UNTITLED

Just as the profligate, flagellate tendrils of the hum drummers patch their gates and the sky drips honey, I decide beyond all boundaries that, so what? It matters, it matters not, it's beside the point, which scintillates without light. True, this may seem careless, perhaps unethical. And there it would end. Tum te dum, dum!

I take my afternoon geezer nap, after a cup of coffee, having finally caught the rhythm. I'm an owl after all. And with eyes only slightly closed a vision visits. A humdinger. A hamburger with a slice of red tomato on top. Such a vision – perfect studio lighting, ad-perfect composition, sharp and clear as a RAW image captured by my FZ200. I stare dumbfounded, totally unexpected in the middle of a 15 or 20 minute nap, and as I stare it seems conscious of being scrutinized, and slowly, slowly fades to black, as though taking back a gift offered from another realm that had been offended! Gift horse in the mouth, don't look. Another daymare?

Well such to say, whoever I am or think I am, I will not be intimidated by this behavior. There are similar threats that abound just driving the freeways but go largely unnoticed, for all the distractions of infernal traffic. And of course to the normal reader this will seem the spinning of a demented web. To whom no apologies are due. But the grit of it, upon close examination, out of view of security cameras, will nonetheless cling tenaciously to shoes. The mud of an unremarkable field.

The actual reality of a circus tent is rooted in ordinary weeds, where the stakes are driven in. It is the yellow dry texture and smell, somewhat of skunk but deliciously diluted. The almost unnoticed things. That swirl in margins of awareness, out where reality actually forms, where the steam calliope toots its song like crickets gone bonkers. It is tympani thunder – ah, that got your attention! Odin burps! Odin farted. It is hemerocallis, homeopathic cures on the run, diluted.

I'm with Van Gogh, his raucous blue sky and blasted midnight that never saw a hamburger bun. Who am I to be bedeviled by such crap? I am the one who passed by Cave of the Winds and never imagined future puns. There were ferns around there that, later, I would learn, others thought were holy signs. Those who would admit, under close interrogation, to being members of the Clean Plate Club.

There were people in East Palo Alto, whiskey gulch, I admired and envied for their graffiti. Mind you, I've studied the guts of a grand piano, marveled at the incommensurable relations from octave to octave, and could never find anything so absurdly satisfying as that grandfather clock in the hallway of the front entrance of my customer on Central Avenue on the White Palo Alto side of the freeway, where cars whiz by in trances, immune to the Sound Wall of Modern Art.

And with a red tomato on top! How dare you? Don't you realize, after focusing on the sufferings of the slaughtered, how I cut meat out of my diet? You taunt me. I am merciless. You ignored the spider I captured in a glass to release outside after it insisted, two days in a row, hanging out on the shower door. And the screams of the Sound Wall, and the chemical suffocation of Syrian children, and the dilution of summer hill skunk weed clogging calliope pipes?

I can ask for sure, what has Cosmic Consciousness got to do with it? A cheeseburger perhaps, then the tomato?

The big CC (acronyms are all the rage now, but not a rant that's coming out Climate Change, since most of us ain't got the Consciousness) – no one Could Care. Don't take the dare, you could end up paying the fare, fools rush in to flood plains, snapping up bargains, virtual money disappears. I'm a Pay Pal rapper. a candy wrapper.

So hey! It's all coming down, right, like we’ve, been sung to already, so here's my Chocolate Cake.

Take the universe, jump the turn stile, it was weeds once, a circus tent with clowns and barkers and penny throw hucksters and pif! I say it's way far out in here, doesn't end with a flag on the moon, colonies of conscious ants that fart rockets, your normal McDonald's old-time radio show lifting skirts and pissing thermonuclear headaches because we be billions of light years away in thoughts where we thought it started, all at once, out of nothing, and lacking gravity until much later in the show when the fat lady came out to sing, the Horse Head Nebula whinnied, and there it all goes again, without even a Hawking nod and the Ides of March on a snod wall with colors we can't even see. Man, it's really beautiful!

So your freedom to swing your Truth ends at my nose. I know, I know, this sounds somewhat unethical. But isn't that a matter of how you slice the tomato? And who defined Van Gogh?