Listen (live recorded 09/12/24 via. 121):

Ramble

It’s always nice to stay a little cool when a hot hand
can take you all in, without a buy-back in, or as they say
these days, a respawn; to be a pawn is not what I had in
shop. I’d rather stop at a lawn, mow & moo & moan &
milk my mom all day long for all she's got, until she pops &
hits my pops for all he has—lollygagging & all that talk
his generation does, rather than get popped for a Joe, Jew,
or a Jesuit who spends half of what he’s got, to tell his kid
he can piss in a pot & bitch about Pete & Pan, who wanted
to play the roles of Jill & Julia—and tell her that she can’t take
Plan B or beat his daughter at badminton or a spelling bee,
even if she’s a bad apple—all because they used to like Batman &
Law & Order & can’t make sense of a coloring book out of lines
(even after...) as their wives buzz away with woodies in the
backroom & Andy (from HR) on Sundays after the night
out at T.G.I. Fridays, & their baby boy Billy is told not to
jack (his jam / Jill / dill... or pickle) with Tommy,
not to tip-toe around the Angelical bush...

Not trying to be Grim... I can’t really relate... I’m more
of an Ed, & Ed, Eddie than Five Nights at Freddy’s kind
of guy. I admire Michael Myers in contrast to Jason, but
I’m more of a Statham & Stay dumb than a-need-a Mamoa,
Mistletoe-uh or a mimosa; more so a call signs, SOHCAHTOA,
sip a Miller & go on a tangent from time to time & so on...
& on the occasion I find myself with enough Courage to
Doo a thing or two that Scooby couldn’t speak of... not always
what sits right for a trick... but anyway...

Back to the news of the new, old rows of Joes & Jews &
Jesuits, and their Andrews & Abes in a full White House,
who hang w/ Jefferies & Jordan & spend time with Petes &
Peterson who ride Harleys & speak of Davids-on-Sunday.
(AAAJJ / Poker)

Yes, the ones who tell the world that their boys will be a
MAN, that’s right—but if his Stan grows up beating Pam
& Angela down the street with his meat in hand all over
tongue & cheek & for a denial of lip service in exchange
for his check-up, while out of his mouth comes the talk
of the tongue that took a pork chop off of Tobi’s feet. Or
Kunta Kinte, or however you get down (a tree), MAN
(not to tip-toe around the bush, nor hippie–tea–hop).

This Obi-Wan Kenobi-chic-ass geek who wanted to go to
Neverland one day & watched every Parrot with a Parakeet
take on the Caribbean as he rocked to sleep in his car seat,
until they turned WOKE... Turns into an Anakin freak in
the layers of his room under his (dark-sided) sheets... & as
the world in cell of his gloom, turns to the Dune within the
sand of his times, & begins to realize he’s not the Timmy
that chalets with chardonnay & grooms & lands a princess
bride of a race of another kind... Nor is he Jimmy who
comes up with a plan & an extraordinary device that lights
up his brain with a (plot) just right to save the day in such
spark-plug ways (in a blast-off fashion), nor is he Tony that
swings his ham on a panorama cam in the span of a few
minutes to the eyes of fans of many that pay for the sight of one,
until he spills his peel & splits on his wife of the night
(in blast-off fashion)... she’s not the type his mother would
like but at night she’s the only (one) who feels just right...
as he fills his sheets & flies his kite... while she rides his
(metaphorical) bike with a face of hyperbole...

Before finishing off his flight, picking up his mic, just
like his favorite podcast—(speaking of the Joes)—&
proceeds to share all night with every other one of his
brothers from other mothers & no life, his words in the
world about... what’s not quite right... That chat room of
Nick-at-Nites, who says spics, & kikes, & niggers, & dykes,
how they want to (do drugs) such as ingest spice with ice, & that all
women, such as his mother and sister (the most important
in his life/of pumpkin), do not deserve rights outside of turning
off the lights & putting him to bed with their impeccable
head—these (brainful/brain-dead) women...

it’s all out of spite because he isn’t a winner, with no chicken
dinner, or Kids Cuisine to digest (his father blames the niggers
for this. In addition, to Sleeping Joes & Inflation Devices created,
of course, by the Chinese, learned after a Tuck’ering in at night
before dropping the bar & losing it all in a strip. & at the very
least, our Little Steve…turned creep, failed to return to
sleep & couldn’t pull the trigger (in solo mode) to make
his amends right, (I digress)...

No, not tonight, for the first time in a while, our child
looked into a mirror with a smile & finally realized he is
more than a grinch without an eve...

Tomorrow after the morning news,
Boy Meets World.

So he seeps to the floor & thinks about the chores that he
never could finish while home alone.

& the next day he returns to campus seeking direction only a
compass of man could see, with a handheld device (in
airplane mode) equipped with the protection of a second-
hand blessed piece of metal, from the father of his father
& an angel (Eagle’s Kiss Blessing). Ready to lead with
lead, the slaughter of the sheep. Through a lesson, too
contemporary for the current curriculum. Time for a
textbook test correction; chemistry wasn’t quite correct.
Physics are what’s next. Don’t ask about biology,
although they say it’s the biggest root of the problem.

& for the first time—he returns to his chores.
So he sweeps the room (of all classes), like he sweeps
with a broom, this Harry Potter-totter lover of cartoon,
such as but not limited to—Tom & Jerry...turns his former friends from Candy Land into a Swiss melt
while masked in the face of Doom, as he spoils the Fruit of
the Womb & the raspberries sour on the Fruit of the Loom &
ornate as a tomb of a generational harvest, perfectly in season—with record book numbers like a new All-Star,
(often occurring at the end of Spring or the Call of Fall Ball)

—all because his flower didn’t bloom quite right & the tunes at night
that once told him that he was meant to do all right, start to change
into a voice of vain that speaks his name, inflicting pain & mocking
him for his cowardly lanes to seek delights, sirens, & lights,
overgrowing his mane. & the guilt takes a bite…for the dragon
that wasn’t slain nor tamed but rather took him for a ride of his life
for a piece of gold & dropped him out into a drain at sea… what a disposal.

Snapshot, Snapchat, Disposable film. Here for a moment,
put on the fridge, & coughed out like phlegm.
But the doctors won’t even give me a hit of hydrocodone,
just because I have a little red fever?

*Disclaimer: No, I’m not sick. These are rather contemporary conditions.
I’m simply a diagnostic who’s seen these kinds—often circumstantially
aligned but alienated in thought. If you find yourself with similar symptoms
and/or conditions, please do not hesitate to contact your doctor;
you might have a condition of (fragmentation).

C. 2024 / Published: Untitled: In Progress* / Unfinished Works by: Jet Le Parti

Presented at "Burn Pits, Settled Dust, & Weather Reports" at Base 36 / (NY)