jpaulgorman

Dad was a wheelchair farmer. That South African tennis dude. Duffle bags, shoes, off to Florida. Make the dream come true. Never said come home. The original 50 cent. Off to the ruthless Vitas slaughter. Lesson learned. Y'all finish up, then we'll finish up. At Jimmy's request. Homework paid off. Nasty played the other guy. Cracked a tooth, filled it with a crushed pill. Yao Ming probably got cold feet. Wrong conception of capitalism. Play what you want. Have fun if you want to. Roll around the world with an asterisk. Johan knows Glowface. Make the girls superstars. We're taking a hit. The professional globalists. Good coaching is not conforming. Richard Williams is a legend. The musclemen beat the kangaroos. At the ranch. Drink like fish, eat like hogs, the beat life. Southern Hemisphere folks party. They got BBQ too. Elbow. Seniors have the most fun. Played there in Mandela Square. Go ahead and say it will fail. It will. Even Da...

To be so kind as to. *explain your rationale. If you wouldn't mind. *paint a masterpiece. Sorry for confusion. *explain it again please. Before moving along. *make an observation. Engaged in eyes, discussions wavering in time. Working to the bone, ignoring the mountains.  Honey is the name, and if it's all the same, jump this train, say it plain.  Reasons and actions, healings and fractures. Pardon the intrusion. *caught up for now. Sparkles are still there. *twinkles and winks.  Echo my reiteration. *how lovely it all is. Until we meet again. *sleep peaceful and dreamy.

Pull the screen tight.      It's removable. Do not enter there.      Cameras are all around. This is an office.      Automatic deduction, but tasty. The broken strings seem sad.      They have no sound. Aquariums and lights.      Leather sofas and wall art. Harmonica with some shake.      Ten soldiers and Nixon coming. As Volume 5 drops. E A E AE Capo2

Live from the governing chamber, it's been decided.  Communists sure know how to party.  Lots of vodka straight up.  Lots of fish dishes.  Bushy eyebrows. The ladies, sturdy and strong.  The children, obedient and energetic.  The men, determined and proud.  Cover up the history, bend the truth.  Strike a pose. The peasants can be fooled, but not the civilized.  The commies are righteous liars.  The worst kind of liars.  Humorless, in an arrogant way.  The worst kind of way.

In the capital city this week, 9 tons of manure was shoveled off the streets.  Even those with graphite coated iron noses succumbed to the awful smell, running for the inside.  Almost all reporters refused to cover the story, fearing toxic shock, blindness, and even death.  Only two brave gonzo soldiers went down to the streets and sludged through the shud, the shit and mud mixture well known on the farms and dairies and in the tent cities of America.  Me and a fast talking dude named Geraldo, who said he was really famous, got the real story of the shit show. The fumes hit us like a head-on wreck, initial aghasts turned into stubborn determinations and we began to breathe normally through our nostrils, getting our entitled oxygen.  Next thing we knew, we're interviewing a gas-masked Speaker Of The House and she goes on and on about peaches--peaches this, peaches that, she sounded like Mrs. Vader under the heavy looking air filters and mist covered goggles....

Watching what Cincinnati does in the morning.  Same as it ever was. Roads are alive with the busyness of workers.  Same as it ever was. Skyline reflection off the Ohio River.  Same as it ever was. Snow covered roofs leftover from a fall cold front.  Same as it ever was.

Let's stop this thing down and call up our finest.  The Vets know the score, and what it cost to make our score enough to defeat our enemies.  Those taxing, murderous, dispicable Red Coats, burning down the White House, our own inevitable bloody uncivil quarrel, the European monsters, and never forget the Pearl.  Then there's the jungles of Asia, The Middle East, and the unending tragedy of war, which struck home in late summer of 2001.  War should be more rare, but evil should be more rare too, and it's not. Before, during, and especially after war, the American ethic of brighter-days-ahead prevails.  We lifted our defeated enemies up from their own deserved ashes, brought them back into the world fold.  Planted seeds of an economic forest, even the oil fields of the Arabian desert were turned to gold by Americans.  While the Kings and Princes of the region seem to be making out fine, little is heard of the Queens and Princesses.  I worry for ...

1.  The water settles down calm eventually, the wind, currents, and waves come and go like a careful melody.  2.  The parade goes by, a movie reel is following, wrapped and sent to processing.  3.  Change is for others, evolution is the way there.  4.  And there must be defined.  5.  After dreams come true, after the blessings, after knowing life goes on forever.  6.  Becoming a true person, not enduring, without worry, without regret.  7.  Give it away, it's not worth the time, it's not worth the effort.  8.  Gratify your mind with space.  9.  Follow nothing, seek nothing.  10.  Maslow had too many issues.  11.  Simplify desires and find a working cycle.  12.  We are creatures, after all.  13.  The manufactured sounds of waves somehow keeps the birds away.  14.  Protect the isolation for now, the desolation angel will come soo...

Mad is no way to live.  Rituals the same, life clocks back and forth around us.  Nature cares less and dignifies the day anyway.  Crisp fall, Texas cool.  Leaves, blowing in the wind.  Disappointments don't matter anymore, they are just left to flutter about.  Ambition lost, took the wrong fork.  But without worry seems the right road to me still, which can seem without care, even careless.  Disrepair, like nature in a way.  And it is.  Because of this, it's a transient scene.  Connecting along the way, then moving on.  Vagabond life, simple and true, point to point.  The times, they are a'changing, but time means jack to me.  Avoid the pitiful trap, the snare of lies, the cages of the soul.  There is nothing good there.

Think about reality. Where the next meal came from. The farmer's market miracle. A squash for the skillet. Location doesn't matter. Easy on the air. Get the breath back. Movement. Which is real. Which is freedom. Which is alive. The small circle knows. Health is involved. Of all kinds.

This is the life of an artist, waking when woke, shot of hot coffee beans, brewed up right.  These snakes still have fangs, but there is no venom.  They shed like a scaley husk of rebirth, renewing themselves always.  Devouring the hens and eating their eggs.  The pit is their destiny, they will slither away soon, they wanna keep their heads. In the countryside, folks know about the narrow, the actual, the required.  These fits and tantrums are a daily feature of the intelligent class.  The hair product and make-up is slathered thick, the necklaces sparkle, the ties pop.  Occasionally, a drop of spittle will hit the camera lights just right.  "Thank God for the deep state." Reminded of snakes, and bastards, and sickos, and the devil punk, pleased to report the justice laid down on those ISIS effs.  Stick with it, our super soldiers can eliminate them all.  Screw Turkey, they could've done this already, if they wanted.  Burning ...