Baby boi born bleeting but not bearing straight towards; more like a crooked little finger egging ever onwards. He is Lil Picasso and he's been boggling minds for at least sixteen months crawling around in stupid muck keeping his mouth-like orifice filled with jibberish. His crib, plastered with gang warfare teen dream slop magazines, isn't fit for a conventional child protection services officer. With a the flourish of the wrist like the well placed kick to the balls of a probation officer, Lil Picasso often wows the crowds gathered at the Decatur farmers market. Though he seems to be under two years old he shows up to various community gatherings without any noticeable guardian in tow. The jungle gym is his mortal enemy, as this is where all the sniveling, sportily dressed choice children gather to swing their underdeveloped limbs about in gestures of faith. They've been brought up to believe in the empirical and so they test their bodies physically; all the while Lil Picasso stalks the outskirts of the playground dreaming up Donner Party plays constructed with Jonestown themes. He knows that what he does is mystical and that is why he slowly sews together a cape made of material torn from the backs of these pre-masculine children of the jungle gym. Parents are lacking a sense of proprietary righteousness inherent in everything Lil Picasso lives for. Crayons melt in his grasp while scented markers barely bring a vestige of cherry to his olfactory nerve. His patents cover everything from memory loss to purity laws. Though he is faithful to his creativity, he believes nothing but insanity distilled in freakdom can bring about true change to the mind of the plaintiff. Bail set like a boulder on the edge of a cliff, Lil Picasso doesn't see the point of the cage we all live in. As he rolls around in a pile of leaves in a random suburban front yard sneezing, he wonders why all around him seems like a dream.
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