Dinner & a Movie

I watched the film Kandahar this past weekend. As I recall, the person who recommended it to me was my creative writing professor in college and he distinctly told me, “It’s not a date movie.” All the same, I had this sick whimsical desire it would be something like the Hope/Crosby (Bob and Bing, yo) “Road to…” franchise: full of hijinks, laughs, songs, slapstick, guffaws, and one stunning leading lady. It was not, how to say, to be confused for a “Road to Kandahar” type film in any way.

Prior to watching the film, I went to dinner at a fish restaurant of just-slightly-longer-than-absolutely-necessary-name: The Hyde Street Fish House & Raw Bar. I think it’s the “the” that leads off the title. It’s one step beyond the actual name. Like when football players say “The Ohio State University” when they introduce themselves on NFL night-time broadcasts. And since when do they need to introduce themselves — what, the announcers aren’t capable of introducing lineups anymore? And who gives a flying fuck what school you attended? (cynic says “As if you studied anyway.”) I digress. Perhaps if I was 200# of muscle (91 kilograms) and ran a 4.4 forty I could tell people about my Creative Writing major and where I got it and they’d care. But I doubt it. So… NBC, ESPN, stop letting players talk and stop letting them tell us where they played college ball. It’s lame.

At one table was a quartet of ladies, appearing to be a mother, her two daughters, and her mother. Or a grandmother, daughter, granddaughter and granddaughter’s friend. Anyway — one of the granddaughters was very cute. And was served wine — so it wasn’t like I’m talking about robbin’ the cradle, pedophile cute. I mean sexy cute.

Anyhoo – this blog is really about charity. My dinner’s bill was covered by the couple at the next table. Why? No one will ever know. Here is my complete interaction with the couple at the table over:

My oysters arrive. Two each of Quilcene, WA; __ Point, WA; and Fanny Bay, BC. Lady says “we got the oysters, too.” “Yes, I love Quilcene oysters.” “Oh yes, those are some of our favorites. We’re from Washington.” “Oh. I live in Seattle. (sort of).” “We’re from Bellingham.” We then tried to remember where exactly Quilcene is. I said, “I think it’s own the tip of Olympic Peninsula.” They agreed, because there’s an Indian Reservation there. They didn’t agree long though, because after they conferred as a couple-committee, they said, “Quilcene is the casino, not the reservation.” At least, not that reservation on the tip of the peninsula. They then told me, “Quilcene Creek Casino is closer to Lake Townshend. On the coast is Quinalt.” Ah yes, I had been thinking Quinalt, not Quilcene. C’est la vie. I got the first three letters right. Besides, I don’t even really live there.

I then began eating my oysters. Fanny Bay, meh. _ Point, delicious. Quilcene, very delicious.

That was the extent our conversation. And then they paid for my dinner.

But why, why, why? I hope it wasn’t pity — oh, there’s a guy eating on his own on Mother’s Day. Let’s pity him! Perhaps they felt guilty about something. Or I looked like their long-dead son. Or they were simply rolling in cash. Perhaps they were hoping to work out some sexual rendezvous. To them, I’d have politely declined. Perhaps they wanted fifteen minutes of fame in my ever-popular blog. OK, right, that’s delusional.

I doubt the cutie was impressed by this stunning show of charity. But — hell — who am I to complain (I may resent any form of pity upon me) but since my wine, oysters and dinner were free, I splurged and got full-on dessert. I paid for the banana bread pudding and a glass of port. And that’s alright by me, especially since it was a weekend and I was actually paying for it (as opposed to billing a client). So, hey, can’t turn down a free meal at a quality dining establishment.

The H1N1 Viral Infection

I’m glad the current influenza strain is no longer simply called Swine Flu. That was giving pigs (and yummy pork products) a bad name. In fact, Egypt’s government (FDA equivalent?) had actually authorized the slaughter of the current pork crop.
article here

That’s 300,000 oinkers who’d have been needlessly extinguished. You don’t get this from pigs. It’s not just a swine flu. It’s a swine/avian/homo sapiens hybrid.

I wonder if he’s the cause of it.

Wow What a lineup

But I doubt it, because he only brings joy to life’s many line-ups.

Save a Deer’s Soul

Rolin Stone Reviews Swamp Pop’s Dead Deer Anthology

Driving along CA 24 it’s hard not to notice the many black-tailed (mule) deer on that hillside north of the highway between… I dunno… Lafayette and Orinda. What I notice about the deer is that they don’t seem to notice the ten-lane expressway or BART line. Those deer are practically domesticated. Some would say they’ve lost their souls.

