Italian Postage Stamp

 

 

No cents to it.

 

 

 



When the Artist

 

 

 

becomes the art.

 

 

 



...and it makes me wonder

I have a separate life out at the edge, sort of a peripheral existence where other things are important and odd distractions are the norm. 

It is there I write fascinating, amazing pages that illuminate life’s shadows and stretch the laws of reason - like 30 pounds of trash jammed into a 10 pound plastic bag.  The plastic becomes excruciatingly thin, even becoming somewhat transparent at the greatest stress points, but never breaking through. 

The problem is that I can never place such pages upon this blog.  They are written in images void of punctuation and fall just short of understanding.  Unlike this, where you are reading one word at a time - slowly piecing the picture together, the communication on my pages at the periphery explode sharp images all at once. 

If it were sound it would be like a massive speaker bombarding music through a vacuum.  There is no vibration or sound waves, but simply and quite loudly the very essence of Stairway to Heaven - breaking through the far side, colliding into one Galaxy after another like a steel ball echoing across a pinball machine, waking all inhabitants only to again become eerily silent.  

Unless of course I pull the plunger back once again, compressing the intergalactic spring with such great force that once I let it go the steel ball shoots out at twice the speed of light - flying off of the playing field and splintering through the back of the known Universe, crashing into and leaving quite a dent in time itself.

 It really is best that I leave that kind of stuff out there at the edge. It would be different if time didn’t have multiple sides - where dents just across the way became protrusions.  

You wouldn't believe the problems that causes.

 

 

The Waiten Sea

We’d pledged our love and sealed our fate

beneath the Banyan tree

and promised there to meet again

down by the Waiten Sea

 

Our hearts were young – our love was strong

Heaven filled the skies

I felt it in her soul that day

and saw it in her eyes

 

Now back from war this tattered soul

to greet my Sarah Lee

so filled with love and longing

beneath the Banyan tree

 

Not cross the fields of clover
do I see her coming here

Not carried on the summer breeze

that drew our hearts so near

 

Where is my love who promised then

when youth was ours to be

long before this war and age

gave such a look to me

 

What’s happened to my dearest love

where is my Sarah Lee -

whose promise is a promise gone

down by the Waiten Sea

 

Long past the beating of my heart

forever at my post

through August moon and winter’s start

to be the Banyan’s ghost.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



Goals & Mayonnaise

 

The whole idea of having a goal came up at the end of the book, Trout Fishing in America, by Richard Brautigan.

It was always his goal to write a book that ended with the word mayonnaise.

He was successful.

It was in that book I found

 The Cleveland Wrecking Yard.
 

It is a wonderful little story that has stuck with me for years.

 

The photographs in it are not by F. Stop Fitzgerald.

 

I believe it was Henry David Thoreau's goal to improve upon the nick of time.

 

 

   
It's always been my goal to use F. Stop Fitzgerald somewhere in my blog.

Ta Daaaa


 

 

 

 

 

Triple Espresso

To fluff or scrunch

A difference makes

For dreams aren’t far behind

 

Like shadows left

Behind a day

For someone else to find

 

To toss or turn

Through sleepless nights

And wake unrested still

 

While asking more of coffee

Than coffee ever will

 

In Memory of Puff

 

Rust in Peace