Every Exterior Has An Interior Too

Aba doobie doo-wop a bee-bop a leeway and a Mack truck driving through the Calamine drips that caress in a flood of pink, cooling the fleshy rose tachometers ever straining to rationalize the constant upticks that scintillatingly chime in perfect unison; all things considered, performing under great duress is truly an art form, one that isn’t nearly revered enough.

When the heart beats in corners, ninety-degrees, perpendicularly angling, with hands made from broken rods of doohickey’s with their fiberglass design—reels, reeling, silver-screened, cones indicating the accident that was—while irises radiate in bloom, shining through a darkness overly exposed, ether, ore, mining the ship, minding the tide, galleys, gullies, valleys, druthers and galoshes dripping with the wetness of a withering rill—all beneath a skyline brittle in an unfavorable decline of will.

Solvencies do not mean you have found the answers that you desire.

Trivial does not mean minor, minor does not mean minute, nor do the miniscule expressions that momentarily find themselves soothing sores through the salves sealing those infected open pores—all the while indicating something much larger than what this deception of the skin could ever possibly provoke within.

Radial tread upon a sports car’s frame, blood red coat to a leathered interior of yellow. (Without thinking the 5.0 knows instantly who to blame) Shining, glossy exteriors cover and hide, the rotting premises within the motor itself.  Here and there and everywhere, one can run as fast as they can, yet never find the ability to escape what is, and continues to, writhe inside.  A pretty design can only cover a corrupt floor plan for so long before the stairwells rust and the plumbing leaks.  To which, even still, we refrain from properly diagnosing the true meaning, instead, we use words like fixer-upper, as if that alone, eradicates the pressures and the problems that we must carry home.  And we do, exactly this, don’t we? 

Oh well, you probably don’t care anyway?  Well…am I right or am I right?

The 325 Rules you thought you never knew you didn't need to ever know

The first rule inherent to a properly working windmill

Two rules inherent to organizing chop-sticks

Three rules inherent to gardening scarabs from underneath molehills

Four rules inherent to disguising your dog as a tadpole on the thirty-second hour of the thirty-second day

Five rules inherent to indefensible paranoia

Seven rules inherent to those seeking a higher

Eight rules inherent to Stab-In-The-Back Wisdom

Nine rules inherent to Shark-Tank Sympathy

Ten rules inherent to remaining invisible while caught in a deluge of acid rain

Eleven rules inherent to universal clarity

Twelve rules inherent to bleeding fire from the coldest heart

Thirteen rules inherent to becoming a hitman in an organization so infamous that card sharks commiserate with clerics, pedophiles with politicians and where administrators of higher education facilitate just as much energy, on what’s possibly included in the ice cream truck salesman’s secret recipe for fudge freezy#3, as they do when one of their most promising pupils declares openly on her facebook account that she’s decided to drop out of school due to the fact that her twelve year old neighbor just made a billion dollars selling cigarette butts on e-bay.

Fourteen rules inherent to making contact with whomever answers the call

Fifteen rules inherent to watching the men who stare at goats without asking yourself what’s the point

Sixteen rules inherent to apologizing to the fine actors within the previously written rule while holding a wearing a piñata suit in the backyard of a rather large Christmas celebration composed of an uncountable number of Chihuahuan children.

Seventeen rules inherent to breaking up with your pet rock

Eighteen rules inherent to seeing phenomenon in every and all circumstances related to telekinetic memory loss and big stuffed yellow birds won fairly at the not-so-local amusement park

Nineteen rules inherent to disassembling an already disassembled automaton that got overheated during an unwinnable debate with a forklift over the value of accepting a million crates of oil in lieu of the million dollars that could be had by winning the then current lottery jackpot

Twenty rules inherent to standard deviation when the squares just cannot, under any circumstances, find it in them to be mean

Twenty-one rules inherent to eating three Quadruple cheeseburgers with bacon stuffed buns, without ever having to move your lips

Twenty-two rules inherent to becoming a bookie that specializes in giving odds on the National Paint Drying League championships

 Twenty-three rules inherent to losing one’s mind and then finding it, only to lose it once more

Twenty-four rules inherent to documenting the fallacies of gossips years after the rumors had been forgotten

Twenty-five rules inherent to thinking up some really stupid ideas, making rules out of them and getting people to read them

Chilly little Worm

This poem is really the offspring of pure nonsense.  I've been trying for the past two weeks to write some Double Dactyl's and I've been failing miserably.  So yesterday, while trying to write one, Mary The Ice Cube, by Primus, happened to pop up on my Ipod's random play.  So, while trying to think of nonsense, which is needed for the Double Dactyl, I happened to start humming along to the song.  So, this song/poem, whatever you want to call it, is meant to be sung to Mary The Ice Cube.  Well, I seemed to find the nonsense I was looking for, yet the Double Dactyl continues to elude me.

Chilly little worm

Oh chilly little worm

Oh chilly little worm, oh chilly

Crawled from the hole

Right there in the ground

Oh he crawled from the hole

That chilly little worm crawled

Right there in the ground

Oh, the chilly little worm

Crawled, right there in the ground, Oh Chilly

The chilly little worm

Crawled, right there in the ground

 Crawling little worm slithering in mud

Crawling little worm, chilly in the ground

Chilly in the ground, crawling round in mud

Chilly in the mud, crawling in the ground

Oh that chilly little worm did crawl in the ground

And that chilly little worm crawled out in the mud

Out there, in the mud, in the chilly ground

Out there in the ground, out there, in the mud

The chilly little worm crawled, oh chilly