Sunday, July 02, 2006



Okay, here is something to change my mood. And, believe it or not, it describes something that I actually experienced, sort of. Well, not exactly, but...


All was well. I looked down at the buildings, a rectangular array of rectangles with rusty red roofs, recognized them as the World War II surplus barracks used for married student housing from the 1940’s at least until the 1970’s, and I descended for a closer look.

Mistake. . . Space-time ripple. . . I stood in the courtyard-arena-stage-parade ground-desert, surrounded by four walls of windows—no doors, no ceiling—three stories high. The ladder reached just shy of the fifth floor. From half way up the ladder I flew out, noticed a busy warehouse workman turn, look at me and run into a dark room. I followed the covered breezeway-driveway at the third floor level outward and began an unwanted descent as I struggled to get the coat on while trying to rise. A horizontal ledge blocked my passage up the free-rise zone. Rigid, hard ledge; can’t go through. Grab ledge edge and wedge myself up to the all-rise zone and away we go.

Waking, I opened my eyes to . . .

. . . just outside my window.

He-She-It will not leave until a wind storm roars in, but the sky is clear and the leaves don’t wave-waiver in their paths.

The pine branch, the one who mirrors Cuba seen from a satellite, leads to the lavender rose-of-Sharon in another window. Of course, Rose-Sharon-Althea on the tennis court was unbeatable in her day, Wednesday I think it was—no, today is Wednesday—Wodin’s day. Wodin, some say, was my ancestor and he’s dead or forgotten and I once had a crush on Cynthia Wodin-Wroten-written on the wind in a plain brown wrapper with postage due, But they don’t do that anymore, do they? You must pay the Post Office—and no kissing either—unless you’re in Congress, in which-witch case no postage and lots of kisses—plus you have an easy go of congress with others: interns, junior staffers, pages. Pages and pages and pages, lots of pages of words and curds about turds, or was it birds? Birds and bees, that’s it, which takes us back to congress in the Post Office and the great cigar fad of the twentieth century.

So the question is resolved: playing Post Office is more fun than Monopoly, but Monopoly and monopoly and Congress and congress seem to kiss a lot these days. Some say they always have.

And always is almost-nearly-close to-approaching infinite time, which heals all wounds. When you are injured, the bandage should be wound awound and awound the wound, or Elmer Fudd will shoot the mizwable wabbit wonce, maybe twice. That’s not nice and he’ll be on ice. He’ll have an icy reception but no cigar. Cigars take us back to Cuba—and to Monica Lewinsky, who knows about cigars. Hilary tried to hire Lorena Bobbitt as an intern for the Prez, but ... The Prez, or was it Prez Prado? Nobody explained that to me. . . Nobody.

The End

summer sun
touches my face...
thunder booms


I like the part after 'the end' alot... the main part's pretty good as well, but weird; seems like it would do well read aloud.
Well, I was dragged along the bottom of the riverbed with this one. Great flow and word association!
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