All in Wong is the Wold

Your hair is a shnazz. You can't cut your snowflake corners. You have garlic in your teeth. The valley is seven miles across. It's 4 below. You failed your test. You crashed your car. No one came to your party. You're 57 over par.You wrecked your friend's car. You blew a date. You can't help someone in need. You got stuck in an awkward situation. You're looking for something on your doormat. It's eerily dark outside. You have nothing to do. You just want to go to bed. You're stuck in a ditch. You're fresh out of ice cream and chocolate. You don't have a light. You're waiting in line. You're studying on a Friday night. You forgot your toothbrush. You're cold. You have a fever. You had a long day at work. You're moving by yourself. You didn't cook the meat first. You're mad at everything. The sun is shining. The snow is fresh. The stars are out. You bit your tongue. You let it out. You have some thing on your chest. You made a mess. You failed.

And then your friend came along.

Learn to Count

I'm not really sure what I'm going for here. I was hoping for possibly a parade with tanks and large cannons. Possibly some occupational forces. Which I suppose is less of a parade. ...and more of a parade. Do I like them less now? ...    that is not the point. In fact far beyond it. But surprisingly like it all the same. Not that that was what was intended, just what might have been seen. Vulnerable and quivering indeed, though on second thought I'm not sure quivering was in there, though it really might have been. Sadly. Not as smooth as a giant gorilla balloon but then I don't have sombrero or a turban at my dispense. The interesting thing is, I didn't need one. I sure could use one now. But sunday isn't really what I'm looking for; it's tuesday. Day or night would do. Not that there's a problem with sunday, I like it quite well. But a tuesday? Either half. As long as you only pick half. Again the point? Well it isn't sunday. And it isn't tuesday. It's monday. Half a foot in and half a foot out. And that's when I realize that simple math eludes me. Abundantly. Forrest for the trees. It's those small numbers you know...  And the fall. Just reminders.

Reminders that maybe next time I'll not skip seven.

Lagome

I'll be honest. I want that. Nothing else really. All the rest I would give up. Amazing how the rest means... nothing. Not a word. Feel that.
Here's for a chance.

What is the Difference Between an Osyter and a Muscle? Give at Least Three Examples.

An oyster is real small and red

And has twelve eyes upon his head

Except for maybe just a few

More chanc-ed like a large emu

Who's some rare kind of southern fish

That scaled might fill a Petri dish

But not confused with square cup boards

Which aren't for cups or hanging swords

And aren't designed, as reason laws

For kitchen knives or cross cut saws

But being hinged are more a ground

To things that break the speed of sound

Which includes things like air balloons

Or seamen lost on small maroons

A type of island in New Wales

Created by huge coral snails

Who in excursion leave behind

Cement and mangos in their kind

Which mixed together makes a bale:

A measure on the Richter scale

Computed by three monks in Laos

Who live inside a half-way house

A place for crazed and un-decites

Allowed to stay for three dog nights

Which in the life of those small beasts

Is like 5 years for things like yeasts

That recombine the DNA

Which is a doctor's night array

That's why its spake of in hushed tones

In things that are called microphones

Which make the sound much smaller still

Than whispers, which can be quite shrill

And shrill's a type of shellbacked shrimp

That whales bite at when they are limp

As they are now in these now days

Shoved off from shore by Darwin's ways

Who was a hunter in the south

That foamed a lot about the mouth

Ranting 'bout Nature's Select

A brand I think of some insect

Or wait, all bugs that Asia buys

Like worms or bats high in the skies

So that is why I like those things

Called oysters in less-knowing rings

Now as I've aced this test that's due

Let's not waste time with essay two

The Supra Etho Con Queso De Facto

And you think it comes down to this eh? Just a pocket of cheetos and a half moon band of pirates. Doing pilates? Not likely. Not in this wind. You see, they'll just end up muttering. Something about the wet paint sign. Which apparently is dangerous. And honestly makes me wonder... what if this was it? I mean the real deal. No propane fireball cannons, no animatronic megalodon, no cookie sheet thunder, no light switch raves, no ketchup.

