Here is the rub. Riddles we never got. Oh, my.
Serving to illustrate my point of departure from the mean norm.
the rub is the cause of the pain, not its purpose.
Pain is not for punishing, whatever that means to you.
Pain is for correction, for your own good, ditto the meaning part.
The rub is where touch goes too deep, applies too much braking,
the humdrumconundrum setting on life's pace (get the app) in the age of Google.
For more time than Google or its finders could agree, with me, to believe,
I have been waiting for this moment to arrive. There are places where that rubs.
Fiction, that does lubricate real ification, doesn't it.
I never noticed, until now. That's why liars prosper, maybe.
Jah, I saw it comin' on my back, in a safe place, two days before leaving Bien Hoa, Spring
1969. The White Album, Koss EPS6's, tight, no sound, dark, I wandered homeward.
Not all war stories are lies, some are parables, some are prophecies.
I waited until now was firm in every mind involved,
then launched the grand old party line to God almighty, in my mind
Radioman manifested from the dreams and events that seemed as dreams seem,
upon that time, when I lay waiting, near Bien Hoa.
Look homeward? Where? I have no memory, I've been Bourne Borked, why me?
Was I the hero of the story I was in? I must have been, I am alive and I am old.
And there, the acid message burned through my sckull and I played something
like Russian Roulette, with a character named Ken Kingman, who grinned like a devil.
All this in my mind. Where were we then, we Googled men? We friends on the grid?
Flesh and bone, muscle and blood, for God and country, do or die, don't ask why?
Airborne, All the way, ah, we sang that cadence in our dreams, even after we got the joke.
But we was always only me, we are imaginary, in my mind, extensive, albeit, still mine.
I didn't know.
No, you could not have known, that was just me, the meek little me speaks,
peeking beneath the banner over me. You never crossed my mind.
The show runner speaks up and has nothing more to say, we run on, fo' a long time,
lemme tell ye gotamighty gonna cut chadown. Run on, fo' a long
The point. Fret not. Been there done that entered the vernacular on my watch, I saw this.
I'm ready. You ever been slammed, honest t'God slammed to the ground, breathless?
breathing brings us to the center. Home is where your heart is. That's a riddle, BTW.
Where a thought is first thought seems to establish its eventual trajectory, don't you think?
We be comin' to some real that normal can fix on, soon, waitin's what we do til then.
No pain. No rub, no, friction fiction uses warm a weary mind as to what might be.
When ye think a bout it. Something in the way we thought must 'ave mollified it, the rub,
above, with **** we let slip by. The aitch's do that. Aitch sounds. 'ushin' ohmmmm.
Here is where my hope, dear reader, lies.
