T. Rubble

Some times I wonder. I wonder why I ever open this big mouth of mine. It brings Trouble. Trouble has tits, an ass, and a mind like a psycho. And now Trouble is knocking at my doorstep.

I continue to ignore her repetitious beatings. The sound is getting louder. Too much to bear. I must not open the gate. Entrance must be barred.

Trouble must not enter.

Hold steadfast. Keep your stronghold. Stay....

away.

I

Somhow, I got confused. I thought that I was meant for more, meant to be free, meant to fly, meant to climb the tallest mountain, and reach for the sky.
It was a dream. The highest height I could reach was, a tree. I was deceived, yet again, by a fanciful lie, a clever ruse. But I am still I.
That, that is no lie.

Puppy Love

It’s all puppy dog love,

Till we bark and we bite.

Show me what you’re made of

--out of spite.

The Shock of the Nude

Damn, how does this happen to me? I'm no heart-breaker, I can't leave behind a trail of tears.
I don't want to tear away this sweet girl's dream.
I hope she can move on.
I hope we haven't come too far.
But I always seem to find the ones that need me most when I don't want to be needed.
It's like a self-destruct button implanted within my subconscious mind.
Something that can't be controlled.
I always choose to run.
I am not meant to be here...for long.
I can never grow too attached, for the sake of becoming detached from my reality.
The one I have created, from the ground up, around me.
It's taken years, blood, sweat and tears--most of which were never my own.
In my world, I only desire a dry place to call home.
No need for a cellular phone. No want of a false reality.
Inevitable chastity.
It's getting the best of me,
but what doesn't these days?
Just don't let me bug out.

So, now, what do I do?
Do I follow the trend and put the road under my feet?
Or, shall I keep her around--
take her out for a treat?


So what the fuck do I do?
So mixed up, like a squirrel stew.
My mind is bubblin',
heart is rumblin',
sky falls,
ground opens,
and I find myself right back in front of you. 

So what the fuck should I do?
Everyone's advice is sounding so right and easy,
but so fucking hard to do.
Put the verbs into actions,
and put the actions back in the bin.
Maybe I should keep on, keepin' on
chewing on this hallucinogen--
my friend.

Angus for President

The way of the world, our current paradigm, is mus-guided.
Less gilded is the age we inhabitate.
A mandate here, and contraband there.
We are all thought-criminals.
Carving our initials in the wall
Of a prison system built so tall.
A fading memory,
a fleeting glimpse,
of a time once golden
with no other side to the fence. 
Green grass, and grassy pastures
plagued the land.
The year was 1999,
when MacGyver was President. 

A Commemoration of the Fungal Foe

For an hour or more, I drove off in to the night. The beauty of the situation was the irony bottled within this plastic capsule sitting on the seat next to her thigh where my eyes kept retracing the lines of hem along her shorts were too short for her own good god damn was that driver asleep or are my own eyes drifting into the dark and out on a limber limb.

'I shoulda never taken this hallucinogen,' is what I thought as I clambered into the back of the pick-up truck, no driver on the inside nor in my mind. Surfin' down the freeway with my gal holdin' shotty, I couldn't tell the difference of my multiple realities and non-existent personalities.

The gravity of the situation was growing. Immensely so. Even doubly so, or so it seemed to be without rhyme or reason to see. And, so it can be said on record, it was either eat or be eaten for my little fungal foe. Neither preferred the former; the imaginary reality where a mushroom could eat; but, nevertheless, consume, the latter, I did.

Down, down, down I go. Spent my ticket on a miserable trip. But the trip was fine, and the air was great; and now it's time to commiserate.

Should never have gone to Disney Land. 

~BB

Lament

I've got you addicted like a bad drug habit. I'll keep to the sky though. Up, up and away from all the killers and the crows.

Upon a cloud I will lay my weary head.

Rest my eyes in translucent, creme-coloured splendor.

Then I got down on my knees and began to pray. The prayer went up and lamentations were exalted.Something told me an answer was waiting; but the question, I lost it.
forever a mystery
to my mind.

The end is always the beginning for someone other than yourself, so long as you don't get stuck in the middle. In the middle was a beginning. A point in time fixed upon a line, stretching out of sight, and out of time. Sometimes out of mind.

That's where she went to be. 

this is SHIT. do not read under any circumstances--no matter how dire

Your face shimmered below the surface, he thought to no one but himself. Like once forgotten reflections of my past. But mere memories can not carry us to the land o'er the sea. They hold no substance; no matter can be contained within their confines.

The icy, steel prison of the ego had grappled him and tossed him about; much like the lapping waves. Afraid was he when those waves would cease to be. Only then would curiosity seize his heart and mind.

Curiosity is a malady meant solely for the conscious fool. Those arrogant with knowledge, and filled with untold trickery and deceit. This is all fine and dandy, but it also is bedded with the guilt of being beside-the-fact.

Once the waves were no more, he would clamber down from his boat. Which was not a boat in the usual sense, but rather an over-sized coffin fashioned from toothpicks and ancient, spongy gum. The gum had gone all spongy from the years spent on the sea. Despite his vessel's short-comings, the sailor carried on.

Destination: an island for the soul. He had picked a name. Isla del Sol. He dreaded the literal translation (Isla para la Alma) and had settled on a figurative instead. "The Island of the Sun". Sun, referring to the Son with subtle reference and reflection of the Holy Spirit, and, finally, resorting back to the soul. The sun is the son of the soul. Or, something or other.

My brain is being fried, he thought to no one but himself...and the son. He, the son, had joined him on the last leg of his journey. He was not much company and the company he did keep was indulgent and rude. Chewing the last of this man's gum and dipping his smokes into the sea, the company was more like a trick than a treat. A delusion constructed by an over-bearing son.

The sun of manna rains down upon the burnt shoulders of my lovers' soul.

The Journey is over, time to roll home. 

Slitherer in the Grass

Strangle the moon,
for the Sun's sake 
--Dinner's served.

Let the news anchor cast
all your doubts on his shadow
for a cold steak. 


Aerials can't be in the sky.
No gravity to hold them down,
hold them up--
hands held high.

Well.
The plans are in the pudding,
and the snakes all in the grass.

But.
The pudding's all been spilled
and the grass been cut for hash.

Ssssss-sssss,
says that snake
to his friend.

Come here,
closer
to my den.

Let me spin you a secret
to feed to the
sheep. 

Trust in me,
and my word--
you may keep.

-Brawny Bones & the Hip-Hop Sheik