I came here to see what I wrote and I found this.


Notes from your continuing to read:

I don’t do the slap dash methodology of creativity, nor do I follow the big is better school of impression, although I do enjoy some works of each.

Twenty-Thousand Leagues Under The Ball Return At The Bowling Palace.

The limits of boundaries hold endless possibility for confinement to an infinite number of considerations, don’t you think?

Organized confusion, intelligent vacuity

Subtly blatant, direct obliquity…

What vapid clutch to tempered foil,

Around about delusive spoil

That holds in fearful reflex tact

Achieving common sense redact

The mindful yield to canted spew

In selfish-passioned fear review

Cognizant retention

Indelible erasure

Solid wisp

Incisive muddlement

Slimly obese

Decisive shrug

Favored underdog

Cutting-edge traditional

Invisible fog

Frantic lethargy

Impotent fecundity

Terminal longevity

Factual lies

Stable ephemera

Conducive disagreement

Repeated singularities

Meanwhile, five years earlier, something different was going on somewhere else.

Astride the building crest of the moment I kind of mumble, hum and fluddle on

The future is yet to come

Going out in a blaze of glorious befuddlement

Some folks have halitosis of the brain

I lie about the lies I lie about, but I’m honest in the lies I tell

Solipsist Xenophobia

Having no plans is sometimes the best plan because it can never go wrong

Becoming this old has been the journey of a lifetime

If I should die tomorrow, then nuts

What kind of a self-service place are you running here?


Leaning into the day I find a hard wall of obstinate reality blocking my way, keeping me from the dream potential on the other side, holding my state of being to the hum (don’t know the right words) drum (traveling to the beat of a diffident, rolling clobber of stones) situation that social interaction has pushed me in to from behind. Thus, I am squeezed between a rock and roll, hard placed dance toward the never arriving future of tomorrow and the time I have left to get there. Even though it seems that I am getting nowhere, I have to step lively to keep up.

I am but the smallest cog in the Wheel of Life, and yet I find great joy in being that cog and enabling other cogs to function more readily for my efforts to gear up, give my all and put a positive spin to the greater whole. We should all be so cognizant.

I don’t remember not remembering what it is that I’d forgot, I only know that where it was is where it isn’t and where it wasn’t might not be where it was not.

Conservative denial, dismissal and attempted cover up of obvious truths displays the Emperor’s New Close Minded Guise as fit for a Shadowed King, pulling (purse) strings, while the willing sheep (on their smiling way to slaughter) look up with delight at what they don’t see, and marvel at the stylish (as defined for them) substance of what isn’t theirs, instead of the less flashy naked truth held clothes to the vested treasure chest of mist communicreation paupersperity.  The corporate puppet masters slaver and drool at the carnage of society like coprophagiac rats in the basement of an out(sourced) house, willing, able and busily eating their own tale.

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This morning offers a re-pasture of my fielded desires in the buttered-syrup sun feeding my quick break fast to the plate, ready to serve up a hot one two out-ings in a row with all the battering rammed into well stacked imagery, as long as I spring enough May Pole sear ripping to tear my attentions astray for more. Don’t forget to complement and butter up the spread. The third time is charming, for sure. (I’m)personally Related, but obscured to Man dates of time (there’s no time like the present for whatever it is we might now be doing), unless you’re pie-eyed and paying attention in the other direction. Disjointed memory data holds a twelve step relapse program to ensure that nothing certain is changed and all else remains in flux, looking as good as a very thin pancake. Shear flattery. Food for thought: sounds like another morning meal to me (how lucky can I be?), as American as Ample Pie: Stupor Size Me. Thanks, that was good to the core, and now it’s done and I’m down to seeds and stems again, too. Sage advice needed. Supplicants may meditate and apply within.


With a refreshmentality of breath, cornered stones garden in the thresh of the afternoon as the day is reaped hour by hour into the evening harvest, to be bundled, sheaved and heaved upon the daily wagon to the hay barn of reminiscence and experience. Not unlike things that aren’t pancakes.

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Hot off the iceberg I land face first in the wall of the future like pancakes on a griddle ready to fry off the handle and stack up against what serves as fate around here, flat on the plait of this moment’s heady weave. It’s enough to make your head spin. Time to wake up (how does my hair look?) and smell the moment of Truth (lucky I showered): Breakfast. That’s news to me, let’s eat! Butter up the process and batter down the hatch. (Don’t forget to chew over your ruminations.) My personal taste of this episode holds forth that all mien are created equitably according to the individual strictures, idiosyncrasies and situations of the specific involved entity. Like snowflakes.

Like snowflakes? There are certainly enough of them out there today (I checked my window, just to make sure it works, and saw a variety of flakes littering the way-out premises), shouting cold tantrums in point and snoot heartless rapacity right toward the open perspective and decorum of that which is left from their bloviating. Enablers, sycophants, grovelers and stooges, they are all prim, proper and thoughtlessly adhering to the dictates of whichever way the fickle wind of corruption may blow to cover their insecurities, hard against reason and reality, stinging in the face of intelligent discourse, freezing the ability to engage in warming dialogue and burying themselves in piles of self-righteous indignation and false equivalency over the frozen grounds of moral hypocrisy and grift. Catch my drift? Snow foolin’.

The interactive weather reporting is like-minded in going down for the negative count and taking everything else with it. Voices gabber and blab indignation that anyone would be unable to see and believe the illusion of their foundational sway. Bundle up and chill. Dissemble, distract, defer and deny the undeniable as the unyielding lock-step zero effect has sway in swoon that rides the wave of polarized vortices and wind bags in the dark, for hot air can still blow cold in deep emotional fear put forth as misoneism and violent hyper-aversion to all that isn’t them. In the hidden shadows their freezing venom festers and collects, piling higher in sheltered corners, hidden from the panning view of warm sunlight in honest perspective and ethics, which tends to expose, melt and cake such in showing that it’s all wet. Who could gainsay a melted snowdrift that is a few drops short of a puddle? The louder they hold their ears shut the quieter their rationalized premise becomes. Lead on lackeyed adulators, logic and law here are dead to rights. Impeachy keen!

And that is food for thought on a cold December morning.

Chill Down

Free form falling into this worded moment as I prepare to divert to and engage in variations to communication within this particular format method toward observations, perspective and opinion. Nothing new there I suppose…Political Advice

If one would shine a light of truth to see others in an open, honest view, then such a light must shine to illuminate themselves out of their own darkness so that what they see is not through shaded vision.

A glib turn of phrase in red white and blue trim, gaily braided and looped snug around the neck of the poor and disenfranchised, to lift them up out of the misery of their pitiful lives and quiet the complaints.

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