The Nuggets and the Pepper Outdoor Docudrama: scenes from a bistro.

On the way to speak to Laertes, a journey in itself, MKL stopped along the way and gave talks about the Way of Heaven, among other things, some about gardening, some about animal husbandry, and he took delivery of several scrolls from the inside capitol.

"What shall you would?" asked the footman.

"I would what I do, and nothing more", MKL replied.

Villagers went about, to and fro, on their way, and at their leisure or at their bit of toil, bowls in hands, and smallish glasses of liquor. 

MKL spared a glance at the scrolls, unfurling one of them.

"I shall take what is required, and perhaps a little less" MKL said after a moment of thought between and intertwined within.

"You fain modesty."

"I had the most to take in because I was perhaps of all the most empty of the lot" said the footman.

"Indeed, you carried the bags, or at least pointed the ass that carried the bags" said MKL.  "You are a Claudius hiding in the bushes in front of the Praetorian guard."

"It is taxing of the body, to keep focus on and on, as such", said the footman.

"Or taxing of the mind, as it were, such as the scrolls of state" said MKL.  "The mind takes nutrients, minerals and such, just as the body."

Winds Across the Aeolian.

There is no music so heavenly as an Aeolian harp, and the Aeolian harp is nothing but a set of musical chords arranged in harmony, and then left to be touched by the unseen fingers of the wandering winds. And as the breath of heaven floats over the chords, it is said that notes almost Divine float out upon the air, as if a choir of angels were wandering around and touching the strings.


Confucius went to see Lao Tan and they queried on Benevolence and Righteousness, and Lao Tan replied long to Confucius, in his questioning, that the way of Confucius was whatsoever bad and wrong, however much it removed a man from "natural simplicity".  Upon returning home, Confucius would not speak for three days, and then pronounced Lao Tan without fault.

Just as Christ and Simon Peter volleyed back and forth, so it is with any, that anything be built on a solid foundation, therefore a wise man looks and checks among other duties, to secure his foundation.  Just like Christ the cornerstone, the great mystery, and the Tao said too to remove blemish: a solid foundation is needed, just like the first steps of any journey.

Conversely, faith as the scattered mustard seed, falls on many types of soil, and good, watered soil, a good crop doth make. 

Life advice of a trudge.(Do the Back and Forth, yall, do the Back and Forth)

Comes a point a person wonder if his her goals are out of sync with how things should be.  There can only be one in the one in one hundred, and maybe its not you.

Consider it this way, if the alpha tells a really good joke, you might be in that 1% that really gets the joke and his a good laugh, despite everyone else.

Maybe, and maybe, as Aurelius said, the universe is constant change, and we can only abide the natural or be caught in the switches.  We will be eventually caught in the switches somehow, somewhere, but we need not course to bring it off early, as if to say, "I'm too busy today digging my own grave."

Neigh, man is a political animal, and a social animal, the two intermingling.  And man is submerged past his nose hairs in a world of nature that is colluding to kill him, as they remind us our precious life-sustaining oxygen is also highly corrosive.

Comes a point a person lets nature come to him, and he doesn't seek to dictate or dispute nature.

Comes a point where the stone in the stream is worn smooth, and then cleanly abides the constant flow of waters.


Status in point.

"And then he suffered him to sin so that he might know sorrow,

And thus know what well-being is--to be aware of it naturally..."

-William Langland, The Vision of Piers Plowman.

The "Hawaiian Practice" of the Mantra releases some mood altering chemicals in the brain.  To say, "Thank You".  "I'm Sorry". and last but not least.  "I Love You."

A continual practice, and the practitioner hints at something I've been researching, kind of a low-level telepathy, or a kind of selective rote of pheremones or something.  Some kind of almost Uncertainty Principle of well-being being possible for say, Point A to effect Point B.

I go first to the original American parapsychologist from North Carolina, and into his research, a maze of quantifications without any kind of statistics buried in them, but a manual for conducting pure research in the future.

My other project is to meter the fuel/air mixture from my carburetor, to tune it good, and generally tune the truck up, the 350 small block.  I know the spec to look for on the instrument, and the points on the power band I'm looking for.  It of course, isn't a race car, and I'm looking for not just a slight improve in fuel economy, but something of a more efficient use of what is really in there.

*My butthole.

*Donnie was on the bouncy castle.

a word about Faulkner's south

"Yoknapatawpha", the place.  Devilry and misgiving, the reason du tre, in the ignoble platiment, permaclay sediment root basin.

