The Muse handed me something to drink and somethings to smoke. As a licensed professional (although not of blogging), I can't force you to read. There are a lot of people in Iraq, Biafra, Malmedy and Snurkland who couldn't read this because they are dead. We are still alive. Will we read and recommend, or will we atrophy and sigh?
The teeth are the crux of the man (or beast). Left forgotten, they reincarnate as incandescent devils
inside one's self, eager to rip away at all that is holy.
The large cat sits digesting Its meal. Proud yet hunted, triumphant yet reviled, He flexes His
powerful jaws and cleans His supple, furry body. The muscles ripple as the sandpaper tongue
caresses the flanks and paws. Today the teeth don't hurt. Think about it tomorrow. Raw meat
makes a fine meal when one has ever known the stabbings of true hunger.
Once, when I first met Him, He was a young and tentative cub, emancipated by fate and possessed
of a spirit that would take first and question later. After some initial trepidation, I grew to appreciate
more fully His intrepitude and His guile. Friendly but still wild, He attackitated with warmth.
The teeth have not yet awoken. The night is warm and young. There are yearlings to be harvested.
There are rays of sun to be acquired. There is Hunter's Hill yet to be conquered.
For whom does the motherfucking bell toll??? Not for us. Not yet.