Hold on, I'll have to pause and think about that.

...

uh.

...

hmmph. I do say. Worse than Kale as king. Or kale in your sand-i-wich. Seven days of yore.

Both I say. And a clever little jot that is. Both but only of sorts. Well, you ask, what's the take away? Are my stocks solvent,? Friend. You should probably mull such over before asking directions of a dancing bear. He'll likely be late get jailed, and you'll be sued for being complicit to the deconstruction of some fabulous cheese. Do it with reason.  All of it.

What's Left

It was just a loose fender. Wrapped. And now look. A dead stop. Nothing to be done. They don't know. Bunkall does. All too well. The second. Come first. Slipped off the side. Responded in season. But there under the runner, lost and found. No whys. No ifs. Just you and the cold stark reality that an oasis too is temporary. So what then? Back to Jerusalem? If you continue hunting in these parts game will run scarce. So pack up. Leave the mail on the table. Don't sweep up. And don't worry about straightening anything. Here works as good as there. Anyway, if the stats are right, we're 4 standard deviations out anyway. Away and away. For the second time. So goodnight Mrs. Moon.

No Instructions

Make that four. But only two really. The longest night. For one. Likely more for the other. We can dream. Though I'd best not. Not even a minotaur to keep me company. No. To think, what thoughts may there arise. Alone, with a single lamp. Wrapped in insulation. Only akin to warmth. Meaning to do well. To lay it all on the rock. Forgotten? Obsolete? Or sadly just right. Not knowing the contents but wanting see what could be built. Separate. And together solitary. Afraid to look again. Fighting to send. The one side faith, the other dust. Bet against. Opened. No echo nor approach. After hours, an answer. Let the best be served. Never so sad to be right. For now is only silence where once there was my friend.

Just One

But that alas, my friend, is likely too much to hope for. They say that is all it takes to move a train. Sweet sycamores that be some fine bearings. Gotta lock 'em up or they'll roll away without you. Indeed they will. The wind will take them. Places you hadn't thought. Places you hadn't wished. Places you can't buy tickets to. You only say you want to go because you've never been. Have you ever thought that maybe there's a reason you can't buy your way there? Well yes, you say. Precisely because it has been overlooked. Because it's too hard to get to. Because they can't reach you there. Well, then you think. But thinking leads to bleeding. And soon there's nothing left up awash in all that has gone down. So thank you Pete Merrill. Get on your way Carmichael Andrews. You were never there and smartly so. How 'bout a bush instead? Believe in yourself and you'll get there. Even though you never will.

Only to Be Remade

I had meant well. I had. It likely wasn't what it seemed. A thought lost forever. So what now? How to tell and be and say and write and do without writing or doing or saying or telling. The kid was right. We don't belong here. I had the thought. Dismissed. And then again. To what end if we never listen. To what end if we do? Both unknown. Both in the dark. Both to lay what they will. But one assured. It can't be fixed. No, things are too late for such. It cannot be copied having no mold. It cannot be restored. Such would be a breach of faith. To what then? Completely lost?

Somewhere Inbetween

That last one is gone. And sad that. of the greatest and most poignant, to me anyway. And in such, itself poignant. Not replaceable or re-buildable. One of its kind. And on pondering I found so much that I had not thought. No longer blurred by so much darkness. Not lost in a sea of evil. Uplifting. A creation apart. There hidden, as was believed. Hidden in the plainest of sight. And that is the crime. Timing? Meaning? yes. Likely. And then what to wear? Having nothing appropriate unprepared. And sadly by choice.
In a deadlock. Possibly only purely imagined. Between what is fair and what is wanted. The one driving some semblance of decency the other only a dream. Not something my friend, everything. Without a role, remaining left on stage. Hoping to become a prop. For it is half the battle. That is true. Even then not knowing the scale or the forces involved. A box within a box. And I suppose with a theoretical limit. No matter the darkness of the sky or the depth of the rain.

