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 …
The world is always this bright. The colors are always there. Clouds or no clouds. Wind or none. Can you write a softer symphony? Paint in pinks and aquas? An animal finds itself a god outside the play of life. It wants to save itself despite the fact that its peril is part of the …
And the most absurd of things. . . She pretends to broker bits of the Earth, as if she could receive money for trading the planet from stranger to stranger. And he pretends to know truth or beauty or some other such absurdity by putting colors on a canvas. And she pretends to fix the …
