DEATH & ORANGES

Hunker down. God's got a bigger blower, I said. It's obvious. You get your leaves arranged in a pile, and whoosh! Most annoying. All gone at once. Admirable. Crickets in the wind.

When the chips are down, and things whirling around, it's no time for niceties. It's a fish ladder, and don't ask me why. That's just how it came down.

A rain of fish. Ordinarily we go around expecting the usual, usual, and if it gets off course a little, like gnats following a ventilator down shaft, we do a course correction. It just goes the way of watermelon shopping, when only the good ones are free to smell good. This is sort of cheating, it's sort of a redefinition of reality to assure everything is the way we like. But by the time you get there, all the fish have dived to the bottom.

This proves it's possible to say what can't be said. One must simply assume it's already understood, then post a few highway cones around it, as the cable company does during routine neighborhood maneuvers trying to track down a good parking space and prevent imaginary collisions.

I'm sure there are lots of other things that could be woven into warm socks. But evidently this will do. Great corral reefs of the world are not known for advertising their presence, relying on the seldom crashes of boats to reveal themselves. It is a strand of stories told again and again. Three jelly rolls and some men in a tub. Resurfacing over and over, wearing different T-shirts each time, diaphanous in final rags of the setting sun.

Twinkie is gnawing the end of my pen, sort of an Ouija dance. It will be soon chewed beyond recognition, the random welts of plastic chewed for not more sensibility than when gently stewed. Not in the least. And by now there are no more arguments about the weather. Our refrigerator hums, making platforms of sound less strained than tailored syntax. Having said all this before, while wearing more familiar suits, disguises, neck ties neatly knotted, why tarry with the present realization?

In my humble opinion, which is unquestionable, very few people want to add more fire starter logs. The BBQ is going full blaze. Our northern holocaust has wreaked its logic, leaving a smoldering sky. The ability to make sense is questionable, but playing wash tub bass is not.

It all goes to show that if public fountains lack reflective depth, people just throw in coins, nickels, pennies, the cheap stuff. Ever seen anyone throw in a silver dollar? Why is that? Good luck should command a higher price. Yes, it all goes to show that you get what you pay for. And if not paying very much attention, the complexity will slowly stifle your favorite app. So the White House protects itself from the truth, who cares? It was Fake News anyway.

Who would believe or want to, even, that as Louie sang, it's a wonderful world? You know? Like those three coins in the fountain. It's what you make of it. And in the long run you get more than you can pay for, and not one cent deducted for taxes. The realm of invisible is a cricket singing in the dark. Rather hard to hear when it's dark. But just forget to close your eyes and everything comes into focus. Not that it's easy. But what other choice is there when dealing with real reality?

So on a windy day, that's what I'd tell my customer. God, you know, not that I have any belief, but it's a familiar suspension of disbelief that most people can manage. There are buildings, books, songs, processions. It must be so. It is so.

Wet your finger and stick it out there? Feel that? Something.

As far as I'm concerned, death and taxes are kissing cousins. Let them have their fun. I'm not here to argue.