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Of Unplumbed Depths
A Muse from the Checkered Demon, with Rye Addendum

The old dog lies on the floor and yips now and then, between naps, trying to herd me into the house for the night, take a leak, eat a treat and it's snooze street. I don't blame him. In dog years he is 84, and bitching at that altitude is allowed.

I think about the women and how they are mobilized, and realize finally how tragic for all concerned the coming shenanigans will certainly be. I do not believe the depths have been plumbed by a long shot. I know them bitches can make bein' crazy not shit. It can get way past crazy. Imagination flies free in the heart of a woman, and they are nothing to make an enemy of in my mind. Too emotional. Death may well be the best outcome of getting cross ways with our doppelgänger lacking the meat bayonet. They have ways.

And thank God for all that, for shouldn't your best bud be fun with a brain? Women are smooth, soft and warm for good reasons. They are also cruel, mindless and spoiled for reasons no one sane would wonder about. A mixed bag. Just like men. In some way, and no one ever knows.

Meanwhile, Flu is spiking in California. A known internet sage has advised to stay away from crowds for years now. He has never been wrong, and as our bulwarks will be found faulty our ways will change, or we will suffer deep physical wounds in our daily doings. Trolling the bars will get hard. Some things, rubbers won't stop.

I live with a woman, have for years. I know no other way from hard experience. There are things to be said, I am sure, about the virtuous scrivener toiling away in the garret with mice gnawing his slippers, the grate gone cold and the dram sour in the glass. Sorry, that's too much like work. As long as I can, it's nice to slip down the stairs and up next to a warm ally traveling a common course through the maze. Maybe shower off the cigar smoke and smegma. Gotta keep peace.

My old stoner band had a song Women are Smarter. They were wrong. Women are smart, or they're not. Just like men. It depends on what you're being smart about. They don't have most of the money and all the trim for nothing, and a man who blows that off? Well, bless yore heart.


Rye Addendum


Super-stoked, dude, to hear BG&E bills may reduce as much as $4.37 during the coming year. Is there some place for sale around there? Say, a Victorian pile with 150 yards free of cover to all cardinal points. Defensible. A place one could play?

Coyotes are chewing at the door to my henhouse, but billionaires tell me they're feeling my pain so, how bad could it be? Why don't you just tell me, me being curious and all: what's to do, guru?

Two years. What shall happen?

The Point

Life has been feeling cheap, but we all know it isn't. It is dear as it's all we have. So why are so many being vanished daily? Why is life so spendable?

The Bofors auto-loading cannon is no longer made, nor are spare parts or ammo. We have several C-130 gunships still flying, using Bofors, and we have airmen loading old 40MM brass to feed their guns. So, if you had thought the demise of Bofors would slow the "trimming" of unwanted life forms, relax. Our Sons and Daughters soldier on in that digital shooting gallery, erasing aberrations to our way.

The guns would work the airframe with the recoil, and it was power bestowed upon the ones below, while spinning up your innards, and just how does one fight that lure?

Later, you can go home and pretend nothing happened. Nobody knows, but there was something elemental there for a moment. Private. No trespassing. Unique.


Whatever happens we have got, the Maxim gun, and they have not.

Trying reloads in a Bofors auto-cannon

My old flying workplace, back in the day with the Bofors gun and streaks of tracer.

Let all proper men now sing of the days when shit was scary and hard, but fun with it all, and not knowing if you'd ever again munch a proper burger didn't matter. I wasn't out that far, not like some. But being out at all is something. Better than sitting back home, flicking your clit.


Machine gun tunes

Books by James LaFond

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