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Brinesanity – an abide jar, filled with all the fuqs given.

By

Winner Take Nothing, he said.

After the storm, a clean, well-lighted place.

The light of the world.
God, rest you merry.
Gentlemen, the sea change – a way you’ll never be.
The Mother of a Queen.
One reader writes, homage to Switzerland.
A day’s wait.
A natural history of the dead wine.
Of Wyoming – the Gambler, the Nun, and the radio…fathers and sons.

Alone in my thoughts.
Wishing for nothing but a year in the presence of greatness.
Perhaps in the place they call blessed.
A silent bow, an honored smirk to Ernest tales.

Violent cuts of the mind,
spliced images in a kaleidoscope coffin,
edges holding the fine scotch for you,
a raft to the next dimension.
14:12 25813

*abide*

By

To relatives.

The entire series, was almost a decade ago. You expect me to sit here, and be passive as my name and effort is slandered – I watch my own parade sunshine, your escapades are for others to deem interest worthy, or note scurvy. I stand by what I write, how I write, and for whom. Anyone, questions always welcome. You stare at the cover and wonder what the words mean, but I can’t hear what you’re saying. Then again, more than likely, I could give a fuq to hear it. *jar rattles*

Enthusiasm is relative. Not a relative. Make the mistake of thinking that you are married to some kind of blood kin, that is supposed to come rushing out of you like unbridled enthusiasm, and deep breath – and you are cooked.

Some like to take things to a point, and then are willing to walk away from them, even when there is residual value in them, they have become so exasperated by the struggle, but the effort, by the cause that may or may not have been treated with the fair and right regal attention it deserved, but then again, that is what has allowed us today to capitalize on the failures of the past.

The lessons they learned, from succeeding to move the bar, or the ones that were failures inspiring a new line of thinking, all the way to the one’s that have allowed us to see man truly flying on his own. In the air, on a prayer.

For the thrill, for the purpose.

To not be away from it. To peer at the thrill of it all, and know that life is worth living only when the seize of insomnia ask for no permission they know will never be granted.

Life is precious, in any regard.
Wake the fuck up and live it.
Today.
Now.

You are in a position that is “close to the edge”?

This is where success, separates from “them” who stand on the edge and don’t jump for the thrill.

Fucking pussies.
I was there.
Once.

Many times actually, but that is a collective once now.

The Man in the Arena, “if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”

I will not stop daring.
I will not stop trying.
I will not allow someone to just smirk at the sand.
I will not abide.
I will not try.

(licks pin on brine grenade, filled with belief every morning upon awakening, I carry it on me at all times, and reloads are always near by)

Each particle, each fragment – united, it becomes a greater force. A clearer image, filled with the pixels of purpose and the thorns to be rested on the weary head that must shield their eyes, their orifices, their very souls from the cerebral tsunami before them.

That is ok sunshine, stay in the concrete tent.
That is where your God has asked to stay, serve the rebar.

If you mix your effort with cloak, it will go awry He said, and still you decided to press. Remove the caramel and sugar coated textile from the tin, and dance with the sure grin on the fluoride tainted taste provide by the Machine.

Follow at your own will, and under your prowess.

Blessings, once aboden, become surety.

Bounties on the soul, with actions and flaming fuqtardation to espouse matrimony with mental mavericks or midgets.

Listen, to the call of the loon.

Disturbance or peace, is a reflection which remains, and always shall be – relative.

To health, happiness and prosperity – the last of which, is fully defined by ourselves. The old chicken, has the juice.

What kind of side dish you want served with that corn bread, ma’am.

*abide*

By

My Corona.

Well, the “experiment” has been a rousing success for me.

I think I will honour the initial 72 hours, and seeing as not a single person was confirmed, via the run on the Twitter side, it is enough to see what has happened here and how it goes.

It really is ideal, in so many ways, and of course I will, as always, buy my own burs.

Just wanting to make it clear, the “giveaway” or as some deemed it, the “money making lottery” (*such a lovely, and thankful context smirk* “So much to be able to say, to the Academy, and all those that made this happen, the tweet fluffers, the meat vine Jane’s by night, and Jerry’s by day – you all made the costumes and the facade such a wonderful place to be, a magical place to escape the reality of the days that pass, and the reasons you were able to make those dragon feet dance like Gene Kelly. Thank you…”) is no longer active, thanks to the drove by winkers, hope to see you back more “active” some day.

I got to shake the hands of the folks that know me in life, and I got a whole lot of information to help fill in a gap.

So, let’s keep this simple.

Beer/Twitter – 0

Brine Grenades – **

*sip, will drink the beer “myself”, and provide some commentary.

The iPod – well, bought and new – so will save it for the book launch.

Thank you RT’s and stars, appreciate the wave.

If you listen closely, you can hear Ghetz.

His shit don’t stink, I am sure.

*abide*

Ooh my little pretty ones, pretty ones.
When you gonna give me some time, Toobona?
Ooh you make a boater run, my motors, fun.
Gus is comin’ off the line Toobonya.
Never gonna drop, fill the cup.
Such a dirty kind. Always get it up, iFeta’s touch
on the younger blind. My my my feta woo. M M M My Souvlabona…