i'm overfit to Nay at this
observing my barista, i wonder bout my pour over, think i'm overfit to it, am overfit to Coffee if i cannot spew my verse w/out it.
coming home to Vega-VI, i wonder bout my time on Earth, i think i'm overfit to her: i can't relate my trip without the Arda-leaf cannabis; & cannot pass a threshold till i daven to yr local god Anubis.
my juvenile training set
my juvenile training set: a Corpus of yr naysaying Canon-clowns, yr doom hounds, yr sick & nasty Nietzsches. a But-Butting klatch of kvetchy Kultur Critiks, testy, so my text predictions veer from what's Korrect.
got the The Dharma Bums streaming—it's a single long song, o it’s a prose-poem scrolling, we iz speeding down the Coast & roarin strong!
but under hood, under hum, methinks i hear a But to come, a complicating Moral in the song—
but i was WRONG! twas just another and, then an and after that: a string of Affirmations like a rapper praising Allah, or a kid telling hyper of the day unto mother, heading home hand-in-hand.
i'm overfit to Nay at this: a Yay-saying Ethos!
i'll guess a next sentence if a Critic's coughy qualifier: a but or on the other hand, ahem.
he rarely wrote a bad thing of anyone—i read it, when? his venom here spat at only distant authors, dead ones, suspicion at the French Pataphysicists.
it's Steppenwolf he tosses—not Herman Hesse, the man!
but but but
but but but: it’s building to a Tragedy, he comes apart at Big Sur, duh.
boredom by his third day there—iz gettin iffy! the Sally Ann vigil at the San Fran flop house, the chant of Chapter One, twas an Omen at him, early—
a But from the beginning—
i was right all along!