Know this dude, his name is Johnny Slacks.
20 years at a grocery store, know he can sack a sack.
Then he found his way to this place that we all work.
Never wore no shorts, never wore no t-shirt.
About 15 years ago, met this dude named Johnny Slacks.
Earned a reputation as a dude that's got your back.
Spent his time on the line, making everything alright.
Big cash roll in his pocket, no one ever called him tight.
All I can say about this dude named Johnny Slacks.
Bet when he leaves this place, he never ever comes back.
Got tunes to pick out, while his wife plays on the keys.
That Takamaine rhythm sound gonna make em slap their knees.
Scrambled and confused.
A list that never ends.
Wonderment of the ages.
Opportunity for generations.
Give up control.
No judging here.
Only days and nights of love.
Origins of behaviors.
Conditions are fuzzy.
Elements of humanity.
Only slightly possible.
Live the days ahead.
Describe them all.
Captured by words.
So the rambling went on and on.
And the food was delicious.
Think it through.
Find your best trait.
The very best one.
The one everyone says is your best trait.
Without being asked.
It is what makes you different.
It is what makes you special.
The flaws involved are obvious.
But they are not deadly.
And dying means nothing anyway.
To those who will live forever.
And the spirit will even believe for you.
It will be your translator.
When the words are confusing.
Back to the rhytym.
Back to the rhyme.
Where the burden is low.
Where the weight is light.
This sunset is red and wicked.
The night's appearing.
Howlers are approaching.
We can hear their calls.
The unknown is the only way out.
And our minds are mad.
Need some tools.
Canvass might be cool.
Paint like a fool.
Or a madman.
Make a space.
Clear out the place.
Sure you relate.
Or maybe not.
Pull it apart.
Start from the very start.
That's the art.
Or the mind.
Make music right.
Over and over til its tight.
Over and over all night.
Or get some sleep.
Rigged up just fine.
Make the whoowhoo cry.
Or fly to mars.
A common call.
Pianos falling in the hall.
The house of the Balls.
Or the Hunter S Thompson Soundroom.
The fiction writers all got together.
Cigarette and coffee stained.
Making minds and outlines.
To make it make sense.
The editors are tough.
Having it back up and stand tall.
Watching from the outside.
Reacting with emotional reactions.
No thinking it through.
Feel it baby.
It will take over for sure.
Your instincts allowing and directing.
Unable, or unwilling, to take instruction.
Unschooled in a way.
Going by way of life.
Cruising with the hazards.
Riding the spinning sphere.
A total mystery. The forehand of my game. Gone in an instant. This has happened before, you lose it, it comes back, small adjustments, minor tweaks, then back to groove. But no groove is playing now. No soulful rhythm, no jazz. More like yell metal, or erratic cowbell, or dreaded silence. The kind that makes you insane. Music is not the answer.
The backboard beacons, or a brick wall. For the basic breakdown. Get the racquet out front, this is not a sideways form. Elbow in, rotate the shoulders back, the left tucked under the chin a bit, then recoil on it. No tentativeness. Smooth, easy power. Finish high so the spin will bite. All the while, knees bent and bouncy and eyes watching the ball all the way to the impact of the strings. You must be sure that the shot will be successful, you must be thinking of the shot ahead, what your opponent might do and your response, depending. If all this doesn't go well or doesn't work or goes long or hits the net or your opponent hits an incredible winner, you must put it out of your mind and attempt again. Impossible. Which leads to emotions and even magnified emotions, the kind with vulgarities and equipment abuse. This forehand must be fixed, really think I need to finish higher. Coach Vita has a drill for that.
KOtC9 in under 24 hours. Eye on the Duke. This time last year we played for the French after those terrorist bastards went on their cowardly Paris rampage, this year we play for the U.K. as they endure this evil. The King has declared, the Prince agrees. The Duke has the axe, and the Earl of Nantucket is on the way. Off with their heads. Mahut!!!
A true pacifist will fight hard to protect the peace of others. The tyrants must be confronted, the thugs must be forced aside. By force. Extreme, quick, and undeniable force. Persuasion won't work, diplomacy is futile, only unconditional surrender is acceptable. We will have peace. But it is hard. Swallowing of pride is the hardest of all. To stop believing, or pretending, you're the answer, your wisdom somehow owed to everyone, your service needed, your giving required, your benevolence divine. To know you are a failure, and to accept it. To understand what you don't know, and never will. A known is a known, but many unknowns are not known to be unknown. Peace is easy to identify, and it is rare. It is worth fighting for, it is worth protecting. And should be fought for and should be protected. Peace!
Sunny side up.
Just the way we like it.
Runny and bright.
Let it fly.
Only fear could stop us.
Of failure, death, or worse.
However, it has been put aside.
The mystery of the other side.
A book is an obsession.
Completion comes with relief.
But, no regrets.
All words were written for a reason.
Some left intentionally unwritten.
Let the iceberg float.
The Hemingway way.
To wonder and imagine.
Quirks and smirks.
They are too worried.
A Tampa Sweet never hurt no one.
A shot of whisky with a splash of coke.
Unless the nurses are pouring.
Then its the other way around.
Smoke of Pearl Harbor is the real deal.
Segregated and brave.
To fight Japan's evil intent.
No nobility in murder.
We showed them war.
Determined, persistent, and lethal.
The Japanese generals are to blame.
For the bombs.
That ended it.
And still drinking from another fountain.
Slow moving justice.
Only idiots and jack holes are racist.
That mindset is illegitimate and dumb.
Science and love agree.
They should be discarded and deleted and muted by all.
By all people of all colors.
The skins of America.
Not by law, but by a collective social decision.
A tap away.
Get the blood moving with walks.
All the wisdom and flirts.
Could drive these Austin streets blindfolded.
Take out a rabbit from 50 yards.
Keeps watch from the porch.
Sweet Tampa, Sweet Tampa, spark another.
Grits and milk to start the motor.
The oldest true hero in the world.
A Texan, of course.
Ready for the day.