There was a sore and swollen knee, a spider bite itching underneath the right eye, a few hours groping wildly about on a guitar neck, seeking truth and honest intent with my hands and throat, the words don't seem to spill out because I have too many and they don't make poetic sense, and I try too hard to make it good at once instead of writing an outline and beefing up the content from there. Similar with what I do with my unstructured writing. No real point to make songs if it is just nonsensical jamming with alternate stretched finger pickings and legato rests where there should be staccato hammer on madness, but no one could pull-off that heist, this guitar mockery and the written word mirrors it though without clear intent or purpose. I'm not out or wearing green. Can I pull it off? Take a shot and grab a beer and write about tonight? We'll see. Hum the ditty. Fill in the simple rhythm and melody with grand painted illusions for that elusive muse imagery and see what happens, if it is not a humble work it is at least a mosaic to piece truth out of.
Maybe I should just write it about Los Angeles using T.S. Eliot's phrases mixed with my own.
ooooo
"historical collapses were allowed to occur by elites who appear to be oblivious to the catastrophic trajectory (most clearly apparent in the Roman and Mayan cases)."
