Miscellanea

I am the oceans roar
I am the peal of thunder that splits the sky
I am the feeble gasp of a dying animal
Before the stars coalesced from free-floating gas and energy, I was
And I will be when the stars dissolve into the cold.
I am

I do not remember writing this

Pitiful dying complexity. Tears never come - there is no room for them. Too many years, too young, too old and dying to ever grasp the cold light of infinity - but never enough to lose hope completely, still lit inside by a force outside reason. Beyond beyond beyond cry darkness and silence forever and ever amen. Hail to the proud and imperturbable silence and light the night with our cries of frailty. Tomorrow never comes and yesterday never was as we are now. Come back, come back, all the things that I once held on to and all the things I wanted to grasp, if they are not one and the same. Melt into me, gods and goddesses, fill me and fill my soul like I never could. Scream with me futilely into nothingness and may the noise be music. Sing and dance with tambourine and harp, with drum and guitar, with all the calamity and dreadful pauses of pitied agony, live and die in me for I have nothing else. My heart has lived too cold - too inflamed - too small and too far -reaching. Melt into me. Melt into me. An infinite nothing may be nothing indeed, but I feel something, and that is enough to begin with, even if it is all I ever have.
Drink the placebo-world down with a cooling feel - a feeling of nothing.
I reek of smoke - I am smoke, burnt ashes from a fire that formed the world.
There are circling bats.

Lessons learned from Mad Men: Sex sells, but not directly. People aren’t attracted to ads with sex appeal just because they want sex. They want the thrill - the lifestyle where they can have anything they want - and they want sex.

I’ve got to admit, drinking gin and tonic and smoking tobacco from a pipe makes you feel like one bad motherfucker.

As astutely observed

Smoking a cigarette, doing marketing work, and listening to jazz. All I need is a suit and to cheat on my wife.

She found them all in refrigerator bags.

Some pop monstrosity moans out a rendition of “I will always love you.” The Anderson grange waits for rent. Lazy used cars – all American  - doddle and dodge their way across the once-plain under the solemn presence of far-off mountains. The American flag clinks away against the flagpole in the heavy breeze and the redwhiteandblue dispenses sugary nationalism in thirty-five cent Coke and Pepsi cans. The forest spills a few houses into the grassy fields where a FedEx truck meanders its way through roads soon to become trails down which Epperson Bros Auction and Flea Market ekes out its existence. Kent’s Meats/Kathy’s Deli because we’ve always done it this way. Telephone lines dart cross-country on wooden steeds – the plywood express. The Mountain Dew and mountain bike envy the mountains. A limited-plan cellphone sits silent in the wind.

The leaves of maple trees applaud and the raucous crows belch their drinking songs. Diesel roars to its death down blistering asphalt and the roar of wind mutes its wake as it dies into the distance. A prop plane flies low and bubbles and pops its way through the dusty-tasting air. There are no voices.

There is a rough stone bench and the wind smells of earth.

Soldier on/one more mile/endless nature/blindness/the burrows drift further on and a loudening silence hushes the calls of birds.