Crooks and halfwits coursing through the ruddy embers, and the thing in the sky, a ruddy ember, too, and all that, emblazoned something of a bloody blend of purple across the dreamsplatter of what would be blue sky.  Chem trails?  Something from God's eyes to our own?

Even the Indians had slaves, the native peoples in the Mississip, had negroid slaves that only knew what of the tongues of all the white and Original Americans, knew what they heard and that was all.

Ikkemotubbe had rode one of those two wheels around in Corpus Christi and Galveston, had rode the day boat across with his bicycle contraption resting against his knees as he cracked roasted peanut hulls and sipped some kind of "health tonic", some Doctor Harris's "Get Spry Before Your Ass Hits the Grass."  Kick in the nuts it was.

He was whistling, "Goodbye Porkpie Hat", what he knew of it, and he was remarking to himself in his think-train that he could make the contours of a woman's nipples under a new-fangled blouse, something French, maybe, the top.

There was the gay Snopes, the bitcoin thousandaire Snopes, and a few others, the distant cousin that was up at Parchman "till someone else's soil", pulling almost 12 years for a presumed murder of dubious circumstance and less evidence, sent up by almost a suggestion rather than any actual detail.

There was a youngun happening along with a peanut candy bar, and a few of them Snopes noticed him, the way wild dogs catch something on the wind, and they pounced as a pack, first encircling, then coming up on the boy.

Colonel Sartoris and them.  Bayard, and all.  Them people.

The fugging bug in the wug, and monotheism, and weirdness peppersprayed.


I put the tiny figurine of a child right into my pocket, slipstreamed it right in there, snug as fugging bug, it wug, right in there, like a little scorn that sits right on the edge of the razor line on the neck, and it sat there like a discontented hemorrhoid that might feel like something with powdered sugar.

"Are these your gods?"

"Who has the time for more than one god?" I asked, noting of modernity a certain terseness, a rudeness born of brevity, economy of movement, what they called wellness, but it wound up slicing on everyone else just like a box cutter, a bitchwheel.

I was saying, indeed, some pre-Atlantean Pangea society, something not even Morgan Freeman would hear, some kind of nature thing, and people and nerve energy and stuff: stuff from the old days before the Tower of Babel, and I would toss the thing in the river if it really meant something, put my own scorn to its scorn of things natural, and churning in change and so forth, toss it right away into the bushes if it came to that line of thinking, and that was borne on the wind, as it were.

"Two men burnished my battlements, accosted me in the thoroughfare."  And they blew it up into a whole army, and I said, "fuckdiddles", and was throwing things around, the napkin holders, salt and pepper shakers, making a rude patron of my own person, and smiling pleasantly all the while, with some dissonance between mind and body.

They said, "you're an old soul."  And I said, they were backhandedly blaming me for the crucifixion, or something, the mass-murder of Jews or something.  I'd have it not, and hold onto my own, I thought, non-chalantly kind of in a little miasma floating along.

They called me an old soul because I was weird.

But then, to me, they're weird, too: weirdest about the muddy streets and road-shi**ing horses and donkeys.  I didn't take long to come back with that, a self-defense, but a rebuke of my own, which might be bad form, but the underlying point was that I didn't think I was weird at all.

Two of Coins and the Juggler muddles the duddles.



One can feel wisest when ruining his own life, just as he can feel comfortably mature in misery, or empty when filled with joy, just as in a lonely road, I notice myself, and yell farther back at my tom cat.

So.  Two divergent threads, as per the Two of Pentacles, the duality, the two tasks pressing.  There are actually more pressing in my world, and I'm juggling them all.

First the workout.  On the off-day from the free weights, I walk a lot and use the stationary bike.  Luckily, I've got beautiful scenery on the walk, and the splendor of the aging screened porch for my biking.  Pics later from the walk.

I walk approximately a mile, or maybe a mile and a tenth or two.  Then I take a short rest, usually about 30 minutes, while I check email, maybe hydrate, check in with my people.

Then I'm on the pavement again, walking it up, for one more session, aiming for the same length.

This morning in session two, I found myself yawning, tired, and I could feel my blood glucose decreasing, with that special weakness.  Well.  If I don't feel the blood sugar level decreasing, I feel it when its down usually.

