One Moon

Yeah, maybe. It's not that the box is trashy, no. It's just not big enough. No wonder it needs cleaning all the time. My mom. Again. And so with that what? Nothing. Inspiration. Then of what? Better beached than on a line. So then what? Pretend that Christmas didn't come? Or no, better yet, realize it did and that the safari was really looking for animals and not meteorites. Fancy that surprise. And dreams? Frosted pudding pops. Colored gold. With rainbow centers. Tell me dear sir, if there is no fare for the moon, can I wait here under your roof? Both ways. And to the side of the cliff. Rolling under trucks. A right? To change phase? No. None. Zilch. To look it in the mouth. Glue. Pretend you say? No. Full of holes. Straight as an arrow. Flown from the knock. The sun. In Mesa. Under a palm tree. With a brook going by. But not yours.
What is the problem?

Censured

Another thought. Put in my place. Knowing little of bounds and borders and fences.  No I've drunk my own guild. Like swimming in the ocean. You can't always stay afloat. You'll find that  three quarters is less helpful at times than you'd like it to be. But you can choose to keep coming up for air. And yes. Your timing in that decision will be horrible at times.  But there is only one other option. If you listen to the pain in your chest, so eventually will the rest of you.

Scaring the Birds

Funny enough that was the point. And too it was not. What anyone really wants is to be able to get close to one. You know, pull a little SteRob action on a duck or something. Problem is... they freak out. And then you freak out. And then your mother freaks out. It always gets to that point. So it's not surprising that people paint or just watch instead. It's safer. Usually. Some birds are intentionally mean. Some craps on people. McKibben knows. ...and I'm reminded, so do I. But that was something else entirely. Of course it's a long time off Zanzibar that way. They see you enough and some sort of cognition seems to disappear. But they never fly far. Maybe because they don't really see you as a threat. And I suppose some people aren't. Wow. Drinking too much kool-aid.  But really if you aren't the old fossil, until you  figure out something better
... be more careful how you treat the birds. They may be your your ticket out.

Ok. What Gives?

Discover.  I mean paying, giving... tomato potato. No E's anywhere. That gift... that ubiquitous gift. Like teaching a man to fish. Rags to riches philanthropists. Givers. Tired people venting. Mothers. Thugs. Red chili peppers; Hot ones. Used car salesmen and their infomercial cronies. Women on floats, firemen on trucks. Little streams. 

Those little streams.

Sloppy Pretendsion

Soft as a baby's hindquarters. Smooth as butter cream on a pancake. Slick as a used car salesman. Warm as the south seas. Happy as a clam. High as a kite. Cheery as the day is long. Content as a Stenberg in the women's shoe section. Excited as an option. Blissful as a bear. Bright as the sun.

...calm as a summer's morn.

No Wake

Huh. That too I suppose. And it's not like you couldn't have seen it coming. You did. And all your lack of preparation hasn't changed it. I mean just because the boat isn't moving doesn't mean it's not moving. True about everything really. And funny that. But what if you backed off several thousands years? Nope. Wouldn't clear it then either. Like one bad steeple chase after another. Who's bloody idea was that? Likely the pope's. Either that or some gargantuan. And not the kind that eats rocks. Wow. You thought goblin valley was bad. It was set in motion. Just let go and you'll see. Awash on the far side come the birds. So now you'll just have to pretend you know how to get up, just like you pretend everyday like you know how to drive a car and put your pants on forwards. Or catch a bus. But some people don't. And I wouldn't mind being with them for a day or so.Yep. Funny that. Just breathe it. And don't prep for it. A figment. A fragment. A newton. Jump down.

You're there uhh prep yourself.

Danger Will Robinson

Ahh the good brother. Population one. It seems that yar just can't get things right and when there're more balls in the side pocket than there should be it can tend to be a problem. Though the problem is likely more in your shooting than in the black hole. So back to bed? Ho kors inte! Forget the ships sunkened in the Danube. Just hit the snow. If you're lucky, something white and puffy might fluffer nutter... bar.  ...an aside, not cool. almost an excuse. not cool... and so, though the question does remain as to who is the daddy of Uziel Otto Urban we might ask instead about the nature of sagebrush on the hills. At least you can sit down and watch those and know. So I suppose now the real question is, is curiosity a serial killer? Jeb, lets hope there's at least one fish in this pond or we'll be drawn out in the canoe long after supper. And then too could be asked of sir Wilhelm himself. ...I was afraid of that.

Tell my family I said hello.

