Just what kind of shit show are you running, Mr. Sharp?

This is a black cat crossing paths with the King of Flapjacks when two are already down, one’s left in the deck and the cops are peeling the streets on high alert. There are enough frills in my collar to see this through, to see the very last of you villains.

I am the kind of unsavory character that would admit to having kissed a member of his staff, then quickly double up the ante to suggest it may have been more than a kiss and more than one member.

Once at an airport interchange a devilish diva and yours truly screamed a four-lettered favourite into a telephone for at least four minutes only growing louder as our throats were raw and lungs out of breath.

We recovered in a country bar, there I serenaded a taken woman with Closer, after singling her out in my dedication as “a very special girl”. The crowd cooed then hissed and snapped, and three demoniac hoodlums jumped up in my defense and helped me kick against the pricks to finish the song. She flushed red, covering her face with her hands (which must have burned up because she was hot).

Folks watched at a distance while I choked chewed peyote pits up on myself in the desert sun, convulsed a little (in good health) and thought long as hard while a venerate cactus of calm and sagely demeanor fit pieces into existential puzzles, amazing me with a picture so clear in technicolor of the sun endowing the sea with the soul to breathe.

And then there was the rain, pelting us with droplets much bigger than pebbles that formed puddles instantaneously, flooding the streets! flooding the dust caked lawns! flooding the system! Those waters were anarchical monsoon-madness, barraging us with cold, clear globes without prejudice or half-baked ideas.

They struck again on top a mountain, danger at 8000ft. A flash storm of conscious rained out our camp, and soaked me down to nudity, bare in front of all of those I’d yet to love. But those mountains moved me like heroin across borders, standing from a peak and looking out over endless ravines, canyons and red rocks and sand, feeling only as alive as I’ve felt on top of waterfalls out on the peninsula.

They’ve come kicking in doors and demanding verisimilitudes that I can’t find myself let alone hide in some hobbit hole. I’m as uneven as paintings hung by an old blind society, and when they finally make their way here they’ll find only tipped trashcans, that damned black cat and the remnants of a card game where none of the suits were right, but man were they real.