NormBeggar's Belief (2005)
The spurs of my boots required a thorough cleaning and I didn’t care for this side of life, cleanliness that is. On the morrow I would trade with the shoe repairer to repair my spurs and ride my horse: I could again. That poor old horse, lets call her my world view, how I used her and misused her. In a way she saved me from total despair and this sense, all though not a true sense, of self-righteousness.
And the futility of the lifestyle of my ambition fighting and kickscreaming against the guns and hammers of the pattern that I became caught in as a wasp in a web never dawns on a boxcowboy. The best I ever knew was the worst that ever happened and the future will be the same pattern as planets in the suns orbit. Really this is it. Really to believe this is to see life as long but I ask this pickles on my burgers: I better believe it.
Outhouse in total disrepair and the well-beaten track to that door overgrown in weeds as the train of thought of healthy thinking and useful activity the outhouse and the weeds the weeds splitting selves as splitting cells in the air carrying liquid and self-denial.
Of all the strife and suffering mine is the greatest. My day will come; of that there is no doubt. These prickly sticks of bone and muscle wasted away by inactivity. My gifts the land for the colonial slagheap of I. Tennis elbow and no matches played with moments of insight and plenty of backhanders delivered.
And the futility of the lifestyle of my ambition fighting and kickscreaming against the guns and hammers of the pattern that I became caught in as a wasp in a web never dawns on a boxcowboy. The best I ever knew was the worst that ever happened and the future will be the same pattern as planets in the suns orbit. Really this is it. Really to believe this is to see life as long but I ask this pickles on my burgers: I better believe it.
Outhouse in total disrepair and the well-beaten track to that door overgrown in weeds as the train of thought of healthy thinking and useful activity the outhouse and the weeds the weeds splitting selves as splitting cells in the air carrying liquid and self-denial.
Of all the strife and suffering mine is the greatest. My day will come; of that there is no doubt. These prickly sticks of bone and muscle wasted away by inactivity. My gifts the land for the colonial slagheap of I. Tennis elbow and no matches played with moments of insight and plenty of backhanders delivered.
