Wandering Hither and Yon

some
gin
shaken
with vermouth
perhaps an olive
liquid moonlight in a chilled glass

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