April disappeared like a totaled car limping its way to an industrial abattoir.  To a car, it must look like Triblinka.  May so far seems auspicious after the former.  April was a wreck.

It's ashamed that it's already 5 months into 2012.  There were about 10 books I wanted to have written this month, seven studio recorded albums, a whirlwind world wide tour visiting friends from all parts, and yet, to date, haven't ventured too far from this overstimulated keyboard.

Well it's never too late to be late.  And whenever there's a rush to wait, being spontaneous before the visceral get-out-of-jail card of acting by hessitating leaves whim at the mercy of the disbursal of thoughts that procreate in the purgatory alleyways of another lazy dream vapouring mechanically above the pond like a crown on the drenched head of a king kind enough to hide in a forest of regrets tempted by leaves of promise, an echo attempts to hide from the very ears that await its vulgar splatter.

Uh, not sure where that last bit of information came from.  Poetic narcissism I suppose.