When I think of deer, I think of two things. The first is hunting. The second is slowing down the car lest said deer decide to chance their way in front of that pair lights. In either case, deer die by the thousands. The bodies of many deer lie strewn about the Wisconsin roadways.

And who shall liberate the souls of these fallen deer?

This is the underlying question behind the Swamppop album Dead Deer Anthology. http://www.swamppop.org/

Thankfully, a flash game exists to help you be the answer, the solution, rather than just another problem with a .30-06 or a big rig and no time to hit the brakes or swerve.

This final solution to the souls of a potentially endless string of deer is the great mystery that our world required solving. Again, who shall redeem the souls of so many deceased, forsaken deer? The answer to this question lies wrapped deep within the aural textures and blues guitar work, the layers of undulating vocals and the energetic drums of Dead Deer Anthology. And when you look inside, especially if you play the online game at the website… the answer is you. You are the salvation. Open the gate to guide them on the next stage of their spiritual journey. This is the soundtrack of a journey to deer heaven.

No Carrion Here: The DDA tracks at a glance:

Flatland – The Deer are shaken from their brutal slaughter-slumber on the flatland. This song is solid and consistent, with a nice quick introduction. It serves as a very good little hook for the rest of album and prepares our venison for its way to the feast. It’s not an aggressive or rollicking opener, but the album isn’t too aggressive or rollicking, and so it’s a very balanced or well-centered opening. Zen-like, right. No misleading the listener or pretension. The cymbals are little tinny, and that seaside wash of the Lo-Fi Mummy album remains, which makes it the Swamppop sound; it then becomes natural, and natural is very popular these days.

Doubly Linked – I think it’d be better placed in the #4 slot. #2 needs to be setting the hook that Flatland got into the fish’s mouth. The bass has taken the bait, now you need to set the hook and reel it in. I believe… And why the fishing metaphor? Get back to odocoileinael resurrection.

Old Scurvy – With its strong poppiness (like heroin) would be better suited in the 2-hole. The savvy batter who can advance the runner bats here, as a baseball person would say. And here is a savvy pop song. Now you’re on a baseball metaphor. Didn’t ne’er done see a Bambi play ball. Unless you count the Bambino and you don’t dare.

Sinking In the Sea – The bucket-of-beer-at-the-beach feel from Lo-Fi Mummy returns in this track. Correctly placed behind Scurvy. A simple song on the A-side with a gentle country ramble.

Lively – The consistent close / or second-to-last song of the side-A. OK. So I still always believe in albums as having A-sides and B-sides. Why? Because it’s difficult to strictly hold 30 minutes of music together – especially with shorter songs. If it were an operatic arrangement, yes, but those have three acts, and often breaks for movement of the set pieces within each act, and that causes a similar break. Lively can hold its own in closing the first side – which leads to a very solid 6-song B-side.

Sharing a Room – The kickoff to a brilliant side-B, if I may say so.

Motives – This is the exact spot for a track like this on the album. Right after the rocker to open side-B. Well-played. I like the actual piano-sounding piano. And about 1:50 in, the guitar line over ¼ note chords on the piano was excellent. Seems pretty simple, but there’s a lot going on – and the motive behind it all to save some fawns seems right.

Bird Ego – Probably the strongest single track on the album. Maybe not the best – but the most powerful. And yes, the drums have a lot to do with that. I don’t know that they needed to open the song alone, but they do provide the gravitas for the rest of the track. As soon as the song proper kicks in, those drums are put right back into place where they belong. And I like a good title.

Sailing – Wow. Did this one mellow out to seaside music once again. Although I’m not a fan of the Beach Boys, this is quite possibly as solid as beach listening music as theirs. And more interesting lyrically (speaking here of early Beach Boys – they got better later, just before Wilson went nuts like a proverbial deer in the headlights). Like Carnival – I didn’t care for hearing this song over and over below my bed while I was writing back those years ago. But this version of it is excellent. The half-swung base/snare pattern is good for the track. Better than the original straight-up surfer song snare on the 2 and 4& or 2& and 4. This half-swing suits the softer version. It’s actually a pretty versatile track in that sense. The closing buildup is a little weak considering how harsh the original was and it could have gone back to those roots for the closing and really presented its potential for dynamics.

