MARMALADE MIND

It's a lively bitter taste for Mind. Something must have slipped. It gains importance when capitalized, but with an endowment of quince and honey? We are Siamese, if you please but, if this were taken seriously, perhaps headed for the dumpster.

It could be rescued. Specify bloody pus, throw in a medical mystery, it might turn a journalistic head or two. With enough of that a federal grant could be in the mix.

To tell the truth, though, the phrase was a volunteer. It might sound sort of sweet, I guess.

To ignore this harmless gift could stifle further gifts. An inquiry, dumpster or not, seems advisable. It's a delicate balance – quince and honey versus the journalistic bait.

With mixtures there is a category in common. Most people will avoid the inedible possibility. The edible one achieves a tartness that seems suspect, coming down to an apology for a sweet tooth. We are born with proclivities.

Marmalade Mind contains possibilities that result in undiplomatic messages. How else to put it without being sued? Gray terms are best. Gooey gray is the scientific description.

Goo to the dumpster, if you please. Mind is emptiness of all things.

Just sketching a breeze, the lilt of it sifts through fingers. A spare moment is any moment taken at face value, followed by a bunch of laughing kids. Leaves flutter. Warm sun owes no homage. All the written wisdom of ages preserved is toilet paper waving in the breeze, prayer flags bright red and blue, remnants of a carefully trained mind. Just the lilt of it slipping through bright boards beneath the boardwalk. Ask not, ask not if it blows a freedom tune, dancing through fingers, just sketching.