Half way done begun

Driving in my car I listen to tapes. Of music, essays, comedic farces, but so many of them are halfway through. Tape decks in cars are notoriously slow. You know? Like there is some government mandate that says this must be so. The economic collapse will continue and the terrorists win if the tapes in cars rewound at a reasonable speed. But because of this slowness, I don’t rewind. I just continue to listen to the tape from where ever it is. The last half and then the first of an album. Never mind the artistic integrity of the set list that was design with great care by the musical artists. Halfway through and then begun the essays that I fully understand only after hearing the first part of the argument, last. The comedic genus that is at first wasted and then relished as the set up for previous jokes is finally understood. It’s too bad really.

Drop leafs and return envelopes

In some country, that may as well have existed on the moon, the government –of the moon people—blanket the cities with leaflets. This really happened. In Russia I think. I envision an old WWII bomber filled with staunch faced goons throwing armfuls of pink and white paper out of the belly of the flying beast. Farmers below looking up athe fluttering mess, this floating whispering montage of fluttering bodies. Perhaps they seek out those who can read to decipher the strange words.

But this reality that I imagine is far away. This happened. One book of stories, of history, tells me. But sitting here, now, I have no connection to the small town farmer, just as you have no connection to me, Not really. I am not a real thing, I am not an actual person. I am some figment, and assigned profile within your mind to give a body to the voice over with which you read. You cannot make me real.

Offensive Usage of Wiper Blades

Some people just cant stand to have their wiper blades on. I, really, hardly notice. Sometimes in life that is how it is. We see tings close to us, like wiper blades, and depending on our moods they can bother us or not. Sometimes we see the wiper blades, sometimes we are able to see past them. Peering at the road. Then sometimes we see the water sloshing. The rubber squeaking. And all of it rubbing someone the wrong way.

This Old Poor

Poor house. I watched family after family move in a nd out. Like creatures living in an old oak. Like grubs really. Like parasites in some fashion they burrow in bring with them all manner of relatives, of things, clothes, toys. Then they leave. Poor house is left with just a little more old. Until you finally look like a man wearing down on his last legs. You sign more. You creak more. Each pop of a joint tells the story of another family who had come and gone and grubbed out your innards. Perhaps eaten away the last of the heartwood. But before the families stoop signaling that last finality that would leave you to fall away, there come the lovely scavengers. They pick clean the bones, making something stark and still beautiful out of the refuse. In place of life they leave art that still yet becomes the home for others. Poor house reborn through those who still have an eye for the magic of transformations.