We have a winner!
AND everybody loves a winner!!
DING DING DING!
WE HAVE A WINNER!
You run down the steps, and suddenly realize you have tripped, on live television, and are careening down the last 4 stair directly towards Monty Hall with your rabbit ears and honky tonk gi-tar preceding your impact. He falls. You actually knock him out. It's a little known Hollywood secret. You are banned from Paramount. You are banned from the Tribune, KTLA lot overlooking the 101 freeway, so centering when you first arrive here, FOB, so decadently survived there, those blocks in Hollywood, where it just never changes and yet, everything is different since they put the high rise celebrity towers on Hollywood and Vine, thinking some kind of nostalgia would make the W a bright shiny thing, instead it's the El Capitan where the kids cheer so loud for Prince Kardashian that you can't help but anticipate Wal-E.
Those were the days.
Everything was so bad that anything was looking up. They keep you hungry like police dogs.
Now, that you've lost a certain percentage of a portion of everything, JUST LIKE THE DREAM SAYS: in your sleep you hear the voice whispering time to get up time to wake up sleepy head and like a wisp of a cloud or the sweet taste of an emotion you don't know the name for == and may never feel again. The sweet nip of victory the biting sting of neglect? The stirring beast of hatred, the bleeding feint of light called love a word so long since lost its relevance and meaning.
I stand at my standing desk, I feel worse, she thinks
i am not meryl streep in prada devil wears, rosemary baby appears - i guess she's a bitch in real life ok i know you are but what am i
too smart for your own good
why what mighty big horse teeth you have
how badly you play Debussy, with such long fingers and a keen ear for punk music. How could this be? How could you just not be what we wanted you to be all along -- which is nothing anyone ever defined, and being a bastard child, I need clear definitions or I just move on my amorphous way.
Mark Strand the poet
is unavailable in my room at the moment so instead I leave you with
As A Man Thinketh:
AND everybody loves a winner!!
DING DING DING!
WE HAVE A WINNER!
You run down the steps, and suddenly realize you have tripped, on live television, and are careening down the last 4 stair directly towards Monty Hall with your rabbit ears and honky tonk gi-tar preceding your impact. He falls. You actually knock him out. It's a little known Hollywood secret. You are banned from Paramount. You are banned from the Tribune, KTLA lot overlooking the 101 freeway, so centering when you first arrive here, FOB, so decadently survived there, those blocks in Hollywood, where it just never changes and yet, everything is different since they put the high rise celebrity towers on Hollywood and Vine, thinking some kind of nostalgia would make the W a bright shiny thing, instead it's the El Capitan where the kids cheer so loud for Prince Kardashian that you can't help but anticipate Wal-E.
Those were the days.
Everything was so bad that anything was looking up. They keep you hungry like police dogs.
Now, that you've lost a certain percentage of a portion of everything, JUST LIKE THE DREAM SAYS: in your sleep you hear the voice whispering time to get up time to wake up sleepy head and like a wisp of a cloud or the sweet taste of an emotion you don't know the name for == and may never feel again. The sweet nip of victory the biting sting of neglect? The stirring beast of hatred, the bleeding feint of light called love a word so long since lost its relevance and meaning.
I stand at my standing desk, I feel worse, she thinks
i am not meryl streep in prada devil wears, rosemary baby appears - i guess she's a bitch in real life ok i know you are but what am i
too smart for your own good
why what mighty big horse teeth you have
how badly you play Debussy, with such long fingers and a keen ear for punk music. How could this be? How could you just not be what we wanted you to be all along -- which is nothing anyone ever defined, and being a bastard child, I need clear definitions or I just move on my amorphous way.
Mark Strand the poet
is unavailable in my room at the moment so instead I leave you with
As A Man Thinketh:
THE DREAMERS ARE THE SAVIORS OF THE WORLD
I am trying to write the narrative healing as I go but these set backs make me feel like you gotta be Clint Eastwood whenever you stand outside in the light of day, the reason why Wayne, St. Paul, the vision at the laundromat as easy as Kalalau, same aumakua -- that's hawaiian for your protector in the animal spirit realm.
We are missing so much, we are killing the mystery or just missing it all together. How do we say so much and so little that matters? Who can we help today not get bombed in a hospital in Syria today?
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| ST BEAVER |
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