Sinatra’s swinging for Jihad

One thing that’ll always stay caught in my memory nets is years ago my ex in California had this theory that Frank Sinatra’s soul was meant to come back as the AntiChrist because he had anger issues;  I guess she had some insider knowledge she got from listening to Lady is a Tramp backwards; I never tried it;  she had a mystical link or two going so at the time it seemed a reasonable theory; another reason I steer clear of those gorgeous young ladies of Scientology handing out cards in Times Square; I’m impressionable; I’m like hot tupperware; I’ll bend but eventually I’ll snap back into place; it just may take years;

I just finished another solo piece, based on my finding my birth parents;  it’s Yellow Alert around this household so push push push and then give birth to these quintuplets; the thought of working tomorrow is heinous to me and I’m sloshing about wildly in a quiet fervor of moving forward in life; it’s all good but the amount of grays on my little beard are keeping score;  it’s not whether I quit; it’s what I wear when I do and what parts of my body will be showing when I dump off my laptop;  will they be something basic cable would pixellate?  I don’t know;  what next? what next. what next$#^,=.

A couple of lines from and for Lona; haven’t had a chance to work onPoint of Venus. Sorry my dear.

The lines of the world can be found running down the sides of your body;

somewhere behind your legs where they bend at the shins are mournful liquids where eels of harmony and discord swim alongside each other and when you walk you both calm and ionize the air around you;

I can hear the ocean breathing inside you; it is more sacred than the Talmud; it is the forgotten clay of the Bible molded together to speak through your breath. 

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