maybe schmaybe

Keys, glasses inna teef, laptop bag oh... ver my shoulder, phone to pocket, iPod stowed, coffee perched, door phuump mostly masks the sneaky crinkle of brown pastry paper as the remaining third of my no-sugar banana nut cake bounces once, skitters left on-edge and squirrels under the fucking car.

It took longer than ten seconds to fully grasp what I'd seen; ten seconds more for my eyes to adjust to conditions beneath the Civic... there!

In the low buzzy light of the garage the semi-shiny welcome mat-sized stain didn't quite look like oil... maybe cola, maybe...

Maybe I should accept the loss and move on.

dashed

I was at a casino, I was minding my own business and this guy came up, he said 'You're gonna have to move, you're blocking the fire exit.' As though, if there was a fire, I wasn't gonna run.

If you're flamable and have legs, you are never blocking a fire exit. —Hedberg

dead pa mothahhfuckahhh

Agape, I gaze through keyboards and cables, past the unspun legs of a precision nob’n’switch flippin’ master monkey with a mic to the skin-slappin’ gorilla blowing my mind:

DEAD PA are primates of superior descent;
If God so said “Let there be light,” this is what He meant.

O’Mojo most mad;
Star-forged DnB Preachers, these asses are bad.

The mixture swims thicker near intakes;
Bandwidth bunged and promptly plunged with arc-brilliant black and eager breaks.

The sleeper be awake; crack, spin feeed;
Synch, super-pose, collapse and breathe;
This is it, critical digital mass, believe.

A superfluid-slick, crystallizing, proselytizing archetypal kick-in-the-teeth;
Bitch got the beef.

Lo’ the rhythms right yo’ wrongs, Truth striding forth shall stomp your fettered soul free o’flesh and out brothahhh! way out!