Raz Blues Leaf Edition

I'm stoned and eating Boo-Berry on a Sunday night, the back aching and the eyesight crawling towards a set of prescription lenses. There is no rhyme or reason to sit and toil in front of a blinking cursor when the only reward will be dragging the garbage cans down to the curb come dusk. If the cul-de-sac is my life then i am over halfway round the fucking thing and wandering aimlessly towards the void. These day i spend a lot of time admiring the patterns of leaves, weed and shrooms can do that to you. Not a scrambled egg like the fucking commercial more what a psychonaut would call a moment of clarity. It'd be more clear if the damn eyes weren't so fuzzy but by this time of night i'm typing with the blast shield down. These days i also spend a lot of time looking up at the stars. In lieu of the ocean they're my second favorite thing to get lost in though when i can gaze at the ocean and the stars we make a notch in the book under "Banner Fucking Day." Toss in the leaves and one could accuse me of being a degenerate stoner. Why in Jah's name am i staring at leaves when there is shit to buy and product to consume? Here in Pennsyltucky they put a lot of stock in those leaves, a tourist attraction they are called. I don't know if i'd drive hours to see them but since i'm right fucking here i don't mind the view, even stumbled on the scientific shit that told me what chemical makes what leaf turn which color. Between bowls of Boo-Berry the weatherman can pull out some weird shit. My neighbor had a party last Friday. I didn't go. Instead i peaked out my windows like some perv and watched as people enjoyed themselves, dancing and laughing in the largest suburban home on the block. It was like watching Nat Geo Suburban edition, i was confused and amazed at the same time, i often dance in my house but i'm usually alone, i often sing songs to the neighborhood housewives (also alone) that are best left unspoken in what one would call polite company. The definition of the norm can only be defined by the abnormality of the subject in question but the subject in question has not shaved in a week. One need not worry about the razor or the cream when one is chronically unemployed or least as viewed by the red-blooded American males who zip up and down these tree-lined streets in high priced SUVs. There are no fitted shirts or Windsor knotted ties hiding in the back of my closet, there are no golf clubs in the garage, there is no talk of mergers or management and so therefore the cocktail and block party is a dangerous place for a man prone to reading philosophy and listening to records. I'm eyed suspiciously, as if those songs i sing have become top ten hits, where could this layabouts tongue or cock be hiding when Jim, George, and John are at their power lunch? But they should rest easy, it's hard to fuck their wives between laundry and lawn mowing, i am the indentured servant with a release date that drifts ever further out to sea, when they find me with a hatchet and s shovel in the backyard it will be much less sinister than it looks, just a tripping lad hacking away at the Pennsylvania Palms that grow like weeds but look like trees, the tripping lad apologizing to Mother Nature for his crimes as he hacks and digs and wipes his tears for his friends the trees, nuisance or not he feels more at home with them then in the company of the people who want them removed, as the chipmunks and squirrels and groundhogs stare in befuddled nonchalance at this wild-eyed man-child as the wind whispers secrets translated through the dying leaves, there is only now, there is only now, there is only now...