Pomona with a best friend

With the I ching in my lap. I hit the bus, so cut the crap. Looky, looky, look, at the taggers. Soup kitchen shopping-carts and the plastic baggers. Lo, and behold, the goddess and her fight, but when the crux is paralleled. Who has the will to fight? Who has the will to light? Me a cigarette, and shut the fuck up. Perhaps an angel eating chocolate pudding could point me to the point, of spoon on tongue satisfaction. While one handing joints 'till Las Vegas. Before renting revenge of the nerds, again. And purchasing a can of spray starch, and calling the front desk "early wake up". Note for the maid: Leave the ironing board downstairs, please. Thankyou, Ps. Check envelope in third drawer down from the mini-bar-- and by the way bring me another coffee maker this ones for kids or something, for the love of God. [Dream, that night after no sex] Maybe Jesus with his fiscal henchman could fasten me with sleeves a proper that would blaze a mighty sulphur upon my tear stained pleas. While consoling Christopher Reeves, and promising him I alone could write him back in, wheelchair and all. In the cold distilling embrace; Of kryptonite & candy jewelery. Fun-dips were good because of the vanilla sticks mostly, and that's a straight fact. On Euclid Ave. ollie-ing off of earthquake vaulted curbs. Their jagged sun white peaks. 180 frontside tail grab, SPLINTER, "ow". Do you remember that slab of meat, that rack of beef, that would knock Fred Flinstone's car over every afternoon for years? I ate it. Under the San Gabriel mountains. "Where are you now oh Gabriel" but tooting your own horn. Massaging 'a' mom's corns. Yipee kie yo porns all the way, until tamale. That day I watched Tony Alva break his wrist at the Upland pipeline? Was the day I knew I needed a better night job. Guess What? You were never so clever as that dead thing you left upon my door mat motherfucker. by the way. Welcome home.