Zone – A bit of an anachronism on this album. In that sense, it could have been the close to side-A. Instead, it serves as the rocker prior to the final closing number that makes you contemplative and relaxed. It’s much like the end to DMB’s Crash album, where you have an old anachronism rocker standard (Tripping Billies) brought onto a later album before the mellow closer of Proudest Monkey. There’s this interesting organ underlay at about 2:00 in the “She’s my Below” verse that I really enjoyed. Nice quirk tucked away into a regular rock standard. The ending was good. Refreshing. And yes… the drums are better than when I played this track.

Fetch – I think this pushes the deer through the pearly gates, and at right about the edge of register the guys should be singing. But it’s a nice near-lullaby to close it out. More an aural experiment than a song, perhaps. As I said before, it’s the gentler close to the album like DMB’s Crash. Now, whether you see that as good criticism or bad criticism is up to you and your biases. I think it’s fine to compare to the Crash album. Fetch is a good close and doesn’t outlast its welcome. I also like the nice little semi-round for the final chorus and that draws it tidily into a fade.

My main gripes: I can’t understand 1/3 of the lyrics. But as I sometimes have trouble understanding The Beatles, who enunciate as well as anyone, this is nothing new. I’m sure the kids these days can understand everything. And just a minor structural correction in dropping Doubly Linked back in the lineup.

But my biggest gripe? What – no FANGZ? What the hell? Where are the Fangz? Honestly, an album this strong is exactly where you sneak in a Fangz and get away with it.

Rating: Dead Deer Anthology: 7/8

Samurai versus Viking

There are some great shows on tv these days. I don’t watch them; ratings prove that they exist.

One of these shows is on Spike Tv. What is spike tv? I’m not sure. A station run by Snoopy’s desert-treading cousin, I guess. I guess I digress. Two Saturdays past, TNT ran all three Lord of the Rings films back-to-back-to-back. Simultaneously, this Spike channel ran all six (ich weiB, ich weiB, only 3 count) Star Wars films back-to-back-to-back-to-back-to-back-to-back.

For this reason, the next day (Sunday), my tv was on Spike (I watched some of Empire — Yoda lifting the X-wing).

I switched over to NBC to watch hockey, but eventually during a commercial or intermission, I did a Press: The Last button.

Spike returned — with a show about a warrior from one completely different time and place versus another completely different time and place in some sort of arbitrary boy-fantasy debate of “who’s better?”

(I put my money on the Marine with the M-16 versus the Abyssinian charioteer.)

This particular episode was Samurai vs. Viking.

They had samurai- and viking-backing experts trash-talk each other ‘you only chipped the edge of the shield.’

Then they simulate their “special computer” program to predict who would win in a 1000 head-to-head match-ups. This runs on a laptop on a table. At least through a big ol’ tape reel on a bookcase with some blinking lights and call it the Battle 6000 Super-Computer. In this case, it’s a lot like when they simulate the Super Bowl by executing 1000 head-to-head match-ups in EA Sports Madden 2009. It’s lame.

They check their long range arms, their hand-to-hand arms, their armor, and how they match up against each other, always with the cute rubber torsos and noggins with sensors attached. In this case it’s like that sports science show that’s tries to show how taking a hockey stick to the noggin doesn’t hurt as much as a baseball bat. True. Bats also weigh more. But, how often do you take a baseball bat to the head in a regular game? Though, I’ve seen it happen in person, and that’s a vicious way to be knocked unconscious. (Don’t stand so close to the batter during recess, kids. Keep your distance when you’re not wearing a helmet).

The two hosts (one brawny, one nerdy) disagree continuously. Then the computer runs and … At the very end of the episode (which runs an entire hour!!!!) they have a live re-enactment between the two combatants. They battle using all of their weapons! Across a variety of terrain like any good choreographed action film. Ooh! And there’s blood. And then. The samurai downs the viking.

Really, it held my interest because the hockey game was Philly/Pitt and I had hoped both of those teams lose to each other in 4 games. I won’t watch the show again. But it’s worth sharing.

After the live-action fight, they recap the 1000 simulations, with breakdowns of kills by weapon.

Then, the samurai-expert says: “The only warrior who can stand up against a samurai is…. Another samurai. So, Viking, there is no shame in losing to history’s greatest warrior.”

to Tommy – Isle of Wight Festival 1970

1. And we’re all spinning stomping, one at a time and holding up the surefire lights of backlighting and you swerve stomp with the spotlight behind your hairy head. And rock on. This is how we’ll started it out with choppiness and the rolling rumble tumble. I ‘be been beourne again and that’s the beauty of the bouncing bumble. So when at last they come to pass tey say, hey these I’s are dashed and these t’s be dotted. Well, cross and bone and skull me. That’s like slivering your timbers there Jacque. Gong show and wights are isles and also undead to be destroyed (turned, in the parlance of our nerds) with withe ol’ 1-8. And dance in skeletor suits and white jumpsuits and a bit of native American hanging leather threads.

