Orbit Macht Frei

There should be an image here!Shit fucker cunt botch! That’s what I figured I’d begin with to see if I can get a non-G rating (or at least not the ubiquitous PG-13 rating). We want ratings Russ Meyer could be proud of! All right, now that that’s out of the way, I want to say that I love kissing puppies and making cats meow with my special brand of getting crazy with it, yo. Not that I have any idea what that means or what could be taken for weirdness from others. But that’s all right.

It’s Monday, and that suggests opportunity. I’m cool with what we’ve done so far, and when I think about what the you and me of us could establish for the week ahead, I can’t help but shake my head with wonder. It’s good that I never went penguin sasquatch mobile phone tension ahead of the brake pedal mode gradient ending beginning shiftless lazy greenskin goblin patch spritely obvious guidance and heat-seeking missiles going over and above the call of the Earth’s orbit and obituary funeral procession gives me meaning in times of crisis. It’s not all about us. It’s wee Gillis and his musical mental orchestra. I’ve been meaning to get a spelling bee in order for the prodigal sons and daughters of the revolution. Revolutions mean orbit, and orbit macht frei.

When we went to Saugatuck, Michigan over the holidays (not this year’s, but maybe a couple of decades ago), there were waterlogged waterboarders and torture devices established nearby any and all ports. Coming and going, our cargo was beheld by shiny and indignant motorcycle lovers of every shape and variety! How does your garden grow? Maybe as big as a canonical razorblade.

Speaking of razors and razorblades, it’s impossible to think about how much this chin doesn’t itch. Oh, it itches, all right! But that’s the beauty of miracles. I’m not ashamed of gods or demons that use proper amounts of soap and laundry detergent. Our itinerary doesn’t speak volumes for planning, I can tell you that much, sonny!

When Sonny didn’t give Cher proper due in the credits of mortgage announcements, we were all stunned at the lack of regard one could have for another. Pigeons don’t like to be clipped, even if they do like a walk on a sunny day most of the time. They’ll take the rain. Whatever, if they can get it. We’re not worried about the one-toed or the lazy-eyed, no, sir! We take buckets of sunshine where we can get it and it doesn’t even meander for justice like the polled and ancient mysteries every sea bed has to offer, from primordial to divine forces intervening on mischief or woeful territory disputes we were carving for quilting craftsmanship and ending penmanship overdose rodeo.

Clean and jerkish computer love wishful thinking I want over and under the above and in between spaces. Can’t buy me love, but it can be rented, bartered, sold, and rewashed with a new tag sewn in for effect!

Get me into the automobile where I can drive it all home and rendezvous with French bad guys in foreign films (not so foreign if you happen to come from there, one supposes). Self-censored indignation (is that a place where indignants live?), I hope to cherish the moment of beheading and sacrifice made by robots that can’t smell or touch but they can see and hear everything murmured in light and darkness.

Ghosts don’t get to pick and choose their method of communion, and that’s okay. Though they may disagree. EVP is like mixed channels with static and bad reception in a good home. Not enough bars with you’re dialing it in from the ether, I choose genius over ignorance if I could choose, but we’re just making memories with fingers in front and eyes wide open for moments of clarity and disguised fruition. Mettle tested for metal and meddling meddlers forsaken by stones going cold at the touch and reception of crying souls and soldiers soldiering on in wartime and in peace. Why do I am alook alike a poss of porterpease? It’s something James Joyce said, and I’m sure he knew what it meant. Maybe not anymore. Who gives our brains cause to leave when all we want is to stick around and see the next act? A brain appeased by champions doesn’t get to bargain basement bingo block. I forget how to type when I’ve been dreaming all night long in the darkness of a soul gone ancient and gnostic. Agnostic? Gods that live and breathe by monuments made by man have glittering consciousness made whole by blood and soap. Amen!

We’ll end it here, even though I’d love to chance distraction. Safe way out, America. Safe way out. Eight hundred is better than five.

[Photo above by Robert Glen Fogarty / CC BY-ND 2.0]

About Robert Glen Fogarty

Sometimes I'll take the wrong bus just to get out of the cold for a little while.

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