During the summer storms I saw that the perennial toad did not return to eat kibble from the dog dish.
Last night I saw a different toad.
This is my dream.
This is my nightmare.
The phantasm of horror is a butterflies dance.
I ate a bug.
… and the wind cries mutton.
…whilst the phallus reeks of vengence.
A beer, half empty, has made me full.
The starling, striving to rise, beats down upon teh very air.
I got tired of climbing up the ladder that led me to a hole in the ground.
The mediocrity of excellence binds my heart with an unbreakable strand of cheez-wiz.
Freedom is a cracker.
Ear wax crackles like a limber duck.
Pot roast drives a bicycle under the dam.
Fish
Snails have no place here, for I am my own shell. I shall walk upon the grassy sea with molten feet, and only then shall I know Truth.
When the barbarians come to the city walls we will throw the gates wide, assuming all along that is just the Pizza guy.
Crouching is what Tiggers do best.
From within its petals, writhing, and struggling, the promise of new life puts forth its stench. I inhale it as a starving scaveger sniffs out the broth of boiling carcasses. Corruption begins in desire, and ends in surfeit pleasure. The seasons pass.
Ah, what shall such useless fury, thrown against the merciful mind of a poor soul, obtain if, in it’s reckless disregard for truth, love, or beauty, it will not maintain a cogent structure or reasonable veracity, like those so-called great men who have struggled valiantly against evil, only to find that they themselves were the evil? Therefore, let us not wager our fortunes on the undeniable fact that hatred is not found in love, nor love in hatred, but frequently they can rest beside each other, as two disparate furry creatures might frolic in the autumn mist together, dancing as tiny fairies, yet glancing suspiciously at each other as wolves eating from the same kill, peaceful in appearance, yet diametrically opposed to each other in nature, and so those tiny fairy wolves dance and snarl, like two boxers with garish shorts and outlandish tattoos who hate oat bran and are willing to pound the crap out of each other because one said Rocky and Bullwinkle were gay.
Against the vanilla pudding barrier that protects my mind, a moss covered monkey beats time and distance…holding the needle that provides relief to the golden bruises of my sweeping, ageless continuance of my reality.
The owls are not what they seem.
Writing about music is like dancing about architecture.
A tree fell in the woods.
I did not hear it.
The chipmunk’s was heard.
Broken toys litter the crushed-charcoal path, and the rain pings off the bent iron weathervane.
“I don’t even know why,” she says, her hands cradling each other like ducks in a nest, hungry.
Her hair drips from her head like hot honey, weeping while her eyes do not.
Potheads sometimes find mirrors that can see into the past, but the past is, of course, always slightly dissimilar.
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