2. It’s a boy! Well here we settle the score of life. So one day a sun a sun a son arose. We heard it all before you say. We listened it was close and there are infinite possibilities. I wonder who was listening in the darkness. Can you hear me tommy, mommy, mummy rummy. Can this be silence. Can this be silenced. Can this be clubbed silencio unbecoming? If you’re worrying too much, then just you know, touch and heal, right? Spot on. So George says to the dragon – let’s bungle it and see what happens. I’ve got this dinner date, a donned dais and a donner party to attend, all in one night. The light is fading. Before the eyes of the saving one and the last greatness andthere on the morning of the live light it was just a bit of time set aside and settled for the score. There one chilid laughs last.

3. But as a child, how can it come to this or that? They will laugh. They’re children. Just one night. One night – the acid queene of fairyness. Hey fairies, aren’t there renaissance faires and ye olde tavernes where you can attend lawlessly and laughlessly and reckless. Less a few schillings. Less a few yen. Yonder wore they the racksacks and ruckclothes and sacks of shapes and socks full of feet. Your feet a full of socks. Your socks are full of feet. My feet are bound by socks and out of bounds the socks say sandals would be welcome too but too many are burned for it. Such forgetfulness and the building it. That tall pointy one there. You there sloth, get going. Is it beyond your two-toed nature. I ‘ll get it to give it. Faire trade you know. We’re in ye olde coffeee daye. It’s time to tinker typer.

4. Strum strum strum. That’s a rocker you want to build it to. That’s right. And now windmill. That’s how we roll it. See? Since I was a silver baller. That’s wehre we’re at, where we’ve reatched. It was about six years ago when they said they wanted to wage war on the world overpressed and then underwhelmed they were. I played the game too. It was fun. And then the slick twist of the wrist (and green flecks of gold, right) dear no. you don’t go ther.e you don’t never go there. That’s a double. I got your double right here. You take that fickle wrist trickle and stickle it somewhere nice and warm and dark, likesay. And windmill! Windmill! That’s how me roll it. Lean back, and now to it again. I guess he’s not windmilling live, he’s got to hold the strum. So the second track is played offstage. And finite.

5. Do you think it’s alright? I do. I understand the question is something of a logic question, or a morality issue? This is a quandary. It might not be right. It could be partially left. Left, center, right. Is it a political issue? No. nor apolitical. Politicking and politrickery and potlucking and pot-licking. Mmm. Goody goodness. So what is the manner of the unperceptive question. This question raises the moral or the morel of the mushroom. That’s your prescription to perception.

6. What’s happening in his head? It’s listening. See, that’s me listening to you. Now you listen up charmskie. You’re a Chomsky charmsky tsotchke and quirky quarker of the isle of Cork. Kirk says, “sure.”

7. Gong. It’s not exactly one to one. This tis about it reading the extra session and the going to the nextion section. I annex this newspaper in the name freedom. Cuz I’m free, like you and you’re listening to me. Following along this line of the thinking it’s the higher level of the many levels. How many levels? Is this another question? This is a questioning of a question. Or a level of a level. A layer or a layer of a layer if you will. The bricklayer (that would be a mason) and in this a case a freemason. See how that works with simple logickery? The onion of an onion, layered like. And that’s the freedom. Cuz the onion cooks and carmelizes and goes from the onion of following to the sugar of sweet

8. And click. Etcetera is a an esoteria and a inexplickica for your little lickaca. Welcome to the castle. We’re sitting here debating the questions. And ai bee see where do the delicious ones come from? It’s all about leckers. It’s all about vielleichts. It’s all about no more, schlitzohrs and various pulls from pasts followings. You’re goingings and taking people on the right rides where they’re going to take it to the road and rejections never overcome where the roads can be seen. It’s old. It’s new. But to forgettit betterstttill. It could be a cow in the road. Or crossing a three-foot ditch. Which is pretty good for a go. I hear the listening wind. Do you now. Do you know the do you nows? Do you now.

