shits giggly

mosquitos and god.  I imagine that my mind forging the correlation is something more than a mere trifle.  but I wont lie to you ... I don't have much else to say.  I suppose I could tell you that I have been taking writing lessons from mark twain.  he likes to hang out in the corner of our house.  doesn't say much though.  he did, however, remind me of a story I heard a while back.  new orleans, like most towns has its fair share of artists and roustabouts.  some of us have been around longer than others, some have been here longer than that, and then there are some who really aren't here at all.  but for now, let's not dwell on the lost and broken.  as I'm sure you have surmised, this story hatched on a bar stool round midday in the bywater, recounted by bobby 2 concerning one local painter, jimmy lala, and the day it began to rain down cold hard cash from his ceiling fan.  jimmy being a fairly successful artist was walking around with a little cheese in his pocket, 4500 dollars fresh to be exact, obtained from the recent purchase of one of his paintings.  

I started writing this story nearly two days ago.  I'm drunk now and don't care two shits about the fuck all of anything.  amen.  under full disclosure my mind is adopted irish bedlam, drink and ass are my only concerns.  and decent grammar.  it isn't my forte, but we can hope.  even as poor men the world is our throne crashing down ... we are the madmen taking our six guns to the moon. it feels good to be near you people.  and excuse me for being wickedly nostalgic, but the sunrise on the Other Side is something I've never trusted.  like weimers and street rats ... balk all you want, I've got my poetic license stitched to my right ass cheek ... you have to play For Keeps in this stinking town.  and coming up quick on my 29th birthday I am aging without mercy, learning beyond doubt that suckers are trusting souls like me and those that stand foolish against the odds.  but god damn't we play rock n' roll, think backwards and queer, fuck for the good ... outbeast us, I dare you.  jesus, I'm not even writing to people that exist in this space. thank you, jon ... more than you will even know.    

I miss the howl of the coyotes.  

don't forget to masticate the shit to shineola.    

I'm drinking more than I should, eating less, fucking myself happy and ragged.  these are the moments to cherish ... 

I will write more later. promise.