tired... whispy-wandery world wassailing; travel-tittilation and nipple-vacationing... swirly-time in the desert! deprevation of sleep crawls over the Goat mind like ants at this hour, cutting wee bits of my mind and stealing them back to the cave... the hill ... to grow fungus to feed the millions.

but i'm no beast of burden, even though i'm shaggy and infested with the pestilence of a fourth-world country. poverty be damned; i am a missile ready to strike, and i hold your sullen words at bay! fear my nose, for it is grand. well, not so grand as a tasty man, who loves his monkey, but ... grand in sort of an extravagant manner... mere icing on the pop-tart.

and what, you say, is the pop-tart filled with on this night that reeks of desert hornblowing ass-ramblers? Cinderblocks and citrus popscicles! Trailercourts and sheet-metal holding pens for late-model Datsuns! And cacti; lots and lots of foolish little cacti, plotting a dream they'll never see, cause they can't fucking run.... cause they're CACTI - and cacti just don't have feet these days do they? no!

because of the pilgrims. see... they didn't really know what the fuck layed out west, of course, being fucking sailors and shit, but once they saw the evil, insidious cacti of the coast they were just fucked...

alas, i digress from my original intent tonight; gel of the hair. i retrieved said business from a certain store whose logo is a red bullseye sort of device, a company hideous in its drive and driven mad by its lust for one thing: ass. THey're based in the fine resort community of Minneapolis, MN, home to raw food enthusiasts and various other fare like catastrophic infusions of wild green mushrooms and cheesed-out bung-fucker-moments.

See, quaintoisity and beepin' buzzers freak me out at night, especially when they're not in minneapolis, land of the dead and specter of my netherosity... they're like boldface flashes of false-fronted homes splattered in a riotous orgasm of color on the walls... quite like nothing i've ever even imagined. or seen... much to my dismay.

so, i say fuck it all. let's just play with our collective selves tomorrow (it is sunday, i reckon, a fine day to wither away into nothing, a pile of sorrow, lamenting the lord and his failings in a false religion, so let's just get drunk tonight, pass out under the stars, and wish for seitan and Valerie, tofu and Charles, tempeh and Randy Lee, while we throw pennies at the moon! they'll never fall on us.)

tonight, peel. sleep and feel. drink a bit and become a tit and roll around some more! Russia won't care and China wants it; let it come! And tomorrow, wake up, roll off the bed and squarely place your feet on the floor... and remember nothing but your smile as you slipped into a cozy land of dreams you always knew was there... but was just out of reach.

Until now.