She asked me if I folded any good stories

She asked me if I folded any good stories lately. I paused to think about it. Farted. Thought some more. Grabbed us some beers. Then said yeah, it was no Squawkers, but I did fold

a few squishy lines about a California cucaracha checking into a roach motel that smelled like colitas. It was inevitable that we lit up buds & shot the breeze about our best folds

, like Flat Stanley plotting Sara Hyperbola's inner spaces. May squishy, folk-singing cucarachas evolve so they toke and fold. We must pass the torch when the Black Rain falls and

Fire and Ice collide, that's when you know it's time to ROCK! We must pass the Torch of Rocking You. But we have to be worthy. We have to purify our deepest, darkest long

Sleepless nights in the studios. Sleep deprivation is the way to go. No one needs eight hours in this era of psychotronic experiments. Let's rock and roll all night.

Once activated by psychotronic means the brains will establish itself as the top priority & will suck up all the energy it can. Initially that will come from the brain's host, you.

Once depleted, you are basically a brain in a cardboard box. Eventually the brain fluids will soak through, and it will drop out the bottom. The brain will then roll along the

the primary school cafeteria meat grinder. Children start disappearing from the kidney garden, but one by one they come back, drained to a fraught pallor. "Everything is zombie,"

the child garden starts singing. So does the grave garden. All the gardens do, as if compelled to do so, and sway like little blooms under the frolicking clouds and dancing sun.