The Coats That Were For Our Own Good.

We were told that the coats we wore at a traditional time of year were for our own good. They were said to aid in swallowing disreputable items from the commissary. Our notion of 'a joke' was severely tested. But we played along as always.


If one was ready, then a second one was said to be in play. The joke turned sour in my drooping mouth. If anyone noticed, I couldn't tell. I will never tell. Who is my benefactor? A likely person made a brief appearance at the end of Fourth Form. This will not delay a thing. Where coldness never lives in a tawdry episode, the flat passion for muggery may assure the increasing value of assent.



No matter. What is it that will stake a ring on a borderline soldier's corpse?

The friends I've made here are dedicated to a comfortable way of living. They have a way of molding experience to make unforeseen outcomes less displeasing. The gem I've hidden will stay with me for at least fourteen years. But I didn't know that then. I couldn't have even if I tried. I resolved swiftly to never try. Why risk my bones?

Damn the people who won't win an award! Even if they saunter, an invisible line is breached but wetness will be presented as if for the first time. This will fool no one.


It's said to be a type of 'stepping stone'. A true skeptic, if one were even present, would struggle to mount a last ditch jihad to preserve the possibility of a respectable outcome. Flame retardant is awesome. Fletcher Goodrone is not my name. 


But we can only repair foreign objects that are displeasing to persons with injuries of the softer ear. The general bafflement is tantamount overdoing it in the transition department. Our day in the sun is to be scolded as to a barge of harps.


It's a blast to scope out details in the light of basin lamps. The frightened supervisors we counted on for petty cash have left a traditionally architected structure. It stands to 'not go well'. We can't tell if it's oxygen or hydrogen. There is no smell.

A jury will hear the rest. A textual analysis will ensue. Grave robbing is a thing of the putrid past. A pastor has dared us to fight a trend toward microscopic denial. My friend Bill is years behind but ever cheerful even when he's most distant. I'm looking to buy a Superfund Site. My parents don't seem to care. Will you bring me a bottle of Yoohoo? Saddle up. I'm buying.



But our plan is to put up with a pattern of inconsistency to achieve a Prelude to a Dream. Wisconsin Governor Scott Walker wrote that song. Bet you didn't know that!


Could this thing be the start of a trend? Like in Alphabet City maybe? 

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