(hone in kerosene)

My brain is a cloying scheme, well-prepared (i hope and hope and hope this time) to turn a curious dream of rock and roll mercenaries, drug-addled politics, shotgun shells and trick sex with the dead into a rolling story of erstwhile proportions.

It's time for me to shut the fuck up about the mistakes in running with the press under the auspices that things would work out with my autonomy on top and skin slips on the shelves of every drunk and lonely american.

It's time for me to realize that writer's write and cliches don't die as hard as we'd like to think.

It's time for me to turn the sober clangings of my unconscious into miner's gold that may not get me much of anything noteworthy but will goddamn well put on a glittering show.

It's time for another goddamn book.

Flushed out here, for no one's sake. plotted and broken like the serials of old where kids would save up nickels and dimes just to see the fate of their fucking hero as he took on the world and always came a little bit closer to the top of the heap.

So here goes another nothing, denoted by a lack of parentheticals in the title (as future reference to the annals of posterity).

Rock it, babeez.