Circa cusp of my famous tinkering at the tapping of keys to please the many fortunate readers of my prose poetry ensemble me valiantly with Laurie G. who I want her to Be, so darn Happy with her marriage to a man-  my #1 fan enamored by my jotting words that Peter Sargent doesn’t like my F-words, he said something about swords I have no weapons but the S-word so SHIT as this is it pooping once or twice a day and never constipated as that would cause me such Dismay-  a skinny belly and taking enough showers so as not to be Stinky, with a Slinky traffic on the front steps, with two to Tango to trounce the MMJ ounce of yesteryears-  getting high at my house, kill a louse, I want Justine Aragona to be my loving Spouse-  she liked Sponge-Bob Square Pants, I swear she’d lay in my bed and giggling at the cartoon-  our relationship I ruined one night, drinking with so much Might, and sloshing down ten or eleven low-carb 12 ounce Michelobes, tingling toes, rubbing my Mom’s cute feet, attending a Meet-’n’-Greet on the street of Geneva in Worcester and near my University, when I wanted all to see me, working so hard with Treadmill time, in front of the A/C so cold, I was fine and finished after ninety-minutes of strutting my stuff, buying sugary “Fluff” for Fluffernutters as my double vision does stutter, rapidly, exercising so I could be, in great shape a la 2005-2007 while doing cardio, I found ecstasy, of moving my body to the beat of the speakers-  my earphones made of Sennheiser, I wouldn’t drink at all in those years, especially the junky Budweisers I stayed away from some of the 7 packs of fruity beer, my Sobriety was fine, IN THE CLEAR, your tears you reading my words of mince meat to beat the rotten druggies, drunk and opiated to make them sleepy, Elated at the drug addicts, Segregated and not able to pass D-T employment requirements, without any fire, before I enjoyed my joviality for all to see and saw — all of my one-screen behavior with 3 laptops, brand new, as in the low-mileage Ferrari I hope to own, 1999 F355 hard-top not the Spyder, Wino the Rider, of a custom bike in the custom shop to groove your groove and enjoying bare boobs, my previous Catheter Tube, inserted into my thick thighs between, my goodies were seen, by Mitch, feeling an itch with Invisibl Skratch Piklz of DJ Shadow’s famous song “Midnight” when I go to bed, elevated head and on a MySpace pillow from that Trump supporter-  his book came free, with my Authority to read the first chapter, that then, Thereafter I picked up SUPER-INTELLIGENCE and Rev. Anne Skinners books — she sent me one for free, so Kindly to me, but with no Kindle, no Furnace, and no ants in my pants, that I change my underwear every day, but putting on pants for 2 days in a row, like Jim Cassidy had “two phones” that 1 was for his Dealing undestined-  I have big intestines from “doping” with Insulin pins, but I’ve not having a “Straight Street” or a fabulous Japanese Subaru under the sheets-  without my “sweets” the girls here who have no fear or any nervousness as I don’t feel their breasts (except Elise allowed me to cop a feel on her, in my bed, when I wanted to hear a fem- breathe lightly, right up next to me, I be, I be, I be, purchasing Justine Aragona a  Plan-B(e), that her Mom got her on a pill to allow my sponge in her vaginal cavities of cavemen, before Oral-B toothbrushes, from Wayne Marquis’ successful Company, ECM Plastics Inc. with a squid’s squirt on the side like a dip your fork of sea-side pork and look at your loins, the Lion of His Kingdom, to come wilderness with the Wild Wild West on the Coast in Cali- with some buttered toast to the host of the Table, tell me a tool I rule the geniuses of Economics, memorizing the Forward of the Econo-trailer Book in Class, when I only had sex in High School at Saint John’s Catholic School, my Class of 2000, I was exceptionally Cool-  with a lame Car to drive, on the highway I would thrive, only pulled over once and then let go, so no, traffic ticket Thick is The Thing, an asian on South Park named “Wing” who would sing on the TV show, with a wussy voice, she was shrewd and skinny, like ini-mini THIN, my belly is mine, it’s doing fine, and clean, with expensive-designed soaps, Justine Aragona, I miss you and your parents thought I would take you in my Car, why?, of course: TO “ELOPE” when they said, “If you marry Justine Aragona, we have to be there with you two, to give her away — to me, I see — Now wishing for that day and the wedding night we would have Tantric sex (no pain) no whips and chains, it needs my refrain: I DON’T LIKE LEATHER WITH INTERCOURSE! But of corner hoes on Piedmont Street, the call girls I’ve never met, not caring about the hoes of the Nation, the USA, my country, me a Taxpayer, I will buy Tezos or whatever’s hot in the Stock Market soon, a la Jessica (Mancini) Besse for the best treatment of loving her and the, two birds love up in a tree, for all to see, the stares of bored Cardano Carpentry brings the amount of bucks, these fucks, and with hammers, the nails, bunnies have fluffy Tails and Heads coming FACE-UP with a nickel bag of schweety schwag— the Dogecoin’s tail, curious about a slow certain Snail and all Snails, moving So Slow, they don’t know how low they move, feeling the groove, on the ground, with a Slushy Slush-Puppy sound of panting and ranting-  but from running track of cross-country speed, the coaches and their NEED to go without any WEED!  Like Elon Musk the space-land traveler with the ball, two big balls on this Elon Musk, to think: I found him searching for Musk perfume for Deborah Marquis (Mark-Key) my MOMM-IE taking it easy, with a small amount of white wine, so she is totally fine, like never slurring her words when she says, “Hi Jeffrey!”