Flying V's and Charity Work

This post is in two parts. One is drunken rambling, the other a plea. You figure it out.

Subject One:

I have decided to get published and therefore I need an editor/proofreader sometime in the next week or so. I am serious about the proofreading part. I would prefer someone with an eye for mechanics, word usage, subject/object issues, etc. I like my prose the way it is, so I would only need minimal content direction, probably centered around the fact that I sometimes take vague way too far. Pay is not an issue, because you won't be paid. Obviously, this makes it an imposition if you have a busy schedule and I understand. Blah, Blah, and so forth. Anyway, volunteers should contact me by whatever means get their goat.

Subject the Second:

Albert King is cooler than you. Albert King is cooler than most, so your tears are wasted, mortal. On the eighth day of creation the Serpent tempted woman not with fruit or knowledge, but with the subtle sinew of a fretboard burning up the key of Bb. This is not in your Bible, or in some creation legend from the plateaus of shadowed Ararat. Those legends are fine, imperfect as they are.

Eve, Lilith and the tenderized portions of your mind left open to loving the soft touch and vanilla and quince scent of the one woman you never truly got to know sings in round and full harmonics and symphonics. In the raised voice of a thousand parishioners in the Burning Church of the Mortal Human, you hear the wail of a Gibson Flying V scything down the furrows of brown, sweaty, and slick women with eyes the color of ebony, skin borne of the plains of Mahogany.

The Serpent is the twisted and strained neck, fretted in wire, strings so loose and detuned they hang precariously over the inlaid dots that are meaningless in the note-and-a-quarter bends fluidly draining you of the will to work, pay, or buy. You simply want to give your soul over to all the demoniac passions robbed of you by civilization.

Albert King is the silent dictator of a thousand shining cities where the citizens vie for the chance to cry in the streets. In the palace of the cool, he sits entombed in hazy, smoking tendrils. He brings Hell up to us as a shading cloud and Heaven down from the sky as a flaming pillar of fire. All your lonliness he'll try to soothe. He'll play the Blues for you.

Be awed, mortal. He once shared this Earth with you.