Crane

jilted self awareness into happiness to let it happen, the master plan if you will, the hybrid thrill back bar room drills and smoking blunts in the basement, Fletcher's Grove pounding bass hits, grippled drum, rhythm face masks, plastered onward, metal ho drum, the bigger traces of nature's reality steaming forward, the natural imbalance of body and temperance. noticing the movement of hawks and turkey vultures, the earth's curvature reflected in my eyes, the soul blues ducking care worn and hearth steader, mental bending, mention of somber moments in Sunday morning mass at Saint Margaret's, Father Tim prounouncing proclaments, Latinate diction and Dane Cook memoirs about Christ Chex.  The next chapter is a little hazy, and the heroine hasn't come to fruition, her lack love ambition heaves her crippled in the stair case, the mental debasement of body meets daily grind and hyperactive mobile streetcar races. I have cases of cocaine stashed with the bodies in  my basement--too obvious?  The blame game is great, I play it too, suck on these nuts, speak habits of gin licks and rhymes.  In my prime, I was feathered as a peacock, alpha female status of the first divine, queen mother of rock n roll blasted  holds the winter's cold, buried in my soul, the black book of Heaven.