ask not for whom the be bops,

the be bops for thee...

hee hee hee

pops, nots rots lots tho(ugh)ts

wots blanc snots...

ho ho ho

whore moans, 'roid's rage,

art reads from another page...

ha ha ha

other monkeys not on back,

only twain's imp and my sad sack...

ak ak ak

for me/mine life is (mostly) sweet,

yet brothers/sisters still in defeat...

shame shame shame

no xtian, no mooselimb, no druid either,

still brother's keeper though non-believer...

true true true

no, be-bops, not to worry, my rage is born out of fear for our country/planet and the ideals of democracy, NOT various chemical imbalances or modifications... (which -as a libertarian on the matter- is for every nekkid ape to decide for themselves, NOT the state... for myself, i engage in only an occasional brew (tea or beer), but keep medicated on the kind in order to ameliorate the rage against the machine... oh, and the birds chirp louder, the sun shines brighter, the plants look greener, and my wiener tingles, too !)

not for me to write of how the gorgeous sycamore bowl i turned the other day (a log salvaged from a dismantled tree thrown over a fence) was such a tactile and visual feast; how the creamy curly shavings of the green wood overflowed so quickly, how the faint watermelon-like smell wafted through my clammy respirator, how the moistness, resins, and vital juices are reduced to a glommy mess on the tool bits, and how the cold steel against warm wood reveals a beautiful shape, no matter how hard the clumsy turner attempts ugly-wise...

not for me to meander lazily among puntastic, intertwining metaphors and wordplay extraordinaire to glean a nugget of truth; or, zen-like, produce a meme-koan of such delight that it sparkles in the flinty sunlight...

nopey dopey:

i've got a fucking pitchfork in my paw, and i'm not afraid to use it ! ! !

hee hee hee

ho ho ho

ha ha ha

ak ak ak

the sleeper MUST awaken, The They (tm) are playing for keeps...

come the revolution, sleep will be optional...

art guerrilla

aka ann archy

eof