Alliteration of the 23rd Variety

Whiskey's wrath wraps around writhing wretches, warring with wild wheat and whittling women with wicked wisdom.

Meat is Murder. Tasty, Tasty Murder.

A white boy wearing blue jeans with a pink shirt, on a yellow bike. Or a pink boy with yellow skin and green and brown eyes on a black road.

Both describe me today. They aren't contradictory. They aren't even contrary. It depends who you ask.

Until Next Time

The last thing I remember is my last words to him, "see ya," ringing in my ears. Such words are used often, taken for nothing more than granted. They are always true, but what if they weren't? This time. What if it was like this time?

In my state of constant, pure remembrance, I will always know my folly. "See ya" was not to be fulfilled. I was such a ridiculous joker! For that blind corner is not a bicyclist's dream, with its sign free existence, but it may be his eternal nightmare. Coming toward it, you feel the relief of not having to slow down, knowing that someone else will. Except that they won't. They see nothing of your slender mode of locomotion, until it is scratching their paint and cracking their windshield.

I can't remember it, but it must have happened. I am here in the dark, and "see ya" still lives in my ears, pounding each time deeper into my brain, trying to force its way back onto my tongue so that I may once again taste my own idiocy. If I had a mouth I would concede. Until I find myself again, until I learn prudence, see ya.

Crazinski

And he said unto the people below him, "Go toward the light, and become one with it, for in that way you may become closer to me, and we shall forever know the light that is knowledge."

Not my best piece

From his satchel he pulled a large object, awkward enough to look like it could never have fit in such a small bag, and he placed it upon the pedestal near the queen's feet, where all gifts were customarily bestowed to either her or the king. She lowered her upturned nose just enough to notice the object, then thrust her snoot upward once more, even higher toward the heavens which she so longed to smell, so that she could think about what she had seen. The king had not moved throughout this theatrical glance. The boy kept his head down, for he did not want to be without it when she spoke. After all, his ears are on his head...

Vague Hymns

Alas, his coat did not contain the warmth necessary to walk the distance. He was too tall and wiry to hold any heat himself; indeed, his mother always had accused him of being colder than the rooms in their abode as a young man. Not as a child, for he did remain quite plump until adolescence. It was on his thirteenth birthday that his grandmother realized how much he was beginning to look like his father. They had brought out the albums, showing him and telling stories about the man he had never known. The Great War had taken him, along with his brothers and led them to meet their maker, but everyone agreed that it was for the best. They did have to work harder, but this boy would grow up tall and maybe become a professional and never have to fight in a dreadful war like that.


But if he was to continue to make it to his classes, he would need a warmer coat. Perhaps something with down; that had always created the necessary effect when he slept through the cold nights of his youth. The comforter that he received on that birthday was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen: all white of course, for it was the finest cloth they could afford (the prices of dyes from Arabia really were quite outlandish) and it must have been half a dozen inches tall, stuffed with the soft feathers from uncountable geese, created as the absolute perfect complement to his thin bony frame which lost heat like the cabin they lived in.

Imagination < Life < Acting

Reality's scorn can be created from the simplest of annotations, with its sad imperfections leading the way to dusty death and its uplifting moments creating refreshment stands along the path to righteousness, and either one can be the correct choice, for the life in which we portray ourselves is less than acting and more than imagination. Accept this offer of subordination and allow me to create within your body a wormhole into something grander, not that there can be anything grander than the universe in which we live, which is almost my point. We live here unknowingly, not looking from outside because our eyes are too close to our brains and our brains are too close to earth, therefore leading our souls to be attached to both and therefore all three. Please pretend that nothing is real. Please feel that you are the only thing that exists, and even so it's only your mind that exists, and then you will realize, if you can jump to that plane of thought, that whatever you do is more than imagination because it has unexpected results, and it is less than acting because you don't have to memorize anything, you can just let it flow. Like what you are reading now is just a thing that isn't really here, but it does exist, even in its sporadic process of coming to a point.