SANITY: The act of enjoying the same thing over and over again…while someone else holds out hope for finally obtaining a different result.

The hanging glass -a great divide between the drying swipe that peers thru the counterparts’ prism of unrelenting honesty…. and the homesick celibacy that reflects off our cloudy set of sticky lies.

Out in the street there is silence…and the gaslight remains caustic and blonde. No one to wash out the laundry…relief cannot keep serving the fond.

Halloween….celebrating constipation in cats since 500 BC!

Someday, I will awaken with a peace that encompasses all…friend…foe…most likely, those who wear both hats. No longer tugged back by a baseline that repeatedly encroaches upon the bands between our patterns…our blood no longer leaks, our streams rush too quickly to overflow…staying one step ahead of the meddling fingers passing fresh fruit thru the cage and the roaring breath that makes our ears howl. To the philistines who store my image to rear their kids and make their fables special, I bow my head in unnatural, furtive ways... watching stodgy notions… that will forever remain a phrase. Wobble off and hiccup my name …for I am close enough to the gates to know that there is salt within the air. This is going to hurt, but confinement does not make my Lord small.

There is no such thing as a bad writer…only the blowhard who is convinced that he is obligated to tell you everything…the porch is a meddlesome interruption of the nighttime sky…

and the polymath who is unsure if it will ever be the right time to share...in a clever flash a constellation straddles a ledge of purpose and sight…

To you Jerome, all I can say…Felis lives forever!

It was for pure benefit, to earn a reward if one is spiritually confined. Attaching machinations, some apologetically lazy, others vindictively profound. A current is always flowing, wet or dry, searching for spaces and time that it will never fully see. That comes from the privilege of settlement and experience, and why everything that travels within range, I choose to capture for my needs. In that regard, I am a taker, but not quite a thief. For, my customs are merely interpretive. Woody, Jim, Mike, Biddy and whomever else… are always open to being shared and pulled apart. In fact, I am sure that is the way that we all prefer to live. Leaning on a hard, grey wall connecting under the racing street, jumping higher, between staggered trees, before the humidity goads another branch to snap- as simple as an insurance policy that has an infinite term and is never afraid of paying out. The arenas were now more like border highlights, the edges of my limitations, challenging all that I had most recently learned. It was a time of forecast and friction, the autumn of the day. The centered masses were drifting separately, some nodding off inside of the cooling tunnel, that would be one erstwhile conclusion. But the frontier was immaculate and golden, finding the undulations of my webbing nervous-yet- unimpaired. To author another variant of utopian description, meant to do so without harboring a reflection, up from the ashes, there could not always be a beautiful hint, but by the lemon yellow streaked call of tomorrow’s capture, the pressure would return upon the favorite son–pitted against a shadowy foreground of cursory glances and cascading preoccupation-for the first time–I found the dotted glow of the idling boundary to be a more profitable listener–gusts and stitches -searching for the aberration that lies awake.