The Long Ride Home

And sometimes things just come to you. Things you'd hadn't thought of before. Not so much that you hadn't thought it but you hadn't thought it at the time. It happens a lot you know. And then suddenly your years of slackline-ing actually connects itself to the Grand Canyon. Poof. Jamima. And you see that the stairs actually do continue to the roof. As you gasp for air you realize your flailing is just causing someone else to drown. You can wait at the beach for the waves to roll the mountain dry but it'd be faster if there was a little less sand. The lonely accent. A reminder to breathe. And a poignant tale of what is really going on here. And by the end you've turned around twice, lost a fair amount of rubber, run low on washer fluid and cleared your mind and taken some pictures. Filled it. Cleared it again. And that as he says tends to be the biggest stone in the road. Someone thought it nice there. Maybe thought that's what it should have been made of. Tourist buses even drive by. And thugs. So, wonder why it's so easy for all the others? Check your rear view mirror. It isn't surprising. Barely an acknowledgement. Just one at best. Nothing indeed Lancelot. Aside of the saddle. Under the horse. Out past the trail. No, more. Just waiting, and then you find something else rather remarkable. You put your glasses down, things go dark, alone, and finally fall asleep.

And stop thinking.

Waiting at the Bridge

You walk along the dirt beaten path and it comes to you that you haven't been this way before. Oh, sure... it's all familiar enough. No dragons or leprechans. No weasels in a bucket or splicers in the soup. But on looking back to your left you realize, maybe that's not so. You're just waiting. Hoping and waiting. The rocks look warm and inviting. You think that maybe you'll take a chance and sit a while. But you get out of your car and as you touch down, the world scatters. It is all illusion. And not of someone else's doing. No. No this is your own. Hoping that you wake up. Hoping that the silver ships were real. But the alarm clock stops. The teeth are set. There is no catch in the air. Just you, the bed post, a box of cottons and the wait. No grass. No green. Full stop as the stream runs quietly on.

Some Things You Give Place For... Some Things You Don't.

Kristine's advice?... Don't look. Just glance. At everything. Confusion and distraction. Welcome. Motion... But then returned from the day. Closing your eyes won't help. You may just imagine the end before it comes. A hole? Gaping? No... Numbness. Nothing removed but feeling. Not cold. Not empty. Lifeless. And failed on the edges. Yes, as in the dream. Aliens, abyss, and all. Locked in. Not even a block. Hysterical. A fire fueled by saline. Gasping. Only able to watch ...escorted away. Powerless. Lifeless. Then what? A monument to your excellent choice? You in the box with the billy goat's gruff? Little reassurance that. The list. Burned in its own bucket. Fishing. Walking. Hiking. Running. Biking. A movie. Forever clouds. No one to teach. No one on one. None to share. None to push. And still no chill. Nothing. A dead weight. Engrained and not a part. The frost come early. And then the lies. No place. No place he says. No fight. No place. Shut down before the start. The blocks removed. The race canceled. The track torn up and gardens in their place. But what then of the nail? Well, agency. And thankful that too. Most so, given the option! Removed by One who has the power. To give place. Not weeds or briars, but a grove of trees. And all that that entails? Truly, truly the hardest part.

...You'll Find the Answer to That Question At the End of 23

Which of course makes 19 and all before it moot. And just short of 20000. Like everyone else.

What's The Answer to Number 19?

So I'm looking to cheat, really. I never studied this. Well I did... but apparently it never sunk in. It's quite amazing really what refuses to sink in after you've pounded it into the sand. I mean, so who cares if there are two eggs in the ingredients and three in the recipe? Tangent. I couldn't do it. I want those eggs. Me. A little bold? I mean it's not like the chicken made them for me right? There's just some farmer harvesting eggs blah blah blah. Done.
Some things are bloody hard to get homogenous. I mean sure... amorphous? Not a problem. Even pulling things out of a net. Blow up lawn ornaments.          ...sequins and glitter shoes.

So I wait. For the answer to come to me. I might get frustrated enough at some time to take a nap or even several laps around the testing center, but I won't just fill in some bubble. I can't do that. I won't do that. Believe me I don't want to stay there any more than you do. You just haven't taken seven hours on a test before have you? ...ok, maybe I do... So for the next several minutes what do I do? Well, I plan to take Brother John's advice, get some writing on the wall or at least in a binder with a really nice cover. Lamb. Good for the skin, bad for the eating. Unless there's a roll. So yes, while I'm standing here, I will take the cucumber sauce please.

And By Then Too Late

Damage. So far from that scene. Still frames and frames per second. But both still. And nothing continuous. It can't be. Not with one so unschooled, so reprobate. To retract and there an asp. To hold on to nothing but ash. The spin. The words you never hear him use. No. No, he is good. And it has served him. Happy since the day he was born. Real as the socks on your feet. Solid. But here? Limbering. Lingering. Lurking. Nothing but fear. And so rightly so. I now have something against. To detain? Shameful. But what of that which will not be reformed? No anvil or hammer. No heat in the fire. No bellows. Waiting cold for the solid to flow.

Too often. Too awash. Too false. All knew. ...And now all know. And who cares if all come to know. Therein is not the shame. It is in the pot. That jar of clay. Sullied waters seeped dry. No summer breeze, no winter snow, no spring shine. No autumn chill. Betrayed by the shell. Cracked and calloused and unfit and unclean. A failure in his own right. Complete. Utter. And full. Compounded by the sun and by the stars. Corn husks and cabbage. No not till all is used. All is taken. All is lost. Only then.

No. No sister. I won't be coming home tonight.


I grieve.