Eme Man’s Son

Jumpin’ Jack Butterman. Large sticks of big fat butter, wrapped in wax paper and drew on by colored marker, but the color black, which is no color at all.

Smacking bandannas on crazy outfits, I wonder if this can be legal.

No shit.

Is it colorful enough for you? Does it sound good enough? Is it soundy? Is it musically enough? Does it hop the benchmark of what was more or less indicative of the medium? Is it a faithful representation, true to form?

Is it from there? Is it of it? Don’t ask me shit on how to pronounce the names of foreign cities in other countries because I’m not even fucken from there, these guys say.

Listen bro, I’m not from there, they say, vanishing into the ether from whence these things are coming and going.

Feel me dog.

This sounds so horrible, but am I supposed to guess? Should I take a train to some other place, should I already know how it goes?

They and us or we went on to fight another day, against the rushing tides of some godawful future held at bay by imaginary chaotic beings and ordered pylons or something real deep and meaningful like some damn odd ass flower all bein’ flower-like and weird if you ever got in the mind of one of those things growing out of the DIRT. The Earth, the very name by whence it is referred as, or we call it, even, or to as atoms or just some mathematical equation with a cosine and that’s all, spinning away recklessly and falling into a broken, unexisting oblivion like a tumbling acrobat.

I’m not growing out of the dirt. I’m not made of mud, I’m a flesh-abiding ape man. I walk, no, I hover across what he calls a FACE, you feel me dog?

The plant we or I are discussing. He has his own rules, I have mine.