9. Touch me. Again. Theat there helaing and signt and toughing it out me to you. Thiere is the whole holisticially inplosible splosion of the gmotion that would woodenly waffle it and wobble and to waffle is to guffly grouch or to blathe and the listening to me and that’s where oyu mushic fomr comes. That is a sideburn of appeal. I am a million various lights and I roll the ricks and tune the toms. It’s a fill. It’s a fill. It’s a filler and a repeater. Like a simple trick that the majjikman does beofer the touch it down. Like crossing the line of the bears decide that they should win, but you’re wrong. As clearly as is it allright we get this score? Your’ve ofver the line! Youver sasouver over the linw! Amd I the only one cowards. Your craven craving your ice cream. And on you is ee it. We’re the power and the glory and raise our hands to get the latest of the sorties and stories and lorry lordy! We wind it up to hold the crosstown rides. See the crossing rides on both crashes with the right hand. It’s a lot of movement when they’re right there on the same symbol. And yes that’s intentional. It’s intended and tinted and tinnily tended and garden variety of simple. I think tinily and also a graded voracity of cymbal. I keep right on crashing for a I am the moon and you are the sun and girl, you’re beginning to be a woman soon and the story says you need a man to complete you fully likesay fill you, right. It’s the yin and the yang, the dick and the jane, the wizz and the bane, the slim and the shane and the mind and the brain. And the who are on the credits are on first… and pause it. Daltrey, Entwistle, Moon, Townshend. And check. And done and done.

Driving John Sebastian and the Rapture

I dropped the ball. Dropped the ball. While driving, no less. I ocwer in shjame. See, I was driving. I charged from San Franny to Santa Rosie to Eureka to San Francisco to Sacto to Stockton to home Francisco and it is only Thursday. Friday is Morgan Hill, by the way.

I missed two days of freewrites. I apologize. And today’s entry is really a recap of those two days, so it’s barely freed at all. It’s a regular old post. Sad, eh?

But all this driving has not left me unentertained. While in the valleys of Mendocino and Humboldt counties and my radio was cutting to buzzing to fuzzing on the various classic rock, Spanish, soul and NPR-out-of-SF stations I came across a strong signal out of Sacto. It was ‘family radio’ (that’s Christian radio, g). And an elderly man (research says: Harold Camping) was answering questions about the bible. Although I didn’t always agree, or had varying points of view, the program (Open Forum) did hold my interest for about 30 minutes. Why? A few reasons. Mr. Camping’s delivery of the conclusion of call and the beginning of the other was consistent – his home run call if you will. He repeated the same sentences each time, and soon they ran through my head as surely as any pop song refrain.

“Thank you for calling and sharing. Shall we take the next call, please? Welcome to Open Forum.”

What’s best is that the first person I heard him answer was named Shari or Sharon. So I heard “Thank you for calling, Shari.” And then some guy called in. And the old man answered his question and said (to my ear), “Thank you for calling an- Shari.” And I did the “Surely, he didn’t call him Shari, did he?” double-take.

And don’t call me Shirley.

The other thing that interested me is that apparently, the Rapture (end of the world, yo) is supposed to begin (according to this particular vein of Christian thinking) on May 11, 2011.

So if the Rapture is coming, do those people who believe they’re being saved (or damned) care about climate change, or potential population shifts, or driving fuel-efficient cars or turning off excess lights or eating organic veggies? What do think about endangered species? Do they care about the environment? Arts, culture, music, Legos, what the end of the Wheel of Time will be like? About education, or infrastructure, or societal improvements, health care for their parents, or stopping wars? Or are they just worried about salvation for their self (oh, and others, but of course only some people are saved, so self-salvation would likely be higher on their to-do list)? Don’t they care about the world of humanity? And if so, wouldn’t that mindset contradict certain beatitudinal statements?

OK – you’re right. It’s not a proper freewrite. But I’ve got to wake up early and drive more tomorrow, so I’m nearly done. And no rhymes. See what religion does to me? Bad for writing, that naughty religion is.

Oh – and I needed to share that John Sebastian is performing in Mendocino on Friday night. That was a surprise to me. I thought he had become very sick (I actually thought he might have passed away about two years ago). But thankfully, that is not the case. Mr. Sebastian is alive and well and performing about 24 hours from now. I will not be in attendance, sadly. I would love to take in one of my favorite singer/songwriters (from his Spoonful days anyway), but I am not driving back from Morgan Hill after training tomorrow, re-renting my car, and driving northward 3 more hours tomorrow evening. I didn’t want to have to do it, yo.