But I look to the cards, having planned some drawings, some graphite, some charcoal, and I had taken reference photos of Maple, Walnut and Water Oak younglings of less than 12 feet in height.  I notice something about the cards, and that's repeats, but I'm starting to get meanings for a lot of the cards and this morning, I was juggling a lot in my world.

Then there's my BA of Lit to work on later in the day.

The drawings can wait.  They'll be, as stated above, graphite some, and charcoal some, of various flowers and trees.  I'll post those for sale online.  They'll be 9x12 in or 11x14 in.

Sleeping Giant, Boonjoggled Frigadore.

We need not a titular figurehead to prowl our paraphets....  How he seems in aspect, similar to that visage of the late king....  List!  List!

He beckons us.

A besmackled flavor about the auditory senses, poison as it were, delivered to the ear, a queen playing false to her lord?  Who says such, but the penny pages, the roiling machine of words that is as much, a poison balm thrust upon our eyes....

Sir Earl Warren?

Smite not, thee, out at the continentals, for they are too embroiled in their own beer-habit and other such, the setting out and all, and all that, and tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, creeps by in this petty pace, a one note operatic that stagflinches our recepticles and bangsparkles and so forth about our own paraphets, and just the other, there was the national reliving nightmare, not of Donald, but of the towers falling.

There were psychokenetic "breakers" focused intently, as prisoners, against their will, focused about breaking the beams that held the tower, and in New York, a fu**ing waterfall in the ground, like they have to build sh*t on top of the national wound.  Rome figured it further to not build over all the ruins, and so forth, towards modernity, but New York and the bicamerals don't have that kind of gag reflex.

They changed Spiderman so the towers wouldn't be in it, played that falsely, editing the footage, and I had a six hour T120 of CBS with Dan Rather on that day, trying to keep up with the almighty torrent of words coming in, and him not able to prepare his script.  He had indeed cursed building seven into oblivion about an hour before its demise, and the port authority clearing out because of funny noises, and I mean, how many idle people with video cameras in the heart of the city?

He stabbed Polonium on the hyperactive geometrical precipice of the eyes of the internet, and Olivia Newton John was kaput, there were Marvel films nobody really fiddle-faddled about.

Larrietes said to bring number seven down, they all said, "look what you did to my sister", and I was peaking between the blinds and all, not generally barnspangled into raising a muster or mejargle in between, and the Scots had come through with something, something on the other side of the fjord.

by a scientific imagination, matter scattered about....

21 years on, I remembered placing a bid on a pair of rooty reds worn on-screen in Wizard of Oz.  I bid 3000, and I lost to someone from Tampa.  I would later go on to bid on items from The Shop Around The Corner and Meet Me In St. Louis.

The cards said I had two options.  The Hanged Man entered play, and just like the Fool or a Joker, I found a third solution which was equitable, or at least more equitable than the satiated path.

I floundered and flailed, kicked at the pricks, feeling maybe there was a killer somewhere around the woodpile, and I would go SUV about it.  Throw away dialogue, ya know.

Scott Thompson was being trucked in from Scotland.

I said to myself to, the "way of heaven", do they mean perfection?  afterlife heaven?  Sky heaven?  Which and what and how?  Western lore dictates a perfect heaven, and the Zhuangzi says heaven saturates the earth, perfecting it, while conversely there is both yin and yang, good and evil, at once.

So I infer they meant the sky, that the same thing that abides up there, abides down on the firmament, and there is good and evil in all.

Aurelius told us that "either the universe is guided by providence, or it is a random scattering of atoms".  This gave is no solidity on which to latch our scientific rejoinders, but to say that there were atoms, was only a matter of how random they were.

The way, the way.

The Dao you can read about on a blog, is it the true Dao?

The way of nature is twofold: self and inspiration.  Memory is the tertiary figure that is so destructive.

When the self connects to inspiration, the Dao is realized, and only then.....

but the mind is focused forward and not on the self....

so the Dao may be felt but not understood.

Man and animal.

self and inspiration.

instinct and meditation.

low brain, high brain.

innate skill and training.

the white of the yinyang and the black of the yinyang.

The Daiji movement that comes through is to make two ellipses, one with each hand, beginning with hands straight out from the shoulders, coming then slightly in towards the center over the heart, and then down, then arching out near the navel cavity, proceeding up, then arching back across the shoulder to the heart, a full circuit.

These are the sides of the body, the sides of the person, aligning.  This is the achieving of balance.

a lopsided paraphrase from Zhuangzi.

