Sipping Absinthe and Puffing the Breath of Bast

Hanging with the twin green faeries, blowing smoke rings and counting how many drops of ice water it takes to dissolve a sugar cube. Slipping into the funk of the surreal, irreal me, Patti Smith tells me 'bout Joe and then her Skunkdog, warming me up before an Apollyon Sun bathes my brain waves in techno-light. Merry Independence day, though not really sure just how independent my shit is. Are we free, for real, or just free-er than the rest? Free to bitch, to moan, to piss, eternally distracted from what the real problems are. T.K. sailed those waters on his Ship of Fools, but burning hands isn't the answer, as he learned, and we were all taught. Fucked up, really, the man knew his shit, but his delivery sucked. Man + technology = alcoholic + barrel of wine. Brilliant. And now, for something completely different... how fucked up is the oil fountain? I just don't even know what to say, just don't know, we did it now, we really fucked up, we really ass-fucked ourselves now, but who cares, right? Ain't shit we can do, 'cept bitch, and we know where that gets us, just, nowhere, but it feels good to pretend, don't it? Anyhow, back to our regularly scheduled programming of utter bullshit. Patti says dog - god - dog - god, Thomas says god leaves (and dies). I say fuck society and the deity it rode in on ~ or perhaps ~ fuck deity and the society it rode it on... but, I've been there, I've done that, you can find it here. On the bright side, the butterfly bush is beginning to bloom, and hummingbird feeders are like little fast-food franchises for my flittering friends. Gonna slip deeper now, time to blow more smoke rings and melt another sugar cube, time to sail away and keep lying to me, reassuring the happy-go-lucky me that it ain't that bad... really, dude... it ain't... that... bad...