Out Rice Shower

Because each message wakes up the younger, boozers of red towers, no longer knowing what’s happening but it’s good, asleep like ducks and about to crash as soon as that lank hits the bed---

(There’s the Jeffrey.)

That says that it is the middle-aged (self)grounded like a teenager on a Saturday because the watchers had given it the “talk”. What talk? The sanctity of the bedroom and the home and how one asserts the personal in shared space--- the economics of rooms.

Understandable.

Malice--- What. Fuck.

And hackles--- If that were a woman inside it would be no problem. So what’s the difference. CHOICE. Ah, here come frameworks being imposed, the virus of the conservative. It’s protective. Suddenly there, the feeling of dirty. Thanks. Thanks a lot oh ye free from the nightmares that plague sleep. Rant.

(There’s the feared sex, drugs, and gothic roll AWOL.)

LAWYERED: Let it pass.

Never tried jumping off a balcony as suicide.

(That has got to be acid.)

There was that dream the other night of being lost somewhere between the streets of inner Manila and Bangkok. Not knowing how to get home.

Charles was there. He was upset about being included in a book though grateful, says that one has to go that mile of hoopla. There was that hug given to all mentored. He hugged back, tight around the green daster softened and tattered by years.

Riding a child’s red bike in that dream around this neighborhood. To wake up with the news that the niece has just learned to ride the bike without training wheels. Her kuya taught her. Just like the children in the 1980’s.

Tradition now.

And the youngest in a call, ordering the second mothers to come home for she misses loving. The little man was told by a little girl that he is cute and that he smells nice. Laugh a scream, “Nooooooo! He’s just a baby!”

(The room is a tomb without them.)

Just like the prototype who’s asked this to be the best woman. Marrying at 20? Is she pregnant? No? Then you and me kid will have to talk about that. Impulse control of smart adrenalin junkies: Sigh.

Sister #3 finally read “Wishes” after all these years, says it made her sad and even knowing that it would she finished it. It was good, she said. Thank you so much. Don’t read the newest one that will come out. Divorced and onto fucking around in Vegas finally with 38 words. It needs gritty motels and divine strippers.

(When one becomes a standard, it is isolation.)

Now the Lady was funny. And the Lady is now poisoning noisy dogs. No shit? Yep, try being a virgin dude who is taking female hormonal pills.

And Phoenix--- according to the False Prophetess--- we are, they say, uncanny rising from the ashes of hell. Introduce ourselves to Professor X. He can fuck our brains out.

We look happier.

Nothing to give.

Wine is the blood of liars, the break of Truth Sayers. That was the vortex of evil wanting your soul and balls. The wave--- Ride.

Sing.

There was that dream that the bed was a coffin. There was the younger who is now the watcher beside the bed. The same younger who would chide the middle-age for getting hammered, the same taunt from senior boozers. Keep the monsters away, the dead sleeper says.

(There’s Colt 45.)

So here is the rice shower on filters flipping a cold and rapping a cough, tapping to hip-hop, Mark Twain a chanting: DO SOMETHING THAT YOU DON’T WANT TO DO EVERYDAY; THIS IS THE GOLDEN RULE FOR ACQUIRING THE HABIT OF DOING YOUR DUTY WITHOUT PAIN.

(There is that haunt again from Satan: Duty is branded on the forehead.)

The ducks are on the way home, a mami stop first before bed.

Really, what’s with you younger dudes and mami after boozing.

It baffles.

(Kanye West Can you guys tell me why…The way we mow the ride?)

Tangna Diablo na lang raw of Cavite yo.

Tone.

Tone.

Tone.