ode to pinko

i may have to go to a hospital ward for laughing my brains out at the stuff you put on my blog. if it gets serious, please go to a churchill and pray for me. at this time, i throw myself at the lord, who is currently on vacation in the hamptons. i plead to him "forgive me, for i have zinned. i should have gone to howard university, but i couldn't spellman. since then, i have bin laden with guilt, and even the immortal technique of john coltrane often doesn't get me to my destination. i want out. if only i could make a mclean break of it. don't you see doctor, i've had my phil. i want to escape into the woods. if i only had an alto acre of land that i could mark up and call my own. but alas, i am akon man, and i am lonely, mr lonely. i need to stitt down and gather my thoughts, as the sonny shines crissply down on me. and as i look up, i notice that a raven has flown onto my screen and broken it, but i am too poe to replace it."

yes, i have an on again, lonergan relationship with kevin, my coworker. i either hate him or courtney love him. there are times i want to throw sanders in his face. and then i remember pinko who had the will, son, to post a tune by wilson. man, what will he cooke up next? that shit was cole blooded, fit for a king james, and every time i am brown in the dumps, i lebron on these songs and dr. feel good. i think about what you are trying to do me, and i feel a sense of freedom, of respect, and i say a little prayer for all the stevie wondrous things out there in the world, which is a far cry from what most people do. yes, you are a ray of sunshine in a world gone dark, as the rivers charles remains dirty, and all i do is cry and joan about it, when what i should do is get out of the johnny and alert a secret agent man over what is happening. but alas, he would likely shoot an edwin starr, and a war would start, destroying my 25 miles davis albums, and leaving angela all alone to speak in a german accent which is not germane to the topic. well, we will all be french toast someday, fried like the chicken we have all become, for unless we are egged on by the roar of the greasepaint and the smell of the crowd, we sit on our learned, dead, hands. and while others may dance the charlton, moses dancing won't help you, michael nunn. it won't even help you win a james toney award, or to get a guess spot on the joe frazier show. perhaps i should just give up on the dream, and become a foreman, but by george, i want moore, archie moore. bob, i can not theile a lie, even when i have the impulse to do so. that would be rudy, and people would take weinstock of my action. and yet, right now, a fickle sonance plays within me, as i grab jackie's bags and milt under the pressure, jackson. i pick up the vibraphone, but the operator says that will be 10 sense. i give her my two cents, but she calls me crazy. i de-cline to be a patsy, so i hang up and go out walking round midnight for miles in search of a pay phone. i waste all davis, so i take the coltrane home, eventually returning to my chambers but not after robbing peter to pay paul, who works for the train. i saw a max roach on the tracks, and realized that if i were buddy rich, things would be different. what kind of fool am i? i thought. what kind of shelly manne is this, what do i know of the good life? once upon a time, i thought that if i ruled the world, things would be different. well, some will say that the best is yet to come. i can only bob hope they are right, but i fear that i will be george burned yet again by life. i gleason to them, but i think to myself, life is no lucille ball when you have a little richard. that was a berle of wisdom, wasn't it? nothing like a little milton to wash the blues away from this bobby bland existence. so, the next time your robert johnson gets soft, and you feel that you can't get a woody guthrie, perhaps you will seeger what i mean. for now, i will drag my leadbelly away from this raven screen.

sonny, i am through.