old old old

chances are, the nonsense won’t go away, it won’t pack its bags and huff
down the stairs or throw its shoulder out pitching woo, or any old thing
like that. every time, these days, when the cold cuts seem to be warming,
there’s just a pinch or two of jasmine to throw into the mix. creep creep,
you silent words, don’t betray your oxidizing wholeness. keep that secret
locked inside your fuzzy donkey. try the old hat on for size and let the
cordwood moulder. can’t keep swinging through saloon like a whirlwing, it’s
time to set on down and have a drink or two. no more than two, not four.
certainly not five. maybe three, if you’re feeling lucky. what are we talking
about? luck? that’s a foolish thing to be rattling around the cage with.
knock your tin cup back and fold it away. last night the letter B was significant
in a very insignificant sort of way. i thought about things. i visited a
bus too. a very own drop-outter, tune-outter, etc. he lives in a bus, but
he wasn’t always that way. good for you if you can do it. me, i’m not the
living in a bus type. i like staking out the middle space. where it’s possible
to be and do the things that make me happy in my little nutshell. methinks
the chores are beckoning. calling me back to the good old days, when all
the secrets of heaven were oping up. there’s gotta be a middle ground between
nothing and madness. or so we hope. and where’d this bump on my head come

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