Sing, Sing, Sing

Things wouldn't have come to this, I was told, if only I'd been listening. There were important themes in cyclic history, but I was playing marbles. And on the silver screen, eyes and ears of the world blundering war games, you couldn't miss it. Peanuts.

So now we have the polar vortex spinning out justice. We're at the tipping point. There can be no thumb on the scale. I do not regret hiking into the forest to hear a green and yellow king snake.

Forget the bits of logic missing. Formalities. Let's begin a journey, here in the same boat, rowing like hell. There's a small crowd on shore, arms waving go! go! You are the boat!

Eyes and ears were a goose chase, and now we soar. We are toad stools and battle ships. Steaming on, we pass straight through the full moon. Nothingness. Seventy some odd years ago, knowing of now, on the back porch by that stream in San Carlos and heaven rising through slits in the crust of an apple pie, flame throwers of Iwo Jima, Hiroshima's searing flash. Oh,

I sense pining mountain streams.

And now we're splashing along just fine in some fashion, or maybe just me. Why do this?

A rainbow in the clearing.

relations that commute:

2+2=4

          4=2+2

sauce for the goose = sauce for the gander

if I am defined by my relations with you

then you are defined by your relations with me

and some properties that don't:

if you make nuclear weapons

and I choose not to

your definition has a void in it

All that splashing, the crowd on shore increasing, but they've changed their tune. Now it's no! no! don't go. Come back with us here, safe and sane.

To borrow a definition, nothingness is truly dark matter. It harbors permutations no one can see, but all can feel like a vortex.

Good enough. I didn't imagine much of a blue tooth feat, dismantling megabombs on our speck. Playing marbles, and no one asked my opinion. I might have said, well it's going to rain. Have you asked a bumble bee? Surely, you there on shore, you get my drift.

When anyone dies, the universe doesn't shrink. I also think sanity is ill defined. Big red buttons, tunnel borers chewing under cities to make command bunkers for those with invitations to view The End Game and yes, all of this will be called reasonable.

An atmospheric river is flowing over San Francisco. I'm not a good swimmer, Susan transplanted a clotch of daffodils from the near front yard fence out to flower beds in the backyard. There is a cup of Sleepy Time Tea on my night stand as I write. On the whole it might seem heartless to appreciate the miracle making itself, which also includes a hobgoblin coffle of little minds trudging. The conversion of our neighborhoods and small businesses into high tech barracks, just in time for the upcoming heat waves.

Playing in the rough and rubble of weathered phrases, I stumbled over this:

The best of all possible worlds is yet to come.

With grains of meaning clinging that haven't yet chipped off. Gently, I tap them with my pen. Out drops a tropical abundance of chattering macaws, brilliant vines snaking down, it is all quite uncalibrated. Or no, a pining for solid objectivity, enumerations, prickly polls of presidential veracity streaming like fire ants in a line. Or at least a puff of floating lint on the evening news.

I don't make this stuff up. It decides on a likely escape route.

I sense fresh snow melting, to vanish in a sparkling stream, and I hear the steam calliope of a traveling circus, its tremolo of echoes fading.

your Lyft ride in a reed basket

my red geraniums

are the transformations

of a small frog

singing softly