Breathe

We take a breath
and breathe!
But take a life, it's killing,
... murder, Ma
What do we take when we
Deathe?
They (all) say
"You can't take it with you."
not without a to-go bag.
it's messy, Missy

Breath be not proud
"for your ties are too loud."
an even (not odd)
couplet
written in the
last century -
the last completed century,
Donne now.

I would give my life for my century
in a hearbeat.

poetry and/or extinction

extinction is called that
because it really stinks
or
or
it used to be a tinction,
but reconsidered

I read that bits of organic gunk
were spread around much of our
so large system by
the big asteroid event
66 million years ago
give or take

Do people really believe this?
only if they are moved
by the movie
or rent the movie
shred it
like steve or
jeff beckons
or (slave name) jimi

I, me, I am a slave
to notes
of no particular distinction
I smell like an old man
because I am one
and saddle-y
when I die
I will
briefly
smell even worse

a dictionary for the new millenium

Mill an yum!

I think a new dictionary is in order.  At least a glossary.
Today's term:  use
derivative: usage, useage (sic), used, usual, us

They want to use somebody's work.  They will pay for the right.  Not unusual atoll.  What they will buy is the right to use the work, aka "use rights."  "Usage," in contrast, is always meta.  Always about WORDS and how they are employed.  "Common usage" is what I mean.  Odd, there is no "Un-common usage." but there is uncommon use.
If you take this lunatic ranting and use it to sell wicker, that's a use,  Not a usage (or useage, sp, no)
No such thing as usage rights.  Although it is clearly part of what language is that I can use any word I want, correctly /incorrectly ... whatevs!.  There is no real penalty for messing up.  Other than looking dumb.  There's no vocab jail.  Yet.   No bed-wetter's prison either.  Damp!

It's not unusual to want to be used.  I learned it first from a Truffaut film.  Everyone wants to be used.  Opposite of useless, which no one wants.   I try to keep moving.  That way, no one can be sure I'm of no use.

I could use a little help.   Mean it.  My therapist goes just so far.  He gave me succulents, some with pricks.  Next week's term:   Pricks

cookies

I have never been caught with my hand in the cookie jar.  Would have, but do not have such a jar.  If I want cookies, by God...!  The other kind, the kind you generate by visiting this page, are infinitely sweeter.  Those web cookies help the Amazon Primers and Vulgar Grads in digital Silicon Valleys all over the world to know, without a doubt, that I thought about pickup trucks for 1 minute 32 seconds yesterday.  And that I want a black one.  Not 4WD.

Wicker chairs too.  A lot wicker.   And teak oil.  Which contracts to T'oil.

So, we all leave this trail of desire called 'Cookies.'  And the cookie monsters aka Al Gore rhythms in stuffy dig it all closet cubicles seek quasi benignly to grant our outermost wishes.  Sex, not love.  Recipes AND meals.  The presents, not the pasts.  New arms and legs, and no head.

I am told it's all about followers.   And heaven help us when they actually catch us!
More sugar!  doh!

Joining the other Humans

It's like there's fee for joining up - the opposite of a signing bonus.

Currently, still, I live in the country.  Alone/  Sort of alone.   But here in the country, there are now more mustangs (Fords), and man they must stang! And there are young boarders on their skate boards.  And quiet streets full of emptiness like death.   Retirees plugging in at the RV park.  Or parking at the fire plug.
No one joins me.  But it's not the country anymore.  Not for them anyway.

My old house was moved out here, to the middle of Egypt, in 1973 - the year I crossed the Mason and Dixon line for good - and ill.
And then slowly, but then with greater and greater speed and thickness,  the masses - replete with jobs and children in prisons made by the Independent School District and home entertainment centers - cluster nearby, talking about me just up the Nile from them.  And wishing they could live in my house, on my few acres;  to which all the deer and the antelope and the rattlers and opossums and rats and mice and bugs and smaller bugs and wasps ....  have flocked.     Since the new houses are 6 per acre, you see.  Or 7 for luck.   It's so quiet in those neighborhoods!

I mostly avoid them.  When I don't, it's usually okay.  Which has led me to think -   "I shall leave Egypt forever and join folks in the old home town," which has grown into a pulsing deathstar of booming modern hubub.   (That's Austin, TX to you)

So, yeah, there's a fee.   $Half a Million.  Inexorably.     I am to be a neighbor among neighbors.  And I will be well-liked by one or two.  And my favorite city haunts will be increasingly haunted by me, on foot even.   And my grandsons will visit, on holidays.  And my soul will not extinguish, and I will sometimes not be sad.

Hurry!  Supplies are going fast!

Hum us a few bars

It's spelled HUMMUS,  Or HOUMOUS.  I prefer the former.   People actually eat chick pea.  They do not drink it.  But this comes as no slurprise.   Hommus (erectus).   The stuff smells somehow like armpit.   And it's not the tahini.   As a matter of FYI, humming is perhaps the most difficult human sound to record.   It's like mumbling.  Speak up dammit!

Which brings up:  What is a human sound?   Really does not matter.   I was full of piss and vinegar earlier.   Then I emptied.   It was transient, momentary.  A burst of Spring.  Because it is actually Spring today.  So I looked up how to spell hummus AND Spring.  Its full name is Springtime, for obvious reasons.  Spring is when you wish you had your lawn mower.  If you have a lawn.  And especially if you have a HOA.

It is my plan to move, for my waning years, into the city, where there are an increasing number of armpits.   I will mooove to a dairy barn and run the airconditioner plum out of its mind.  To its utter limit.
The new house is so cool and hip, OMG.  Its only obvious problems:   No windows in the bathrooms. The shower is set up so when you turn it on, you get wet.   (Seems like the idea... but think about it.)
And, oh yeah, it costs 5 years' pay.   And it's always raining.

Sulphur.

Oh, and the septic tank is never full and therefore fails inspection.
You can expect it.
I always (used to) say, if you expect to rate, you gotta expectorate.
But it's false, as the day is longer, in Springtime.  I sprang forward.  Darkness waits.

The Stock Market

The Stock Market used to be in Fort Worth.   Now they have museums there.   When the stock market was there, it was full, overfull, with stock.   Mooooving all the time.   Over time, the stock died.
Then the Stock Market got moooooved to New York (and Tokyo), and it is still overfull.   But the stock mainly does not die.  In fact, over time, the stock grows.  Sometimes it splits, but the offshoots somehow grow heads and toenails and lead more or less normal lives.
There was often something wrong with the market in Fort Worth.  Stinky.  Hoof!   The markets in New York and Tokyo are also stinky, but sometimes when there is something wrong (like stinky), there can be something called a "correction."  Which, oddly, makes things REALLY stinky for awhile, but not forever.  It has to do with methane and the president.
Who is a coward.
Well, I just said that because he grosses me out.  I was on a plane this morning, coming home from Memphis (is that a song?).  And I noticed that pretty much all the men and most of the women grossed me out.  I am picky in the extreme.  None of those people pay dividends.

It's a good day to take stock, and sell it.   Or keep it, but in order to improve the heirs, make sure to have lots of death benefits.

Happy Valentines Day.  !