That's two in a row...and I'm starting to sweat...

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It seems I've sprouted a new blog...

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Glance back at Reality
To watch it rock and sway.
Reflective moments caught in time,
A mirror on the day.

Temporal waves that peak and trough
Like ripples on a pond.
Horizontal distances

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I’ve been silent for awhile; long enough, I suppose. Not that I’ve had any profound revelations to signal an end to my self-imposed exile, just thought it might be time I raise my hand and let the class know I’m still here in the back of the room.

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A skeleton of old trombones
Comes dancing down the aisle.
A symphony that no one owns,
No license, only style.

A fan sits in the living room,
And puts on quite a show.
Its blades are caged in metal frames,

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To make the most of efforts that
Enhance the use of space.
Take a breath then blow your nose...

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This afternoon I watched a bird through the kitchen window, a favorite bird of Iris’s and mine, perched sturdily on the narrow back of a wicker chair on Iris’s patio. My thoughts should have been far from mortality, but kept drifting to the news I’d heard earlier in the day of the death of Amy Winehouse.

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Smaller worlds with larger minds
Contain a population
Of wild and mythic creatures
Thriving on imagination.

“Chickmunks” sneak behind the rocks
And nibble at your nails;
“Squwulls” steal your breakfast crumbs,...

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Apparently, some traits skip a generation.<< MORE >>

I think I need an agent. I’m not talking Secret, or Travel, here.

I think I need someone to peddle my meager wares. On a good day I can ware like nobody’s business, but my peddler seems to be broken.

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When I cry I like to be accompanied by a saxophone. Lamentations have more depth if a personal saxophonist is kept on retainer and always nearby.

But saxophonists don’t come cheap. At times I’ve had to leave the Bentley in the garage for a couple of days and take the Jag to the club, just to save money on gas so I could keep Phil close by with his horn. That alone was worth Phil forfeiting a blast, or two.

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I want to play guitar.

Don’t get me wrong; I don’t want to learn to play the guitar, I want to be able to just pick the thing up and rattle off any number of Gilmour’s most intricate solos.

I want to be an adult prodigy.

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Through the auspices of a grant from the Shelly Bryant Foundation I’ve begun a new blog. The blog you are currently reading will remain online and, should I be struck by a random thought now and again, posts might appear, periodically.

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Cats that cough up chicken bones,
A toad that cannot dance.
A won’drous world to visit,

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The ease with which we catch a cold,
Or hold, or up, or ball;
A numbers game in nature that,
Bar none, affects us all.

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“7 minutes after receipt of << MORE >>

Given the growing intolerance of our society, and the irrational fascination with celebrity, I find that if I am to continue living in the United States I no longer have need for a soul. Therefore, I’ve decided to sell it…a piece at a time.

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Grandpa didn’t cut the heads off of the chickens.

He would wring their neck, perform a smooth snapping motion and a surprised bundle of feathers with feet was sent bouncing across the barnyard. I still don’t know what these beasts had done to aggravate him to such a degree, but I vowed, at the age of four that if my Grandfather started cracking his knuckles, and darting his eyes in my direction, I’d soon be as far away as possible. When he had the dog put down the line between fear and respect began to noticeably blur.

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Name I'd like to see on a Midwest grain elevator.

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Everybody knows one.

That person who knows everything, has been everywhere, and if you tell them you’ve milked a hamster they’ve done it twice.

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