by Gwagwagwe
Reality is a January night muggy like lazy sex. There is a guy hanging from a hammock like a lost sock's mate on the close-line of life. He's ten feet from a river deeper and stronger than a !Kung! hunter on the edge of the savanna. He's nekkid as a jaybird and smokin some new strain of majic mary and she's dreamin' of megliomanical narcissistic cult fantasies creating utopian nightmares. But when he's done with the bowl, he's just thinkin about that bat flying over like a biplane burning jet fuel and he's listenen' to the beaver smack his tail like some offspring of an ewok and the Greek god Poseidon. Hell, then he's playin' with himself and just jizzin off the side. No crusty socks around here.