And now, bed. Not truly freely written – but I had to share the end of the world with you.

her tresses caught trestles

Disregard those voices in the back of the head – focus on the side. That’s right, the starboard. The star is bored of you as much as you’re bored of it. And after another endless sendless sunny day of shades and cool breeze, it’s like springtime in the sky. The skin is a warmth that hints of pink. Shades of sunburn just in time for spring. Thankfully, I navigated to the dark side of buildings and windows ere my slight pink blossomed red algae. No peels, no whammies, keep the cancer planner clear.

Pinked, but not burnt. It’s a variable. Silly sun. It’s like there’s some everlasting fusion reaction (or fission, but I’m too tired to research and besides I can’t stop typing, now can you, can we, we couldn’t but that’d be the wrong message to send to your children. Who’se we? Who’sethe boss around here? Judith light? I go with Judith light. And Alyssa Milano. She’s like a cookie out of a bag, that one. Cookie monster says, “Cookie!” and Tony Danza drives a cab. I fear that is the recollection of the decade of his youth for the day. And the day is about to end. So that’s a good thing. It’s like there’s some fusion reaction hangin gout in space nearby. How far? About seven minutes as the light flies, he says. And slightly longer as the crow flies. Space crows. Spaces. A a a a a that[[‘s spaces for you, he said, and then he added what was implied.

We appeal to tyour basic nature, now down’t we. Thatsd’a about nadad and nieder and wieder again and again. But there’s aonly three services in the list. And those don’t get selected all. They don’t beat their brethren, children, and hoek van ren. The renniest and penniest. The penniless and the quarterless, they have no quarter and asked for none. Silly dimes. Ain’t nothing in the world like a dime. But the nickelovation is like two networks combizzled and then when one fizzled five stars, allabouts and autobots and roboticks that eat and breed and blood and lie about on limes and salted glass. Transform. And that’s another pull from that decade that shall remain nameless. You’ve already named it, no I haven’t what have you and haven is a t not a haven’t without a contraction. It’s the pangs of literary birth the literarty of literazzi of the literartery pumping flow through the contraction and that likable little apostraphotic oath. O bursts of fruit!

Disregard that star in the back of the sky.

During laundering there was a pause and one me went back and forth between laundering and lounging. And once I passed the workout exercise muscloid room where mirrors reflect nothing but empty equipment because no one goes there. But there it is, as I passed, I looked into the darkened room and saw a new bench by the doorway. I paused, stopped ultimeately, retread the steps trod, and looked in briefly under a lightened roof. Right by the door. We now have an Ab Lounger XL. It’s like a dentist’s chair made of mesh – in that it’s part trampoline in look, and is reclined to near full lay out like a dentist’s chair. No pneumatics that I could see. We have an Ab Lounger XL! Hell yeah, I will so be lounging my abs. I assure you that. My abs will lounge. Relaxed. Abs. lounging. Extra lounged.

There’s a ratio of freckles to stars she sings. That’s lionesses in a prairie grass where they cannot be seen about to rise from the hide and tear the hide off the sucker. Crested feathers and a trestle and in her tresses held her teeth. The vessel upon a precipice, the sun radiated downward, and upward all and my freckles were nothing compared to the stars, but they and become darker with more starlight in daytime. And there’s that sun streaking through the space that we can’t see because the sky is hiding it forever from view. And you thank your lucky stars it’s so and you never forget those thoughts owed you by your mother’s milk and the lioness sees her as well. She’s not a ratio, she’s a pride all her own. And crashing grass sharpened glasses crinkle, crack and disperse the charging paws. The whiskers and fur falter as the collapsed are taken from the sky’s light.

Here to day and fade to more oh dear in a glade to ate her and fro ditty.

Click it. Or ticket. That’s the remark that was made. And those bartered hogs patrol their pace two at a time, two at a time. There’s no one watching albeit waiting and the deceit is coming through. You remark me remake and listless left to be is down the road. Here is nature, you never meant to hurt, but the hurdle is hitless and the death is listenable, hearable, bearable, terrible.

The crested feathers caught in one trestle under the railroad bridge. Her tresses held her to hand, but the bearer fell. She never took wing fully, left to hang, dear falcon, wish you could still soar, but the dive went unending, the trestles under the rail bridge held tight.

I question why I’m so tired in the middle of the day – is it my desire for the siesta style added to this life? Or am I really so doubtful of the path that I must sag against that which holds me upright in a jagged form. I write despite this weight and the flaws and the… what lies before, behind and beyond, but so tired in the prime of life and no. reasons fail. The fault is outward speaks the mirror.

**tonight’s soundtrack- halou, wholeness and separation**