Pliant Earth

Same old dreams
The sanity sings its empty song
Lizards crawl frantically through the stream beds
and the strawberries
The wild Indians are dancing,
The vegetables ripe in the icebox
Gelatin in the sink
Nothing left under the microscope
Another reason to drink

The Hooker-Beating ShamWow Guy Is a Renegade Ex-Scientologist

Another French Horizon, and the Jews said a prayer for the Sun.

It’s quiet here in Aspen and everything is the color of mud. The time shrimp are disappearing and the endless whispers of the moon are beginning to appear. This mud is going to melt all the snow early, and maybe cause flooding. Later, there may be drought. All because of mud. Mud can be a terrible thing. But it can also be fun to play in. I haven’t seen anyone playing in this mud lately; but it has been cold. That’s about all there is to say these days, what with all the shrimp heads and the hand grenades. I figure it’s about time to take a break. Things are getting weird around here. I don’t think Marilyn Marx was wearing a one piece out there on Highlands closing day. Aspen may be getting ants in its pants, and the laundry is in the oven. Maybe it’s time to get a little more education, then let’s make a comeback and run for mayor. We could make this A-town again, where you don’t have to spend half your wages for a room in a three- bedroom house. We’ve got to make sure we don’t let them turn the beloved Popcorn Wagon into something out of Monster Garage. OK, they already did that, but there are other things to be done, or undone. I hope somebody gets on it. Goose Wrangler is off to the city. Over and out. I hear you loud and clear boss. Come in Honolulu. Do you read me? Over.

Love

Words the mixed confection
Of crisp slow dilapidation
In the midst of now

Woman calls 911 over lack of shrimp in fried rice

Life is Strange

Moves of the heart are a mystery
Twisted grooves of symmetry
Senseless dreams of whispered fate
The hearts wings fly their way
Clouds beating against the breast
The soft horizon
Pulls