Byline: A Mind for Crime

Buford Youthward

Don't trust anybody that says they don't want to be judged by their thoughts.

When I spot my mongoose, my stingray, I don't know what to say. Only to act. Bust open a lock, snap a chain. Then take off.

The temptation to hang out in spots that mimic great painted caves inspires me to be a great cave painter.

Creating new magic in a dusty world, I rattle bones over stones, start the day with hot coffee and coconut rum.

The daily friendship of the bottle, drained of its terror, reduced to spectacle and contra fact, artifact, finds me responsive but non-submissive.

I listen to Bartok's fifth string quartet. Sit back and sip sour mash. Try to remember the endemic moment before the fall, the moment just before you were born.

The knowledge of loss makes you appreciative but not cautious. You are no one if you take no risk. Daring the universe, willing yourself bigger than your circumstance sparks the charm of creativity in the setting sun.

Reflecting on the chase, your head gets dizzy, your heart pounding, agonizing. A sense of suspense takes over.

As fleeting as a dove or a hipster's love and sending shivers out into the stratosphere like an overflowing river about to burst, you're a blessing and a curse. You bring out the best and the worst.

Desperate and defiant with megaphone vocals he can't help but communicate that no communist could comment on his incompetence.

I'm in the business of gaining and gaming capital. I don't want, don't need your attention celebrating my gift. After that, we all drifted apart.

Cogitationis poenam nemo patitur.

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