the ramblebrambleamble

Moth wind, eddying spirals. A billion lifetimes in a fraction of that moth wing flap. Sand of time like dream powder on moth wings surface the whirl whorld which holds its own in the void, ephermal like dust in the sun-crossed straits of one’s living room in high afternoon. A verb where there is nothing but noun. Adjectives are virtual particles and adverbs coagulate. Seeing and thinking you are seeing are two entirely different things.

Histormyth

Histormyth: an ambidextrous and more accurate description of the terms history and mythology, as history is steeped with the artifices of myth and myth has streaks of truth that could be called history. Both share a stormy background in which experts duke it out for the rights of their worldview verified as the dominant (not necessarily accurate) perspective on history and myth.

Peeoop

Peeoop: the act of urination and defecation undertaken simultaneously.

What a surprise! John peeooped his pants again!

Do you have difficulty peeooping? The measured time and volume of peeoopance suggests you do.

To peeoop or not to peeoop, that is the issue.

Sweetcheecks

Sweet·cheecks: The significant other of a gold-digger. The person with the moneybags in a relationship in which one gives and the other takes; the giver of sweet checks.

“Aww, honey, you didn’t have to give me these diamond studded pradas! You’re such a sweetcheecks!”

RuidoQuirks

Putting on unplugged earphones is like listening to seashells: ghost sounds whisper into my ear canal to speak of hard house and soft trance, of electronic earllusions eavesdropped by the Organ of Corti. Slightly buzzing with artificial music, I wipe the wax off earbuds and ponder the taste of earstuff. Hmm… what the hell.

What Do You Choose to Remember? Why?

I don’t know why, but the image has stayed with me across all these years: a dark beach of gray-foamed surf juxtaposed with a tour bus vomiting forth pallid spring breakers. Excited handchatters congregating on rocky jut. Memory in the third-person. Myself sickened at sight of such sugary jubilation and darkly resentful from some long forgotten slight, choosing to feel and see the wind through out-stretched palms. I can’t truly, rightly remember whether it was really nightfall or a scene coloured by my mood. Rude week, luna blue nights, jagged bottleglass fences.

Got the Tar Beat out of their Heels

We started at JB’s Stout, where it breathed as a multi-cellular existence and the patrons roared with a single voice when a rubber ball was passed through a hoop. Alcohol fueled anxieties and joys brought out the screaming lunatic in otherwise settled individuals as I pondered nationalism in its many faces. I sipped coffee that confused nostrils with expectations of beer reek.

The night found us across L-town deep in the heart of matters. It was pandemonium clothed in a sea of blue. Hands outstretched slap slap slapping all night long. The streets clogged with a procession of entourages that moved at an inchworm’s pace, of truck beds choked with drunken revelers, of overflowing cars breasting a tide of humanity. A kaleidoscope of triumph, of humanity’s many varieties re-enacting a macrocosm of comedies and tragedies. My retinas drank it all in: the angry upraised fist, a failed punch, scared scatterings; the wet-lipped wild abandon of lust on a bench play of dry congress unmindful of sopping drinks in hand; jittery children wired with the enthusiasm of their parents; a girl weeping into her cell phone while cries of joy and delight echoed above her head; the bemused expressions of helpless police officers who could do nothing but stand and watch, for the press of people is too much to moderate; the crunch of beer cans and water bottles underfoot; countless high fives that I imagine the owners of these hands waking up in the morning to find them swollen.

I wish I could do the scene justice with my words. Kansas fans are hardcore. Too hardcore for my tastes, really. Better sports than wars I say, but doesn’t seem to be working too well these days.

Purple Reflections

When posed with a question that cuts to the core of things, it is responded to with a fusillade of bloated rationalization and self-justification to deny the workings of a baser desire. Image is paramount, and to strip away the facade of company loyal dedication is tantamount to career suicide. Despite all the fancy words, it is still a game of pretend, but one that pays. Well.

The Disheartened Wave

There’s a fella in employ of Liberty Taxes who, to milk this lucrative season dry, stands outside on a busy intersection while wearing a grimy Uncle Sam get-up and waves with his plump unused arm resting on his gut. His ethic is that of postal carriers, come rain or shine, he’ll deliver your friendly, if not that, then non-committal, wave. He’s been there for weeks. Today finds him with his head bent over his bristled mustache and his pudgy fingers spasming ever so once in a while. Disconcerted by this change in demeanor, it took me a double-take to discover what was amiss. The crossword puzzle is a devious distraction, probably the complaint of middle management countrywide.

Bout of Existentialism

It’s one of these days that has an edginess, in the gray skies above, amid the motes that dangle in the stuffy air indoors, and inside the lethargic confusion within. A heavy futility settles upon you, and you fidget, knowing whatever you do isn’t of any importance, and you sink further in your scattered reverie as you realize any signification in your actions is a mirage. A directed aimless wandering with the primary concerns of the bodies food, sex, sleep in mind, and everything else is a just a irrelevant distraction we play at until the grave: an assured self-conscious strut in the street, finger-pricked tingle of pride in a small patch of embroidery, a heated weapons summit with big guns rooting for bigger guns, the turmoil of two lovers fracturing in a world-wreaking drama, the wolfish gaze of a politician upon his flock. Actions as physical objects in the mind, not quite different from the greed of consumerism. Moments are possessed by all as having intrinistic value and the utmost importance. Amid all the futile dramas of our vanity, there seems to be more worth–no, relevancy–crammed in a moment of minor Confucianism: man who eats a lot of carrots will shit orange.

