Deep in the mountain pass of society, where the hard drives trades psyches, with reality skits as tender, here he lies: Pinscher Vain GlowBurn. Also known as Peter Molecules to a few intrepid solarcyclists, and rumored to employ the code name The Ascetic Master-Baiter to alphazetas with decrees of judgment. Vain GlowBurn has relocated to a wildly free-for-all of a demographic to administer and shelter ongoing concerns such of a formulary nature (to soundly wrap the why). His repose is that of, for one, cornered animal stimulus with such cagey impulses continually escalated to a carnivorous foundation of stillness born out of survival instinct. And, secondly, being of talkerdom, he innately retains his bon vivant animus of going “down the road” as seemingly makeshift aura of a responsible sort needed to succeed as a regular Java Joe unilaterally among various constituencies he may move through while uniquely adapting using his own zoning senses. Pinscher Vain GlowBurn makes a litany out of tobacco and his public travails. In what predicament resides a hunger to pronounce such of his activity? That leads him gnoshing about establishments, equal part Russian novelist with despair as nourishment, and modern-day peasant aristocrat tipping education as a tea-cup filled with top-shelf hard liquor. The balance of such decimating indulgence he sees as the commonly accepted banter required of a culture athlete versed in dollars and sense in today’s marketplace tethered to the whims of cajoled consumerism. In true pompster style (since favorable circumstance seems to avoid him like the sun and moon each other) Pinscher remains soberly gregarious so as to not upset the paradigms of applecarts the denizens of his new boundaries use to support their own delineating encounters. Here is the answer to this preface; it seems as of late he dredged through himself to encounter his physicality and noticed such nibbles of an elementary base, surely from a gaseous lot, the symptoms concluded of the ennui he finds himself so patiently enduring. He like some delectable turkey sandwich with an irresistible dressing that swirls enticingly triggers such responses that seem to imply “watch me sweets, can fly like I desire.” His fluctuating reserves it seems are invigoration for those who as rote function stick their head into the hole of the universe of the devoid that for reasons only known in the seat of power such he has been chosen to suck further the suckered. Such go the days Peter Molecules now refers to as the self-imposed “sit” years. Where those who think are new but stink of heated up leftovers of a curve looking for a curl. He thinks to himself of such vanities “Shakespeare would say what’s new in the emotional stew?” No dummy though, Vain GlowBurn knows he must survive and let the innards be skewed–for legacy is all! Hence, these moving pictures projected by themselves onto themselves among the pedestrians become epiphany, most notably when relieving oneself of bodily waste. This is when the cloud like that of the unlimited ranges and sizes of the cloud mushrooms is most knocking on the noggin in what those speakers of talkerdom call the mind, that they believe to be centered in the head. Persona, his old friend, says he sacrifices, his head abutting against an insouciant village, rather than craft a degree of abandon. His gut feeling has published rather than perished, that the sausages put upon his head are not to sway his being. He like the zeroes and ones emboldened in liquefied cyrstaldome plays is like the spirits turbulent. Resplendent in security out of this world, like the since-time-began shifting of the planet, his mass is beyond comprehension. The quips that seek to own the airwaves are just the nanoseconds they are, not even an emotion to the receptors in the brain, doorways to the elemental visuals, for which all for fumbling for the key feel. Thus the manifestations that work for all, even to sustain those searching for the channels of their homemade television, are the light that signals today is just another day, a good day to make a good day. On this the intellect race track so departed for some, so in port for others, and so appropriately deportment for many, Pinscher Vain GlowBurn’s tire has warped large and small. His relief is good naturedness–as the Ascetic Master-Baiter he stands benevolent sentry of the absurd novel of his own way of life, just happening to de-mystify for the audience as he responds to the clerks, cashiers and salespersons that populate his life. So the piece of cake is life itself–not the sausages on the head, the contentiousness of psychological warfare and Jagermeister, or even the delectable turkey breast sandwich. Only the nuts, in touch so to espouse, with the roots sequestered in the falling leaves, whatever the age (gourmands of genes) that can touch the invisible spirits turbulent, even that of clouds mushroom like that center from the headstrong (so utterly believing) minds. It maybe you just have to be born that way, to realize that all is food groups. This is the core of Vain GlowBurn’s resolve, and how nothing is ever solved because the dilemma seems to have been forgotten. A man that has put childish things to task and childish things to use in the great war of whom and what sticks to the ribs. This is known only in the aftermath, the day, month or hour known only when alone, to the self alone– for some, you can guess who, coinciding with olfactory conditions not due to the wind. So to whomever he knows himself is best left for readers to bet; Pinscher Vain GlowBurn, Peter Molecules, or The Ascetic Master-Baiter. So he woke up in a new century where everybody was out to give him the business (that’s like jazz) –it was up to him to improvise to the jumble of wires that serendipitously gave rise to an aberration gone anomaly to big air brokers of talkerdom. So the day had come again as they always do his highly developed sense of the limits to his emotional relief played necessarily this way or that way now just on display. His time to rock ‘n roll thus his pains–but what the hey–whose gonna fault a medley of Stranger in Strange Lands segues into The Man Who Fell To Earth segues into Harry Potter segues into your favorites... And this remains the bop of his beating heart much priced out of reach for condiments with their secret desire to be wed and fed of the delectable turkey breast sandwich. And, in the capitals there are reports of “buzzing around the hot stuff” which is meant by veteran columnistas, correspondtors, and commentaters to mean venture a feeler towards gluttony. For Pinscher his difficulty of realizing alone (the only consequence of the gaseous) that he finds new has nothing to do with loneliness. He had mastered the former and the latter was of no matter. But as topsy-turvy the elements go, so goes the best laid plans of mice and men, and women in houses particularly. So is he now equal among equals and perhaps victory is theirs? The bites of tastewish and poisonings of the artillery pieces (the foot submarines so known to him) will lead….where…. Pinscher Vain GlowBurn hears the universe respond “ha!” And knows and for some reason cannot forget that if he awakes from sleep all is new! And, for all, the decisions of food once again!
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