maybe this late-night manhattan special espresso soda wasn’t a good idea…

…but who’s ever considering that kind of question until it’s already been drunk? drank?
this might have something to do with cigarettes and not coffee soda. i believe everything has something to do with something else because otherwise there’d be no mystery or espionage writers. probably no fantasy or science fiction writers either.
we’d be a vast wasteland of self-improvement books and celebrity biographies.
looked at the best-seller list in the new york times lately?
i haven’t.
the fourth of july weekend kicked up the hamburger quotient in my diet from none to five. when i wasn’t glomming them down, i was eating sausage sammitches, gloriously disregarding the by-products and intestines sacrificed in order to make me happy for those few moments.
i chased those down with real live eight ounce coca colas and manhattan special espresso sodas.
greasy, burnt meat, sugar, carbs, protien, more sugar; i think a bit more sugar as well as sugar all rolled up in more grease and stuffed between fat white bread.
when i was all full of liquor and drugs, i’d never put that poison in my body. thank goodness the cigarettes curbed my appetite.
taking it to the edge. that’s me all over.
the generational line in the sand switched from acid/blow/smack or acid to sugar/caffeine/carbs or chocolate.
all of this, the fruits of the vine on the yellow brick road to the launchpad of oz, another vehicle that’ll get you to the eighth-electro-plasma-ocean of the ninth-dimension, that place i haven’t spoken of late, except in passing. i watched the wizard of oz this weekend.
i’ll forever be in love with margaret hamilton.
she was the wicked witch of the west.

i miss my friends out there under the nike missile storage chamber. i miss the remote quietude and the big tire.
i miss the eduardo cianelli-sounding guy who looks like omar sharif. i know that they’re grifting, con-artist lizards who are only here for a meal and suit, but…. i mean, in these two years i wished we had become friends, but it’s not for me to understand how relationships work between food groups.
i never befriended a tuna salad sandwich. i devoured it.
i thought back to our conversations and how i thought we were making a bond of sorts, what with being an aging, poor slacker without the greedhound instinct, i would be ineligible to have my spine torn out with my bones and innards greedily ground-up and ingested by those tiny little teeth.
poor me. lucky me.
the lengths we go to be accepted sometimes.

to a new visitor to this place, you might want to scroll back a while so you can understand what this food-chain thing, especially with michael jackson’s will battle brewing.
i know the grifting hustlers from mars are dining on some greasy lawyers right now, getting ready for a veritable feast of expected riches promised to an conga-line of money managers, bankers and investment hustlers.
did i mention record company executives?
they’ll be dining on them too, you betcha.
the grifting lizards know well how to organize a gorge-a-thon.
i wonder if any of them are in the catering business.

About stephen trimboli

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