Ode on Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood

We finally had the right Swiss Army blade and gob of Vaseline to split open the atom Jimmy had plucked outta dem dare frog eggs. Power-up dat fucking piece o' shit solar TV, Dad bought from that Vietnam Vet at the Woodbury Flea Market. Finally some awful, hilarious K-Pop where the albino cock-less wonders with mad eyebrows dally-dance with well-tapered tit-forward steaming piles of vanilla shit representing duh female form. So gloriously false and mesmerizingly horrible in our plucky tree house. The reality would pass the rest of my life as nostalgia forever at odds with its ever-arriving presence. 

Extrapolating

Radio Shack™ "pillow speaker" from earphone port - white plastic idli of sound. 14. First time - Knocking on Heaven's Door™. Mysterious. Magical. Kids asleep. Parents downstairs. Dishes done. Distant Dave Brubeck. Then LA. Can't think of a tattoo. Stained glass? Guns & Roses? Stylized stylized. Ohhhh yeah baayyybeee. Life in the Everywhere Studio. LA Guns in the ground. Cold black cloud coming down ... yet ... what thou lovest well remains. Dylan, 32. Me, 25. Don't cry tonight, there's a heaven above you. What's bad is good; what's good is bad. Anything without victory has a chance ...

I was walking with a friend and

his floppy Springer Spaniel. John was a second father to me in high school, a preacher, a vet who would die too early - Agent Orange. John might talk about jogging into a tree because he'd been mesmerized by the clouds.

                "I've always liked cloudy days myself," said I.

                "Why is that?"

                "Too much light gives me nothing. I like the unfair shafts bringing my attention to some sapling or that corner of the basketball court where trash and leaves have accumulated."

                "I still think you might become a preacher."

                "Like you?" I said.

                "Ha ha, no, like you."

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So much bad art; I make much myself. A numbers game; it can't snow every day. Then there's the scope of flow; one's landscape is another's ski resort. And don't discount the need to stumble, fart stupidly, be more than obvious. An awful poem -The NY Review of Books. I've always hated this publication - a good read. Another poem regarding the white page: full of muted agony and tempered ecstasy. I'm happy for it; I realize what's missing, what terrifies: if the writer's skill at projecting life upon the emptiness, then imagine what they must do to people.

The transaction - (commas as brush strokes)

He paid for every orgasm, every touch of her breast, her matted fur, with every shaft of forgetting recalled in obsessive strokes of his brush, layers of wet ocher, taupe, and true black. No sense thinking in dollars. He paid in the old-fashioned exchange of experience, never equivalent, concerned, crazed by the i'mbalance, the unaccountable space as framed by two truly appearing, one fleshed in, the canvass a bill to be paid, never enough, such is their beauty, the musk one imagines within the remains, the truth that, at best, the image, she, must be, become something more, less.

You don't need a Shaman to tell which way the Winds blow

Accurate facts on the ground merely multiply the hype within the labeled clouds. The curse reversed. Originally, weather was interpreted like chicken innards. Predictably, awe, mystery, panic accumulates. It lies in the loss of the curvaceous. The sexless Dad, out of retirement, points up the cold air font. The grid of flights, color-coded everything, scrolling banners below: watches, advisories, finally emergencies. Capital's regions buried momentarily. Miss work. Miss Universe. Yellow trucks, salt's lot. We miss a history to deny, shovel. Profane storms pale before miracles & plagues. 

Like this morning

She was one of those cousins I'd never known about. Darker skin gloved in a white turtleneck. Texas, December. Soft nest of black hair - part tumbleweed, lint and 100% Annette Funicello. Their truck descended the horse field, dropped us at the filing station. "We'll walk back," I said. The party was in back. A rattlesnake stuck out of a manhole, terrestrial eel, a solitary stamen waving about the throat of a cement underground flower disappearing into the earth. Fifty of her closest friends were situated around big bowls of chips. I was happy. Everything new makes me happy.