I suppose…for the most part…I think in rhymes & messy circles. Makes me all but impossible to enjoy a real-time conversation with…so I spend all day in dark places…alone with my empty Pall Mall carton, and wearing only a cock ring.  ……Nah, the cock ring bit I stole from Happy Harry Hardon…and the Pall Mall carton got thrown away in a landfill back in ‘88 or ‘90. But I am …utterly alone.   (………….nope, lifted that from Lydia Deetz.)

The run-on sentences are almost usually proper sentences, …although certain smart people have strongly cautioned me to write more succinctly …easier to follow and comprehend…and sometimes I try…and many times uh…I don’t.  It’s a throwback matter, maybe, as I used to read Emerson to pass the time until realizing that too many philosophers of his woefully-wonderful ilk had said IT ALL so long ago & now he spins a blue devil in his grave in mock awareness that mankind is still too damned thick to have EVER facking figured it out.  So I have a difficult time with periods. …Periods are down time. Not much lovin’ goes down when there’s a period.  Unless you’re anxious about a potential bun in the oven…wherein a period can be very cool --- but usually a period means someone’s gona get rubbed off. 

Teachers:  My all-time favorite instructor was in the Cali High Desert, went by the holy handle, Hood, (yeah…y’bastid…I still love ya). He was a triptych cross between Jesus & John Lennon & the teacher in Pink Floyd’s The Wall (…or the teacher that Sam Kinison   played in Rodney Dangerfield’s vehicle, Back to School).  Anyway, he encouraged me to go with the lyrical means of getting from point aye to point bee …just as long as I don’t only angst about things; just as long as there is a beginning, a middle, and an end, and some sort of reason and some sort of resolve…or at least a suggestion of potential resolve.  He beat the crap out of my writing…mercilessly, and I’m grateful.  ...Wish I would have stuck around a while.

When in grade school I was asked to tell what happened on summer vacation, I always wrote a lotta wholly horseshit about the Bermuda Triangle or spelunking the storm drains of the city beneath the city…and my better teachers let me get away with it…all except for Mister Lebwanowicks who gave me the big red mark of shame & disdain while silently rubbing himself under his severely organized desk of morbid pain implementations.

To be frank, Peter, (and thanks for your kind words that are maybe somewhat misguided as I am probably few of those things in reality [just ask my wife, as she’s the only person who will talk to me, and that’s because I give her insulin injections to counter the high blood sugar effect of heavy steroids…jeez…and put Grape Nuts & sun-dried cranberries in her oatmeal] ...really, though, I do appreciate your warm remarks; …namaste) 

…Whoops, where was I? …Oh yeah….  To be frank, Peter (…hmm…”frank,” “peter,” …”wiener,” “Coney dog,” “red hots, get..your red hots!” …hmm…excursion again, ...in any case), I write prose in a verse-prose lyrical fashion because of the colorful music in the words when it works.  That’s it.  And I figure…since a lot of people can’t be bothered to read much of anything, anyhow, …those who do may take the time to muddle through it…or, if nothing else, …often times there’s a pretty picture shape involved as well…so…

(I wish I could write like Ed. He’s seriously funny.)

…

One thing I think I know for sure: …

if you are a teacher who reads the dbis and listens to Baerwaldian Opera, no less,  …what lucky batches o kids, to say the least.