The color yellow says something bright. Something so different than the others. The sky behind comes through thick tropical clouds. A dawn noticed. One day’s version of itself again. A blue fungus dusts the tops of the rail ties, and water pushes the entire world around, like a soft but bossy conductor. The dog fusses …
It’s 14 years from now and the dog died today, or was it yesterday? The stunning thing is how absolutely none of this matters. The biggest effect on my person seems to be a view of evergreens, fennel plants and a scaled sky with white accents. What I do is really just a bird’s chirp …
People as frauds. The Catcher in the Rye phonies prance the surface. And I put on a costume or two. The Stranger. Caufield. K. Z. The artist. Baby Tuckoo. Trying to get at something but failing every day. Ah to quest and find yourself looking right back down at your own shoes. Home again. Denizen …
Every little smart watch check says ‘who am I?’ How many steps becomes the person? Every analog watch check says ‘time to death?’ The count up of discovering you is delicious futility. The countdown to the end is delicious certainty, perhaps the only thing known for sure. Stop and smell whatever needs smelling. Blah and …
And hello to Joyce, chooser of sounds, and to a simpler Hemingway post shotgun blast. Why music artists sing la la la la la la The cat in a tree next to Tweedle Dee. A bird non-stop saying me, me, me. A dog on the lookout for changes in scenery. All the noise that’s fit …
