Union City Convention Center 1946

At the start of the workshop, all the dudes were a bunch of fucking peaches and underground rippers playing prison riot. His wife was leather soaked dispositionally and looming to get on with those dudes and was actually the inspiration for implementing blue and purple skin to undermine the very tenterhooks of all recorded philosophy. She waded and waddled pointing a plump donut finger with a sharpened nail in a slow alluring manner like a debutante picking furs and minks. Later, beat denizens like vultures swooned taking pictures of uptight audience members gawking at the pit of flesh as the cascade was laid on top of the facade of norms and means, and the inflated morality of the lazy and fearful. Getting kicks and getting kicked, the subjugation of temperance was in full ricocheted effect with no thought of the dying sun or the far off coming of winter as the last stand of the ego was to make the private public… all in the name of creating the urinal of truth.

At the End of a Perennial Career

His father was tied gray, brown, dirty white among the last bucolic fantasies of business skills, tightly checked morality, and subdued cultural taste during the infancy of capitalistic self-awareness.  A victim of social Darwinism, he strode on worn out shoes of conversation. His cleaver thoughts dragged the body of work as a form of self-expression, of gentle humility, of soft pride, and it stained the heavy steps, the Masonic halls, the leering file cabinets, and the office door of his theosophist boss. He was trailed and haunted by rusty old memories of things he never actually experienced that had turned into blood desires of pain and hope, feverish sting rays of anxiety and interdependence. He knew reality was out there, but he could not describe it. He could only feel it… as his hands shook.