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If you want a glimpse into depression era sharecropper tenant families, this is your book.

Today's Schedule

7:00 Eat Rotten Peach
7:05 Check Kittens running around, envy their carefree ways.
8:00 Watch Amy Goodman talk to charismatic leader.
9:05 Harbor simmering grudge against various people.
9:10 Go outside, notice pleasant Plumeria smell in the air.
9:11 See a beautiful orchid-like flower. Carefully remove the pollen from the stamen to allow the plant to focus more on air sun and water instead of diverting all its resources to reproduction. Flower french kisses me. Tastes like rotten peaches.
9:30 Plot nefarious plan to extort money from banking system using an Electro-Magnetic Pulse.
9:45 Phone in a phony Paper Order for a truckload of "24 Weight"
10:15 Have reasonably satisfying talk with bastard neighbor.
10:46:07 Kill mosquito.
10:47 Ponder how biological systems made my face. Pick a zit.
11:00 Sell old copies of "Time" under Bridge overpass.
11:10 Relive yesterdays dream. Want to die. Realize I'm dead already.
12:00 Have cucumber. Watch kittens with envy.
12:30 Consider honor of work over the ease of typing blog. Continue writing.
1:00 Take internet siesta with churros y freako baby.
1:30 Imagine Angels sleep like bats.
2:00 Placed Updike at cusp of excellent novel writers for controlled constraint of present tense. Engineer new golf ball with mushroom fountain in dimples.
2:30 Write screenplay for superhero movie. Call Dad.
3:00 Straighten drapes.
3:30 Bridge philosophical gaps.
4:00 Listen intently.
4:30 Call girlfriend from High School to tell her I'm sorry I didn't make out with her that time I was having a bad trip on weed. Pick teeth.
5:00 Wrap it up.

Tattered Flags

May I make a suggestion for a new National Anthem. Sousa's ballad is quaint, and it captures a resilient spirit under fire, but it should be played after community events end, not before, with it's great prologue about rockets and bravery, you know, after all the raucousness and sweating has taken place. Generally, before the events, people want to get stoked about the entertainment about to ensue. My suggestion here of Aerosmith's Make It is one of many that could be considered, but I chose it for several reasons. For one, it is a from a flagship album of the iconic 70's era of music, when Boston rocked, the moon was fucken ours, and the future wasn't all about some phony patriotism flying in the face of corporate multi-nationalism (before reality hit.) It has a quick intro beat, not too hard for run-of-the-mill bands to repeat, and it's lyrics lend a a little motivation to the performers and choreographers of the events. Wouldn't you love to see our Gold Medalist up on the podium at the Olympics giving a whinny to the Bronze medalist as Tyler belted out "Bedwetter pull yourself together now, What have you got to lose." It also encapsulates the incredible anxiety in our society and among the younger generation now. I realize I'm stepping way over the bounds of polite conversation here when I insinuate that this country could have made a mistake with the Divine Providence, and somehow our solipsistic greatness could have a weak link, but nothing is constant except change. 

You are Welcome

In July

Right now. Not as words, or a prayer, or a defense, but as an eponymous verb of events as they happened. That is how I felt as I escaped by Venus out the window, plunging to the eclipsing ground, and ran down the muddy road. I don't know if I looked back. I knew, as I purveyed my situation, that if I won, then the erosion of mountains and the revolution of galaxies would not stop the progress of my lust ambition. If I lost, the falling of eons into a bottomless ravine of corniced webs could not change the destination of me arriving back at my starting point of that window of my exodus. God first pronounced the Universe as good. But was it good for me was the question.

So, here I am running away. My foot being guided into each step of the the muck, one after the other, both with stealth and a dire caution of my enfolded environment. What is it that spurs me onward? If I can ably accomplish my goals by deft understanding, then contemplation was just, and I am being unreasonable to the provision of resources that allowed me such guile. If nature strikes me with a sword of lightening, then I was wrongly bred by culture, but guided by a fair assessment that this merry-go-round needed to be abandoned. The still depth of my thoughts infinitely reached into the orisons of empty space.

The day slumped on to the burnt dawn as I reached a vista I biked before. A person was there I knew so well that it may as well been my carbon. Enraptured trespasses usurped mind fractals. Loathing simplicity or a new friend would funnel nodal vindication of which, oh please be her.

It was my archest lady. My luck imbued, word in matter. Let's heave this yolked mirage. Her portending came into my focus, as she stared down into the future of portals that contained both the ecstasy of the light-raves and of requiems of the distraught.

Diverting evermore for asunder from perdition, I foundered toward her nape. With my heart assailing all ubiquitous forces, I entreated her to go with me. A treble of relief. I awed ruination pass by, def hysterical fortune, the aurus of my burning euphoria. She said yes.

So we pummeled onward, wending on our gossamer frothed beach to satined waved breezes of the unending day. Along the way, we met some friendly clams we shared libations and humorous clattering with, and sewed together gold seeds for a looking glass. Hiking further, we mazed the quartz and illumined jets of revolving spume on our candled island, to wither our skin nevermore.

Before our courage, this soul sphere emptied to shores of parsecs highest. Quedda spilt her cleaved diamonds on my spinning halt, my saviour manifold, on this magic meme of yin and yang. The wormhole nodded triumph to our bronzed iron. Softly now, szyzergy forsooth our sneaking devils, who clamored for reign.

Clarity on high, Ten pi, our spears will shake up put never!

Pride cometh before Cumbria, and after. The whipping asps slapped a ringing clout, and reeled our heels. Ha-ha we sheen your fires with faux rage. And arced our mighty blow and fusiled their chins in clam lodges. Evening, long last, the tattooed tune, revolving roundabout generations. The presence vibrated right to omegas zenith, climbing soothing zephyrs over all till we awakened.