works in a world filled with what I can’t help but think of as tomorrow. And yesterday’s tomorrow. At least I know that beyond a shadow of a cloud. High above. Like a glove. But no, can’t be. That’d just be a shameful mixing of real and unreal reality that people like to call courage. And I have nothing against courage. Keep on fighting that epic battle captain, cause hey, if not, what is there beyond that. It’s foggy. Foggy as the cloud’s shadow. And past that we’re just talking clouds. And man o’ man, I don’t wanna be in that neighborhood when that stuff comes around. Best to steer clear. Over the mountainous hilltops and beyond October, November, March, whatever. Seasons come, but do they go? Is it not just a wedding cake of epic proportions? Since when were wedding’s proportional? Not by a long shot to the extreme. Weddings. Sheesh. What’s with that? And that too. And one of those. A whole stack of the blue ones. Nothing against yellow, but you know. Some of us are blinded to colour. There’s a name. But no, there isn’t. But why name things? Seems a little too yadda yadda. With a capital “P” for Rock and Roll. Rock and London Roll. It’s not about the sound, it’s about the sounds. To the ears of the ones privileged to beyond certain certainty. And at last, there’s the rub. On the back of society. Society’s rub is like society’s milk. Except without the taboo of what we call the “butter factor.” And yet if butter is neither cream nor wheat, who’s to say there’s a pronoun to contain both? Not me. Or me. Us neither. Me either. But no, back up, I must change my prominent stance lest I get tumbled upon by a stray conundrum without a name nor a past nor a future in which upon we could make an assumption. What then is there an assumption to be made upon? On that? But why should you go in its way of standing when there’s an ever blossoming curmudgeon hiding beneath in mucky underwaters? Finally, some relief to life the straw off our backs and back to our hats. Sun sun sun, we have not even halfly begun. You crazy ball of chaos pretending to dance in an infinite stage of mediocrity. Is there anything worse beyond mediocrity? Challenge if you must but only if you’re wielding the sword of lexicon to defend the land that our so called chief of salutations has so kindly enveloped us under. And mailed to the land of speech bubbles and happy happy complacency. But when does complacency lose its time factor and manufacture a brand of knowledge that we’ve only started to dub, “the great facilitation between sky and innocence, love and fanatical fantasies and the lesser metaphors we have not bothered to conceive. Only a truly metaphorical metaphor can achieve a beautiful metamorphosis of body to bodyness. Fly on you silent butterfly, pick your trail but don’t leave too much space for a stray hurricane of ponderous particles to implode onto a glass marble leaving a love lost and a glimpse of whimsy. Alas whimsy. Where have you been the last quarter of a decade? Without whimsy, a cat could go along it’s merry ways and never to stop to think about deeds done by the doers of deeds. Those guys. Can’t even pretend to continue along a path first set out by microscopic pioneers and then forked, knifed and spooned into the way we see ourselves on the very same glass marble. But inside too. Intricate tubes of oblivion. And more. Yet I can’t help but think, how could we be what we are when at one point we weren’t what we were meant to be? Even more so, if we be what we are being, what then aren’t the being that are still trudging along, hands on their own crippled shoulders which in simpler terms imply the train of thought has chew chew chewed its way through the muddy delta and is now keeping its eye on the back but not yet determined enough to look in the way the very same train did not but six hours ago. But when did six become the end all, alabaster candlestick we must hang our grief upon in hopes to squint at a miniscule spark of what may be something hopeful? Not today it isn’t. At least not today’s today. Without what they call “a carpenter’s minority” it’s really up to the moon in its fantastic crescentry. Crescentry to those lucky enough to have been born in a world of chiastic structures with the back forth forth back to a point that it’s like, c’mon let’s just stop and think. But not too much cause if every thought was overthunk we couldn’t be standing here, up on this crescendo and thinking and wishing and fishing that at least the wind will keep in time with a rhyme but not to the point of a delicious reenactment of a supposed aplufãnt from the days of yore. Or the days of mine. That’d be just fine unless you know a strong whoosh of entropy lines up parallesque to a young obstruction only just beginning to enter its time of need. And need not. To just keep it all condensed in a manageable plethora of Petrarchean callousness. Then who’s feeling the

Copyright 2008 Aplufãnt, LLC. All Rights Reserved. Don’t do drugs.