Quit Guessing

Lesson on the tip of the tongue. Defiant lies

on the college try, let's start with having a future

born of a past of all riots. Anyway, just carpet the barbed

wire on the fence, wipe your feet on the mat...'that's worse!?'

Is that the cure off in the distance, I'm saved--a sharp 'SHIT' at

the sight of the lagging S. Right along, Letter Box of curly fries,

a Falconi signature for the hit, so the is dread of these final

words that will always never existed. Twisted by living fire to

antagonize the inner air bender swept up,

'no shit he's about to erupt.' They look

a little gloomy, bores me to death; good thing the

Uber is two minutes early.

'Letter box... no time! Someone has dropped another

hint. Must be added to the detective's web of

suspects and purple strands (an unboring neutral), mind

the excessively long ceiling fan chain, suspect three doesn't

work how you think. Ignitor of the plot, but now

an hour of listening has matured into rot, and roulette

quotes that floats the boats of any general target

audiences, that becomes a Scavenger Hunt map that

encompasses the entire Rocky Mountain range. 'what do

you mean god's unforsaken language?' Instructions are clear as

day on the moon. Sure I speak whored references. 'I

dig you mamma.' Gross. All out of plot threads, I'm just a fluffer to

y'all's emotional carnage, at least it's endearing. (sometimes.)

(Flip book upside down)

Think I've got another reason to be nameless, collecting

paperbacks and saying code words through the slit.

Relax; It's so the tears will fit. Can't pronounce the

country of origin--now, is it shaved, or spells my new

name in the chest hairs? All the same, people vying

for my manager, too bad high command is forever

flustered. Surprised I mustered the chest to speak that

way to such a Dame. Down for the shame, each new voice

has some knowledge of mine to claim, then again, all the pages are

still blank. (pen's empty?) Again? So, I fill it with

reports and dossiers that expose my main

culprits of the cleaned-out Autie Bank & Trust. Race to get

the first on scene-say. In the attempt, sored over six

lanes, towing a truck with nine file cabinets and a Letter Box,

flip a bus, find the lust in their concern? (wait, what?!?) They might like

cuts and cigarette burns. 'I meant Skateboarding in your thirties.'

Banished one voice to complete the hex for the

obsession of my old All or Nothing days,

The Dirty Mary, Crazy Larry days. Between the cultist

and the Bandit, the winch and the emotional death

trap, I still don't know who was who. 'I'll just read the

road map. Here's another

littered thought cavalcade made and never finished,

Let's hope this is what Humanity needed

to finally make some semblance of sense of its intentions.