Pure Leaf

 
   "Pure Leaf"
  
   Make folks feel guilty--you are programming their sub-conscious, sinking doubt, making them anchor their possibilities.  Let them have their poison.  You first.  Life is a battlefield.  The pizza man can get killed by a hooker at a hotel with a blade and case of crabs--sleazy, real stuff.  Keep your hands up like a two-fisted product of the British Aisles.  Did I mention I like Roger Moore?  My Dad fancied him.  
   List ingredients--so we know why we die, yet live while able, on better than, or powerfully aided by, modern medicine.  You decide.   Pure tobacco leaf.  Organic.  Paper from recycled paper.  Cotton, from the modern south.  American smoked.  Smoke purifies, an Italian father told me.  We have many fathers, if we look.  Slow learners.  I know.  Get the crap out of the way first.  Love and thirst for being an old fox, or bird, or goldfish.  "What you talk'n 'bout Willis?"
   I used to like cereal.  Big Daddy pronounces:  "Sear-real."
   The dog is mangy.  Metaphorically, maybe--maybe not.  I'm not messing with her--she's totally tough.  Friend had a pit bull mix--I hung out with them.  Never said a word.  Was content being a friend.  Mutt took my cup of coffee, right out of my hand.  Two newspaper couriers, driving dumbly, but having dandy fashion--he wore glasses.  Was smart.  Has a graduate degree.  Likes pizza.  
   So, still no TACO BELL.  Charlie Sheen needs to advertise for them.  Wild and weird.  So domesticated under the coat.  

A-Team Intro High Quality

Boy, that's: hors de prix

 
 
   "Boy, that's:  hors de prix"
   
   When the rich, though non-regal, man offers up his own visitations, remind his bourgeois car's personality and false ego, though it's an android, and may pilot him off a cliff if he upsets the sentient chariot--just say, though not to the automobile--it reads your mind:  "Boy, that's hors de prix."
   Hell if I know.  My chien de meute always wants to evacuate poop on Holy Ground, and I feel like Highlander, minus the blade in a trench coat, for my blade is somewhere else; regardless, not in a state of limbes, though fascinated by the super-reality of real life over television.
   Never did make it to TACO BELL.  I don't think I ever will.  I just say it, so I can feel all-too-human.
   Nice weather.  I wonder about Michigan, and how Yankee college ball is exciting this year.

Pleasures of life

 
   "Pleasures of life"
   
   "Damn't dingbat--you are blocking my path to the blood-wine."  Any good Catholic would say it; indeed, the difference between Catholics and Protestants?  Catholics actually say hello to everyone at the liquor store.  
   Love thy neighbor, for your neighbor is a slayer.  The dude that bags my groceries is fluent in German.  How many college-educated people can speak German without flinching?  Not enough.  But in other countries they are multi-lingual.  Is language not a gift?  
   You phony doctors think you're so fuzzy, yet the dastardly dynamic Doc Holliday says:  "What a peach."  A simple peach, he repeats, so lovely, with platinum, though non-pretentious hairs, like my lover in the south, melting the whistling wax of wondrous white, all in child-like innocence, not for you to selfishly detail, but a musical mystery of gray birds not given the lusciousness of life to be noticed, yet she mystically mimics, like a collegiate circus person, until let lassoing loose on this here weird world.   
   Not going to TACO BELL.  A two dollar bill can only get you so far.  But all that potency on the flip side?  I love the 70's.  The 80's too.  Even now . . .   

Chess & God, perhaps--perhaps not

 
   "God & Chess, perhaps--perhaps not"
   
   He sets the Chess board, only for Himself.  He only plays for Himself.  Doesn't care if He wins; He's not very competitive; moreover, He lets His virginal daughter win all the time--He always allows her the fuel of victory.
   He has pawns.  Pawns don't move fancy; on the contrary, many a pawn has captured a king.  He has rooks--straight shooters.  He has knights--knight moves are L-shaped only.  He has bishops--sideways symmetry.  He rarely moves, one space maybe; still, has a few trickster abilities to shift, as if unseen, like an old paladin on the battlefield.  A QUEEN--the most powerful, possessing almost unlimited movement on the board, when it is her turn, and you be wise in knowing--no piece wants to see the QUEEN wend her way, for she does what she pleases, when it's her turn.  She's been a good girl.

Shock Treatments, FDA approved; plus, Fleur-de-lis

 
   "Shock Treatments, FDA approved; plus, Fleur-de-lis"  
   
   Arrested for herb; thus, we should light up his cranium with high voltage that we can't control--sounds great Uncle Sam.  Remember what fibers the first American flag was fabricated by? 
   And unicorns and the the New Orleans Saints have much in common.  Always looked perverted to me; however, a man might carry enough love and light to purify the waters, only tamed by virgins, denouncing the bull's eye of naughty nurses perpetually placing doubt into your sub-conscious--just for kicks, me thinks.
   Whatever happened to LEAVE IT TO BEAVER?  We were horribly cloaking our passions, some say.  Possibly.  Invention of the birth control pill equals party all the time, party all the time, party all the time--I can still hear Mr. Murphy sing it; then, I listen to some BEACH BOYS to calm myself.
   We're all wired differently.  Not every man tastes the same colors, for some men are color blind.
   I think I'll go to TACO BELL today.  Those girls up the street at SONIC are cute; at the same time, when I brought the foot-long home for Big Daddy, he rebuked it, proclaiming:  "Boy!  There ain't no meat on here."
   I always wanted to see Alaska.  And to all the people who recycle--do you care more about a piece of paper than the manipulated and extorted?  I guess so.  

DMV @ Tennessee

 
 
   "DMV @ Tennessee"
 
   I was dreading it for months--driver's license renewal.  Thank the shimmering stars, step-daddy took me.  I was quacking like a fifty-cent milkshake, fueled by anticipation concerning facing the angry masses--a public scenario, way more disorderly than me.  People rushing, texting, glued to computers, thinking about nothing save sex and money, me too sometimes, but I get over it; regardless, Bubba Cheese was my bodyguard, and having a motley synergy of anti-sophistication seemed good-old-boy enuff.
   Where the hell did all the Americans go?  One dude with kids from wherever, and the DMV folk were garbed in the bling of bounty hunters, looking more like rogue law enforcement than ordinary people--what a great movie; I love Alan Alda.  
   There was a blonde lady in front of me.  Nice.  But she wasn't even from here, coming in by way of Switzerland, and the dude that waited on her lived in Germany.  What the hell?  It's okay Mark, breathe, and wash your hands when you get the hell out of here.  Do I have to pee?  Is there a booger dangling from my myriad of nose hairs?  An elderly man got his CARRY permit, and my gun-slinging step-dad grinned.  It only takes one shot.  Don't spray prey.  He frowns on the 9-millimeter.  Says the Germans don't know what kinda bullet puts a man down.  The 9 is too high velocity--no stopping power.  Goes right through you, like my mother's old lamb roasts.  Holy Fire, Bubba Cheese is a rhinestone cowboy.
   We got the hell out of there.  I took a Duck Dynasty photo.  I don't need guns though.  Got a bullwhip from a hot bartender years back in exchange for giving her the favor of a nipple fling--women are weird, always hoping men are looking, save the nice ones.  So, that's it.  Boring.  Her breasts are waiting, fella . . .