Blog Post 008

Has anybody invited Gorillas to the war, before? Because many say the fight's not worth the trouble it may bring. But what if we could prove the fact, that simply isn't true? You could never bomb a neighborhood, and get away, scot-free. But you could start a committee, to ignite a bit of fun. I'm not saying "fight the HOA!" to throw your whole damn life away. or decide to do a silly crime, but maybe it could be the time, when we start to go and try it. The gorillas, I mean. Jungle games are fun. Not actual gorillas, though. I'm not saying we chimp out. They want us, monkeyes, dancing now so how about a two step, OW?! I feel good, I'm writing all the time now. But still they say, that's not the beat, who taught you to march this street? The path is over here now. Then I look, and see them all around; wounded and repairing. Still stuck inside the game of shame of all of the comparing. The wars got tolls, trust me. We could spend all of our life, contrasting the receipts. But nothings done, the action or fun, and not sullen disappointment. The war did fruit, just not for them. The street they walk, ain't got no meat.. but still they gnash their teeth, here. The Art of War is saving face of Nations hiding grace, betwixt the place where.. the things we do, and things we say haven't intersected, yet. . . . . . Yeah, I got nothing.

I've tasted blood, and spilled it too. I've fought with bronze to earn the gold.. But the arena always stays cold.. .. and losing Bronze taught me more than winning gold. But with winning goals, the riches be told, to never spoil or break. I've fought with beasts, and broken feats to find my way to win. There's victory, unclaimed for there is Victory, unmet. But I'm a gambler, so I'll always take that bet. My life is forfeit, so be it collateral. Damage is coming the same. My life is precious, it can't be replaced. Damage could never sway it. My life is permanent, can't be removed. Damage could never smooth it. My life is fleeting, the shores receding. Damage does not dare harm me. For I've tasted blood, Others and Mine. They tasted both the same. Bronze and Gold, Both touched to cold, But copper is the conductive one. Gold and Bronze, buried beneath the lawns, the shovel could unearth it all. Bronze and Gold, A sight to behold, But everybody shut their eyes. Gold and Bronze, and shallow ponds Waiting, and wading on.

There is an honorable death, for the dishonorable warrior, who never earned his honorable death on the battlefield. Seppuku. A life, in death, that one could find themself proud to face, after the violence and clamor of war has passed. For if one Life; should pass on by, then let them choose their own life. Forgiven then for the lives they felt the need to take, Themselves.

In movies and shows and stories of olde, we see blood and guts and tooth carved cuts. But in reality, the Wound is not so Pronounced. Toontown does a better job of showing us Bloodsuckers, actually. It is not so much a sharp fang, or a claw's janglang that makes us bleed— so much as a tongue so sharp. So as to cut with a phrase as simple as, "So, what?"

I've never wanted much— just a cabin in the woods or out on the frontier, living like we once did. I'm not one to make a mountain of a molehill, but I've been known to make a mountain of a manhole. No, I don't want much. Well, I might need wifi in the cabin.. then a television too. I can't forget the music, —or instruments, you fool! Summer weather, hot. Air Conditioning the hut. I'd better not forget to get the stinkin' pee ess friggin five, but! If I really want to solve my woes as far as they may goes; I'd say I besta bet on crypto checks, no bloody envelopes. But that's not all, I need some more.. before, before, before... before the bloody stinkin' war! No. There is no war, just progress here. Check out this brand new phone. Speaking of, it's been a year.. I'd better head on in, into the store— the upgrade's overdue. Insane the brain that can't contain the literacy of life. The textbook spilled, and message killed.. but the district is not weeping. Oh well, I say.. we gave a go, what more could one dare ask? A tower now, the hour, how but it's always been upon us. All I want is just a house, I promise to be a quiet mouse. I wouldn't rustle no jimmies. No gate to cross, or hate to toss, just love for my own story.

That's right, there were 69 Loaves before me. They've all been consumed, and shit back out. I am Loaf 70, the latest of the bakery. I'm fresh, but maybe not what the consumer had in mind. Perhaps they hoped for pumpernickel, but I am not a sourdough. They think they can trap the catcher in the rye. But me, oh my, I am the Apple of nobody's eye. They fear me for my ingredients, not the mold. There is no mold, But they'd sooner say my oats are scabs, and they'd prefer to avoid them. I am nutrients, but I am not. I am bread, just a loaf, half baked. Many loaves in the supermarket, aren't loaves. Too much sugar, or not enough grain, But you'd have to be insane to avoid them. Perhaps I'm lucky then, that my ingredients are so Adversive. Nobody wants to consume me, but that racks up time on shelf life. I wonder then, what it means to be the loaf on a shelf. Always seen, never consumed.

A forest full of bark and bees, with honeycombs to pocket these. But I've always been one to destroy the things I love. I love the trees, and they love me. We always sing in melody.. but these roots run long, dark and deep. And I have promises to keep. So down the tree, and burn the bush. There's a world here, that we must push. To make way for a brand new religion. The forest way, another day today the cities stand on graves. But soon a wave will come to stay But first the flood must pave the way.