Cascos de la Estrella en Calabozos

Eggshells crushed into coffee grounds make for better brew. By accident discovered hard-boiled eggshells make even better brew. Research reveals eggshells were used to prevent grounds from floating flecked into the mouth; it seems to work. Another method of achieving this is to let your joe cool for a short while then add a small amount of cold water. This puts into function some law of physics and drags these pesky grounds aground. It is also suggested the eggshells make your drink taste better because the calcium and various other compounds within absorb the the more bitter acids while leaving behind the fun bits. Word of caution: some people are allergic to eggs and just might go into anaphylatic shock. Swell up something terrible and turn blue. Would be wise to inform guest of special ingredient before breaking out the percolator.

I use New Orleans French Market Coffee and Chicory: it makes for a frothy brew, its foam guinness-like. I blend it with dollar store grade but just as tasty as premium brands Hill Bros Dark Roast, 1-to-3 ratio, for a nice morning buzz.

Quantum Foam!

Living in the present is a misnomer, or dare I suggest, an oxymoron of sorts. One cannot live in the present, for the light that reaches your retinas, however instanteous it may appear, is a signal from the past. By a divide of femtoseconds the past, preponderant paradox of perspective, perpetually dogs us.

Hear What You See

A most apt description of the deaf individual’s day-to-day existence.

Nowhereism

Nowhereism (No-where-ism): in all seriousness, a brand of literature that seeks to be given credence, as it honestly and inaccurately describes the direction our daily lives take, no matter how the parties intimate with said lives may say otherwise. It may pretend to intellectualism when there is none, spout blatant drivel when there is no need to, or just plain go nowhere at all. Sometimes referred to as nullibism. (Forget More!)

A Jiffy Moment

She, a jar of peanut butter in hand, caught the panty sniffer at his foul deed. Bad boy, bad boy! she cried. You should know better to wait until I’m around.

A.M.

Come up set your foot on that cool stool there, tread softly. Witness the heated circular discourse of tempered metal. Derange the little kettle whistle amid thermodynamic ruminations. Cold tin: plucked, roasted, crushed, pulverized beanstore: scoop, scoop, scoop: frosty steam collected within glass walls: French press. Hydrogen and oxygen compounds tumble over stainless steel lips to spitspotspatterplash! into a dreamy creamy nutty froth. Escapees of the foam flecked, pyrazines and thiazoles jostle and hustle the gaseous stairway of atmosphere to caress aromatically the nezepithelium. Sediment settled and the issue pressed, decanted. Mug bliss in its fulfillment as conveyance of almost holy apertif. Time for the morning congressional. Go, tread quickly, and leave in your wake a ringstained napkin and sugared treat crumbs.

Cheeseburger Hill

The advent of warm days, oddly enough, encourages congestion in throat of city, and the warm sidewalk is laid bare of human feet. Except… for two large individuals, who barely squeeze their portions within the wide sloping sidewalk. One, him, has to trample the grass and enroach dangerously close to the hillstreet’s edge. He remarks a something with a lumbering sweep of arm. She laughs in ripples.

X: (from intersection parked car, passengersays) Amoeba. Jelly rolls from one jelly roll too many.

Y: (from seat of driver, says) Look! Us thin as reeds, but them, they’re taking to the sidewalk in the sun. That’s dedication.

X: (in petulant passing, as intersection parked car becomes no longer intersection parked car) Probably spent their gas money on cheeseburgers. Me, I’d roll down that hill.

Gaiarticulations

An old child, she sleeps smiling in the loam with bright visions of herself blue and green in the void.

Her hands of bark and cellulose grip the heavens and wrests the breath from the wind that laughs through her fingers. Her bosom booms mountainously as she turns in her sleep. Sweet life giving river, her soft scented sweat of Mons, leaps and laps with all sorts of living things. She breathes, and the seasons turn.

Like an inside out body, sweet dreaming Gaia, at her iron’d core reaches out through the rough cloak of mantle and laps at the sky with green alveoli. Like veins that branch out of arteries at the mouths of rivers and the lips of lakeshores, a delicate balance is struck in which beast eats beast until the littlest beast is eaten or the biggest beast is beaten. The photosphere in the sky’s children a-plenty, the photons, grazes at the soft rough tough wild chroma of the planet and bounds away joyfully, transformed at the very amplitude of their being.

He and She

He gives she he hand. She take he hand and give he she gaze. She mouth wide stretch open. Teeth peek white reek softly. He she eyes brightly. He lips O a sound while he take she hand a kiss. He and she nose graze. She teeth meet he teeth clack! Tee hee she to he hee hees. He to she wink. To she he presses. She to he grasps she. He to she and she to he sheens a sheet of thought. Unacronymn’d: For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge.

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