And yet, there they are. Changed and grown. In some ways nearly the same as they have always been. And so it may be that He sees them. As a climber. Seeking the top. Never summited, by them at least. A path hard to follow. Hard to be found. With so many distractions. And yet they climb. Forget their novice in path finding. Forget that their path is inevitably treacherous. Forget them grasping for holds on the rock face. Forget them lost in the brush and the wood. Forget them backing oft to find a better way. They climb. These are not they which forget the summit. Nor return to the valley. They climb. Slow. In danger. They climb. That is all He sees. As that is what they see. Their path foolish to some from a better vantage? Surely. But such deny the climber his own vantage. For no matter the perspectived view, that alone, his reality. A better way. Yes. But God is no bus-driving tour guide. No, He too is a climber.

...But Only If You Think About It

Grass is green. Trees are big. Time is short. Large quesadillas can kill you. Fourier had some good ideas. Fire is hot. People are small. You are alone. Work is a bore. Boars live in the wild. The wilderness needs more of your time. Penguins rush. You can only go so fast. Life as a kangaroo would be bouncy. Mosquitoes are annoying. Planes fly. You'll never be the same. Swedish pumas bring happiness. Lightning never strikes the same place twice. The cell phone towers are down. Rockets are really fast. Unity is rare. This is peace. Differential equations are easy. You'll never eat guacamole again. You'll figure out the use. Light has mass. The world is flat. Tomatoe is spelled with an e. Cranky bats will keep you up at night. You can be in love. Purses have reshaped our world. The earth is getting hotter. Some things need to be said. You are failing. The weather is beautiful. People mean poorly. You can make this happen. You feel sick. Doors swing open. Bars shut you in. Someone means the world to you. Flags should be flown. 2+2 is 4. Apples grow oranges. Arrows are straight. My dresser has three drawers.  And then all that changes. ...or doesn't. Life is good.

Things I Wish I Knew

Not the original thought, no. Not what I had intended. Quite possibly instead a bowl of cherries dropped in a sheet. Bound in the four corners. The intent. The struggles. The wide awareness and the barrenness and the nakedness and the utter need. Plagues. And ambush. But still water to the traveler and shade on the weary. Who then? And why across the nations? Out into the abyss not turning back to see the blue fade. Sincere. Beautiful claim. That is the difference. Not tires or fires. No shock to the system. No. Depth. Covered and paved and sealed. No?    I say true. And it isn't three. I see that. And then, lost in the forest. Bear tracks all around. The same? Even a bit? Or just dunes of spice and rolls... It was the cause. And is again. How to get to the Yukon? Not much of a question. You can't miss it, but you'll need to know when to bring your coat. The answer apparently, is always. And that is the difference. A find ever so deep in the shaft. And it isn't the darkness that brings you there. This is the why. So then maybe you do go on pretending you've got your cabin on.

No Pictures, No Service

And you in the pink, you think it's enough. But it's not really. In fact not quite remotely. You'll wait for your own. In the dark. Between some bushes or under a few layers of scuttle brush. It's not as if this all didn't happen during the day. But here you are in the dark. Yet again. Waiting on some three cornered equestrian to save your hide. Well the hide for saving isn't just your own. Funny that. You open up a can of peaches to find that half the barrel has emptied to the sea. Or at least that's what you fear to find. Among all that glass and concrete. Or at least you might think so.
But you can't really go back. The walls you built only creates a look of compassion. But salt creeps in. Rust and cottered linen. And there through the trees you find no friend but a fiefdom waiting to take the B2 bombers you had set aside. They're not supposed to go in bin 4. You wish that nothing went there. Not that things don't belong there for you perhaps, but that isn't their place. It's rather more waiting a return from the Narrows. Safe and sound though possibly battered a bit.
Do you see it? Is it vaguely there? Have you grabbed it by the shoulder or have you found it gone in that darkness you found. Dammed and misdirected. Moss to the reef.
Or do you, as is said, see it faintly, dimly, ever so slightly. If so, then away with the rest. Cut the string. It reduces to a point mass. With the other free, portable for one hand.

Awaiting to sleep.