Byline: Pulp Rebellion

Buford Youthward

Pixels spin in and out of control in the mix. Welcome to 2006.

Marches of triumph remain a mystery, but our boys beat on a mostly beaten path. World Cups and Wide Webs distract till at least sunset.

Time designs itself so that age makes you anxious. The wisdom gained at least increases caution. Ah, to be young, risky and reckless. The senseless fun of smoking pot in alleyways.

Echo and harmony are all the imprints I get to relish and wrestle. You can get no more ghetto than I got and I gotta go get some ghetto grass and find a good spot.

Floating thru the oxygen, that fragile and sweetest of gases is a gas, it's like being a fish in outer space sometimes. Making mistakes with our hearts to cover for the desires of our soul is the new national pastime.

But due to my high regard and dignified taste in beer, it behooves me to find more economic avenues for cheaper mental restoration and relaxation.

Criminals bent on romance eventually stumble. Heroic gestures from rock stars are lukewarm compared with the graffiti-minded actor. I vote for my idols with a spray can.

Graffiti writers leave no cap untested, no circumstantial evidence and no heart unbroken. It's super-model hot these days. Even for the superstars.

And especially for cats pimping pulp rebellion in paperback. But what can I say? After all, your good taste says it all. And by way of you reading this, I know something somewhere must be good.

I maintain an appreciation beyond reproach. I send simple sentences this way and some souls sense satisfaction.

A sense of satisfaction says a lot these days. To get this far stands for something. And sometimes a little something goes a long way.

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