VOICE OF FIRE
I am a pillar of pure testosterone. My mind is on fire. I sink my teeth into the throats of my enemies and fling them down on the savannah floor. My mind is on fire. I raise my arms to embrace the mighty ribbon in the sky, the blood of my foes on my face. My mind is on fire. I stride the streets on iron feet and the walls of the city shake. My body! My body! My muscles are like snakes. My skin tingles. My hair stands on end. My mind is on fire. The ribbon in the sky. The ribbon in the sky.
Thursday, February 20, 2003
INDISPOSED
We are indisposed to comment, currently, here at Mango Pudding Blues. We are unwilling. We are disinclined. We are not in the giving vein today. Longtime readers of Mango Pudding Blues, students of mango-ology and mango-ography will have already detected the warp, the woof in the fabric of this blog that customarily ushers in an icy silence of indeterminate length. The stop-and-start sputtering. The hitch in the machine. Longtime readers are advised to keep their hats on their heads and remember the promises they’ve made. We have suffered, here, a blowout in one of the mighty engines of joy, and there’s been an hideously insistent knocking in the other, and we have pulled over at the side of the hot and dusty road, prepared to abandon the contraption. We are taking our kit bag out of the trunk and coldly eyeing the list of names we’ve scrawled on the back of a candy bar wrapper. Names and addresses.
