A JITNEY ONCE

Sinuous, pale as spider threads.

The existence of this phrase is very old – starting anew. Is it not similar to the Big Bang theory of astrophysics? We have a virgin birth, appearing out of nothing and nowhere, preceding time and infinity. Then, if cause precedes effect, my days in green trees will surely be embalmed to good effect.

Riding a pale breeze, spider webs from Australia will eventually float away. No doubt there will be objections to this, lacking as they do any tether in grounds of solid reason. But reason, I reply, trembles in the presence of reality. Here we have such phrases of time honored tradition, yanking on coffle chains of logic, to loosen their hold on enslaved humanity.

What is there now in the canon of scientific procedures, steeped as they are in mathematical commutativity, that forbids a reading in reverse? where an effect precedes its cause. Those who consider this are not deterred by an ominous clanking of offended logic, and realize there is neither beginning nor end. Nothing hidden in the runes of infinity. This is taken from the world of petunias in their age of forming blossoms. . .realizing admirers are tone blind and color deaf, adding only noise.

Eventually, as the hoard of daily minds enter sleep, the noise ceases.

Not just cars with dead batteries that await the dawn, but rather the tide is out. A pandemonium of beliefs has yelled itself hoarse. In his cypress the seagull sits with folded wings. All that was well and good is past remembrance. Nothing more to complete.

What I played on my piano is gone. Freedom is not giving it a second thought, it never repeats. No regrets the missing interpretation of what wasn't recorded or written. Snowflakes unique melt back to their source. Notes return to silence.

The most amazing surprising revolutionary thing is that statue parked in a puddle.

A hot cross bun, however, is just what it seems. Just add cinnamon and it becomes a cinnamon bun. But a bun is a bun. All the rest is what we choose to make of it. The sow's ear, yes, becomes a silk purse. But neither of these would we care to eat. I think that some investigations are taken too seriously.

All well and good. Sloshing in puddles I choose to go bare foot in the rain, mud squishing between my toes. The extent of the universe is seen at my toenail, but doesn't end there. Which is, of course, connected to the toe bone, connected to the ankle bone, on up the coffle chain to my bony head. Therein lies the great mystery. Knit and purl is more than my toes can know. It is a leap of faith to think of something or other further out, it's pattern planned ahead, waiting like the great teacher, patiently, for me to discover it.

There is so much sloshing about. At that puddle I was a frog. Then jumped in. And splash! On rainy days passing carts leave deep tracks.

This oxcart has heavy wheels. It was a jitney once, with a fringe of bright colors painted round the roof, and down the sides, and outlining the open air seats, and clearly a dopers dream gone wild. It smuggled cigarettes, somehow making me think of a Camel. Beast of burden. But as the world burns and habits change, is it possible? Those wheels that once mounted flashing swords.

As I write, robin returns. He had been plucking walnut pieces from the fence, not making a chirp. I had been reading, inhabiting a mind that was contemplating endless reaches, infinite cycles in the harvesting of nectar bees. Stories of an oxcart that became heavy with dew, why chirp? For now there is a breeze.