Byline: Wild Monkey Moon

Buford Youthward

No stampede of wild monkeys could sink hand copied manuscripts writ in the wilds. That's just the way it goes.

Long luminous moments and images looking for whatever it is that makes you better than you were before the experience, set the tone and tome for the correct time.

Scaffolding between the credible and incredible, pickpockets on the pavement pay premiums for the proper parables. Unwilling to be anyone's loss leader, not even their own.

Wherever your entry point, make sure you trace backwards while cleaning up your tracks upon moving forward.

A measured opinion about a reality in the shadows forces the hate to dissipate and few hesitate to sing the love song of the cynic.

Industries don't die by surprise. There's no keeling over under the gun to get things undone.

Victims of circumstance stand before you, trying to learn how to act but they don't get it. You can't teach interpretation; you can't learn it; you can only bring it.

It's always a crime when the work disappears behind the image of its author, the mere appendage to action. And just like our references, our niche becomes our leash.

Fascinated by voices and forms, a man searches for his uniform, fixes his music and sets off for today. He's on the case and dead set for hunting down the melody in text.

But the context gets confusing and some kids find the wrong answers for what they think are the right questions. The stampede, the rush resumes.

Wild monkeys wince, man thinks, god laughs. Everything human carries the seed of its death in its creation.

There's ego to burn and the night is young, the moon will shine before the sun.

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