Brain Word: TRAPPLE

http://www.gardnerep.com/trapple.html

Popped into my brain.  Glad it did, because I need one.  Also led me to an online memorial from 2002.  Made me emotional.

Multiple Choice #988

A) Surfer, Dude (2008)

B) My life, like every day

C) Growing Up Romney (Bravo)

D) Prop 8 Trial Reenactment
      (Olson and Boies)

E) Cheers: The Next Generation

Ultimate Warrior

Ultimate Warrior.  Mass connector to the dark filaments of the allsoul.  Propels his burning neons across the furthest reaches.  Faces the known as the unknown, the unknown as ether.  To the silence he rages and broods.  To the lonely and deprived he appears in emotional hues of magenta.
He chokes off his immediate power with tightwound bands of dayglo synthetic. When he surges he warps his wrappings and the atmosphere reacts.  Then he brings lightning.  And he inflicts synesthesias of all varieties on the people who are the witnesses of his power.

When we all cower, we are made to witness the resoluteness of the single tiny flower, whose trembling dance is the breadth of the essence of transcendence.  When we acquiesce, we are rendered transitive.  Then Ultimate Warrior's likeness is mass subconsciousness attenuated.  That restless inward voice, all mic'd up and disseminated over broadcast, across airwaves, loud, in the truck cabs.  The roadways make fast friends of the glistening devastator's.  Now his influence is self-reference.  But of course it is--he is all of what we wish we'd ever wanted us to be.

Might it really be just this?  I could imagine fluctuations well within the standard deviation leading to many situations wherein it must.  If that's enough...  Imagination: ashes to ashes, rust never sleeps--Ultimate Warrior, howling, guarding the gates before the Keep of Dreams.  Above him, a swirling, winged host of unquenchable memes, armed to the teeth, each a radiant field of obscurity.  The scene is a brazen heavenly pastiche.  A 1980s folk-art wet dream, airbrushed to the flank of 1970s RV, headed down to the Salton Sea with shit-ton of speed.

The 11th Commandment

A fine idea to try.  America.  Walt Whitman.  Langston Hughes.  Wallace Stevens.  Joaquin Miller.

Knox Freed

AP

Italian magistrate speaks, translator starts in, microphone starts in ringing, disrupts the work of the translator, who stops, deafness enveloping the courtroom scene like a surreal moment out of Twin Peaks.  "It's happening again..."  A momentary break in the feedback...  Guilty...  On the first charge of slander...  Three years...  The feedback takes over.  Newscasters scramble.  The closeup on Amanda jitters.  You can see her breathing fast and shallow.  Riiiiiiiiing...
Then her head collapses into her hands, sobbing.  The room reverberates--audiovisual recoil...
She is suddenly being led out rushed along a chain of functionaries of the court.  A moving line, propelling the crying girl forward in the line, toward the exit, past the flashing cameras.  The video feed shifts from camera to camera along what must be a similar parallel line, snaking its way out into the hallway, past the onlookers, through the functionaries and the photographers, all the way to the threshold of a second, smaller auxiliary hallway, bathed in florescent glow, green and narrow and receding into a catacomb of procedure.  Amanda is maneuvered through its opening and digested.
By now, the newscaster has finally figured it: not guilty of murder.  Time already served for slander.  She will be freed, presumably, when that narrow green hallway relaxes its grasp of her.