A Single Tingling Ospint.

The way of the pattern

The embers that light the way, the way of the 

pattern, are our only friend at this difficult period 

of retrenchment. Our grim determination to proceed 

with an in-call notice, notwithstanding the grass-fed 

incontinence that shapes our mulish existence, is a 

wandering blight of super-powerful open-office 

procedures. But the 'tell' is when, while receiving a 

reprieve from execution, a nostrum of rolling care 

collides with the last runner's overdue cranial hypostomy. 

In a tongue-tied monologue designed to befriend a 

lover of dentist jokes, I give one last supra positive 

lining. The approval is almost instant but my neck is 

shrinking by the second and all is almost lost. Your 

own drain is where I stage a kind of 'last stand', and 

group all my failings by date-of-stalling. And the 

dream is 'on par', just one last trip for a jury of one.

_______________________

Coach's pencil

Luckily, the knife for which I am named is quick at hand. I've stolen thirty-three thousand dollars but that is not what rankles. What rankles is the diameter of Coach's pencil. Not a good look. A boldly shaped fake, under cover of the one remaining seating option in all of Tubb's Village, seems to be a thorn in the side of the effort to achieve nuclear parity with Brussels, Egypt. All alone we are and a single tingling ospint is just the fourth final dripping talk show to engage today's stay-at-home bombs.

What's this guy doing here?

Why have we or 'the authorities' or an unnamed college alumni association allowed things to arrive at a point that even vaguely resembles a situation in which we will never find ourselves, even once? It's because  of a master narrative that served as a place holder for some somber sobbing sob-sister of yore. 

Imagine whatever caption you'd like for this one. I haven't a clue.

In light of the inextinguishable darkness at noon, we stand, shoulder to knee, in a kind of mutated heart-throb posture, light a cigarette, strike a child and be done with it. There's no going back, if by back you mean circulating a petition at midnight in the rain and reciting a painful incident at full volume in a third floor Celebrity Lounge at O'Hare. The chip is in your coroner's office and a bent tongue is what you get for ever folding a pair of cheating dykes under our care. How dare you! Try as you might, it will all come out. And then you'll be fucked.  

_______________________________________