tonight won't be just any night. no david justice, no peace, know david justice, know peace. that was a berry funny line, don't you think? i had to be braves to say it, because my head would have been on the chopping block, but i decided to take a shot this alonzo morning with my best stuff, like smith who thought there was too many cellos in school, so he played up the violence angle instead. i tried to pull a few strings to get him a job proof reading bibles, but joe torah told me "no matter how much jewish to get him a gig, koran would never hire him." ahh, yankees are alike. fuck little anthony and the imperialists, whose actions go to stan's head, and he getz sick. i'm tired of writing this stitt. i should be outside enjoying the sonny weather and blowing my own lena horne. lena on me when you are not strong, and mo vaughn to better things. don't let your happiness withers away, jackie. please, gleason to what i'm saying. take a day off and go to the art carney museum, and then run through an audrey meadow in joyce randolph mass with joey bishop, a member of the mickey mouse club. his picture is on my mantle. i talk about him with my yogi all the time after time, i tell myself that i'm so lucky not to have struck out with tixon, although i would rather not pay my texas. by the way, the cuban health care system is on the mark. on your mark get so go to see dexter gordon play at the hi hat trick. orr, we could go to the kennedy museum and look at the exhibit on bobby and mike weaver, a heavyweight who was killed before his time, as his watch was running slow. last night i played my 45 of slow what at 33.3 speed in the blue of evening. thomas complained of noise and made me close the dorsey. then, i ate an ice cream cone with eric and lenny. well, i thought i would bruce things up a bit, because the morgan you do, the moore you learn. johnny agrees with me, which is why he always drifts under the boardwalk and goes down to the club. i felt like doing this too, but i didn't have the johnny cash. i hope i won't have to walk you through these lines again this couldn't happen again. it can't happen here. have you heard of that book, garfield? i know you are an intelligent cat, so i thought you might know of it. well, either way, the suns will set tomorrow, so keep your serenaity and remember, that where there is a williams there is a way, so weigh your options and buy by the ezra pound.
people magazine just wants to be free. come on rascal, sing "joy to the world" and b. free with me. that song always scores big. the song is you, so tune up and sing sing for all of those in jail on donald trumped up charges. don't duck the issue of police brutality. police, hear me out here and now, and take up where the national organization of women has left off. ohh lord hampton, help us. fetus when we are hungry. please lord, don't let these fascists running "our" government abort this earth. lord, fire these leaders that are full of hot wind, and wind down this disaster they have maid of manhattan, and the world at large. lord, fix up small's paradise, and don't wilt chamberlain under pressure. lord, do this and 20,000 other things that need to be done. you can do it, for you are strong, as is this gin romney that i'm drinking, but come hell or high waters john, i will speak my piece into the mike and communicate before we all dyson. i will speak lo to jennifer and block out all negative thoughts, for while it is tempting to blow my own selena horne, i haven't made enough dough to be at pizza with myself just yet. rather, i am affleckted with feelings of guilt, and no matter how much innocents i burn baby burn, the inferno that is life consumes me. all that is left is my compact disco collection, which i love tender. perhaps i should just teddy bear down, save my money, and get out of the ghetto instead of thinking about the mammories pressed between the pages of my mind. but, it's so much easier to stand patti, and turn my back on the world, and while i may be lonesome tonight if i do this, this world gives me a cold shoulder, and i can't wrap my head around it. a hallmark of success is being able to play your cards right, and i just can't do it. im probably gonna end up carvin the rock in some jail house, which will really have me all shook up, and i'll end up with no elmo hope on some desolate street, eating a sesame bagel and listening to cream in some black room.
and then, there was death. the end couldn't come soon enough, but alas, there was more time to kill. another work day, another rent check to write, more toilet paper to steal from my "job"
just keep listening to silberg, who tells me "it's worth it." think of soul station and point of departure and william blum and arundhati roy and ike quebec and a tree turning colors in the fall and the early allen films and duck soup and coltrane's recording of lush life and russell's "outline of intellectual rubbish" and diego rivera's murals and jason kidd's passing and manny ramirez at the plate and sinatra's recording of one for my baby. and so much more.
but what of all the bad stuff?
it just doesn't seem to even out.
does it?
2 comments:
You are right Chairman. It just doesn't seem to even out.
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