lee pedal-tipper

General tire-marks and long presses of glass crashing and we are Mark 7VIII, finally. Finally, good luck. “What do you want to drink?” this body asks me and I respond, “Yes, please.”

I’ll take another. I’ll have another. Mark my words, it will be accomplished in this lifetime or the next. I speak the lingo around these parts, I have memories and knowledge, Capitans. I pass for a reasonable fancy, dapperman around these parts, a cartographer of sorts or otherwise water-rustler, canteen-taker, spin-doctor extraordinaire. I’m from outer space, I’m literally lost to the galaxies.

Or so they say. Who are they anyway? Why do these ‘theys’ always tell us such ridiculous fucking horrible shit like that?

Big, fat bricks of horrible nonsense wedged together with sandwich ties and bacon, watermelon crust and apple pies. Bought from McDonald’s, or some far off galaxy of which could only be enlisted and drafted forwards toward a new frontier. Ask me where I keep my humming-mobile, I tell you.

Giant, concave water benches and splash pans, banking up crusty breads to sell hot and fresh on the patio or sidewalk, sell them please, pelase commercialize them to me, two-party bargain system where I get me a hot roll, and you get you a sandwich at the end of the day.

Be that as it may, watch out for general horse-ranker-y as these guys are not official, this is not official letters, nor was official sentence ever made.

It was no one. It was nobody, that is the answer to the question right now, no one, not a single one, was responsible for all of it. Not a whit, not a one.