Wandering Hither and Yon

The Curtain makes a certain sound
as it is drawn back to reveal
the stage:

A long sustained shuuuuuush,
as its deep red velvet drags
across the polished floor.

But to describe it is not to hear it,
for as that simple sound rises
all others diminish, and the world
outside slowly fades into
a small illuminated window,
mechanical and well-oiled.

Incense, she said, should be like
a memory of itself.

Or like the first distant notes of
an imaginary song.

Or maybe, she said, like a poem you love,
whose words you can understand,
but whose meaning remains obscured.

Or a slice of asian pear, whose juice, watery and faint,
eaten on a spring afternoon, suggests another day
in a lifetime far away.

My Mom has a Cat, named Tobey, whom she adores.
And Tobey, in turn, being a Cat, adores catnip,
rolling in ecstasy at the merest whiff.

One Evening, however, my Mom asks me
to stop giving him “that stuff”,
for, as she informs me, sipping her glass of wine,
she doesn’t like her Cat to be stoned.

We’ve turned into this nation of overfed clowns, riding around in
clown cars, eating clown food, watching clown shows. We’ve become a
nation of cringing, craven fuckups.”

– James Howard Kunstler, The Long Emergency

Would someone please just pass me the goddamn nachos … Please ?

While we were waiting to pick up our pizza, my nephew, age 11, told me how it must suck to have a birthday so close to Christmas. Yup, I agreed, you’d think Jesus, being the Son of God and all, would have planned better.

Moth
Dives
into
our bottle;
Suicide by Wine.
We chuckle, and drink its red flame.

Black Rock RV Park in Salome, AZ

Wayfarers All

“O, we’re not off yet, if that’s what you mean,” replied the first swallow. “We’re only making plans and arranging things. Talking it over, you know-what route we’re taking this year, and where we’ll stop, and so on. That’s half the fun!”
“Fun?” said the Rat; “now that’s just what I don’t understand. If you’ve got to leave this pleasant place, and your friends who will miss you, and your snug homes that you’ve just settled into, why, when the hour strikes I’ve no doubt you’ll go bravely, and face all the trouble and discomfort and change and newness, and make believe you’re not very unhappy. But to want to talk about it, or even think about, till you really need-”
“No, you don’t understand, naturally,” said the second swallow. “First, we feel it stirring within us, a sweet unrest; then back come the recollections one by one, like homing pigeons. They flutter through our dreams at night, they fly with us in our wheelings and circlings by day. We hunger to inquire of each other, to compare notes and assure ourselves that it was all really true, as one by one the scents and sounds and names of long-forgotten places come gradually back and beckon to us.”

Kenneth Grahame in The Wind in the Willows

To Florida, To Florida, jig-a-de-jig

To that dopey doberman.
To throw a ball for the long suffering Chesapeake.
To get Jack Attacked.
To muck the horses.
To Publix.
To Tony’s Big Oak.
To Billy’s Tap Room
To the Old Crow Bar-b-que.
To High Tides at Snack Jack
To the popcorn at Target.
To cigars by the fire pit, with a not-so-wee dram of Laphroaig.
To spend the holidays with those that I love,
and wish that time would stand still …

Home again home again, jig-a-de-jig

“She’s a fucking bitch. She just loves bitching about everything. She’ll bitch about this for awhile, and then I’ll throw her a carrot and she’ll bitch about that.”

Oh, the things I hear while lounging in bed.