Katie Bayer-Harris was crossing a threshold of mountain and water, when suddenly an ebon button fell, thread-loose, from her cloak, and disappeared into a drop from the sky.

She asked a master debater to find this for her, to no avail.

She went to the Eagle-Eyed old man for help, but to no avail.

She went to a wise day trader for help, but to no advantage, the button all but about to be forgotten by her.  Until she happened to take a walk through the woods, where a rape was being re-enacted.  Even a ghost gave testimony as to how the event happened, but none were any similar, and a query was deadlocked.

She heard a stupid noise, and it was Purposeless himself, threshing and thrashing, hashing and mashing along his happy way.

"Could you help me find my button, Purposeless?"

From the wood, a chorus of chants that they knew where it was, but again, to no advantage.

And Purposeless scraped his fingers over the ground, and eventually, after his fingers were parched, and at places, raw and bloody, he suddenly resounded with joy, holding the ebon button between his fingers.

And they might say, "now, do you understand the Tao?"

"No."  The response.

"Good, then the lesson was not lost on you."

Verse and Dramatic: "A gwad man came from the icy sloes..."


A gwad man came from the icy sloes....

The heron was wearing a kilt.

Albert done saided: "Climb whatever mountain you need to climb to catch this guy."

Egrets and Malshuss came along ca-jungling and fuzzy whumpling.

She was in the trunk, and none realized.  They found her in the water, later, the twin cousin.

She madeth the most ever silent drape runner.

And oiled machines at the sawmill.

"You remind us so much of her" they said, smiling up front, but sucking in their buttcheeks in the heat of anger in behind.

They did not know, what stone to turn over, what tree to look behind to procure and entrap the dreaded Kieler.

The Air Force guy had a secret file on the country club real estate development, was even cataloging birdsong and so forth.

Gordon Everett Howle was there, trailing just behind the Kieler, and there was something to it, something like a wound arm feeling the coming of rain, that he was just a bit at the trail.

"Whatever mountain you need to climb..."

And advice from the deputy, "if you need to squirt, squirt, don't hold it back.  Just let it happen."

G. E. Howle said, "at least once a day."

"Just let it happen" the deputy reiterated.

And he pumped Blueberry and Pineapple on his snowcone, to match the eyeglasses of the local therapist, the one that the police used and the school.  Anyway, seemed like there were always little ones complaining about homework, and there was always a gun in storage in a metal desk drawer, while whomever talked to Jim Creek, the local head shrinker.

Seemed they were no closer after weeks and weeks, no closer to an arrest, but they had uncovered so much other in the meantime, the country club development, drug mules, prostitution rings just across the border recruiting local girls, and all sorts.

Bobby killed a guy.

The drape runners were like a baby fart.  Just kind of came and went like butter.

That gwad man would a go with his leather satchel, his purse, made none the better, and return yet to the icy sloes of home.

Here comes the little old lady in her souped-up Superstock Dodge. Tennessee Harris.



Will not God choose the least of his messengers to bring the most important word.

Will not the universe reflect back, just as if the heavens were but a pool of water.

Will not the time and the season, the dog return to his vomit, and the frown is feeling sometimes, and not judgment.

Will not the Dane ferret about on the castle walls?

List! List!

Will not the ear be a willing receptical?

Will not the fool lean on his own understand?  For my own, I can aver clouds are lifting, heat building, and buggable humidity.

And as such, the most important word is bird-screamed across the outside of the place, and all the while, me waiting on a word.  When such came, it rather squeaked across like metallic screams and whistling.

They will make the Keiler of the trust-fund baby quite a thing, I know, and me sitting here with dickfist, like the DOJ, a Jack without a Jill, and as we usedta say in Junior High it wasn't Jack and Jill, but "jacking jill", because it all turned up dickfist back then.

Indeed, in 1993 Cheraw Varsity Football only lost to Hartsville, a much bigger school, and that before the A system realignment that would come later.  We walked around like Golden Calfs in a world of gold, we were but the latest whisper of the great lion, and of that, not much more than jerking off jokes and stuff.

The other Alex was writing underground literature, sort of a pre Alex Jones type, before 9/11, Columbine and all, even before the USS Cole.  Hell, even in the shadow of the coming Oklahoma City.  Timothy MacCaffrey, the one that will go un-named, you know, and certain people in the news, bent on not saying the name at the time, lest he become a martyr.

A Fatwa on EBT recipients, a segment of the "entitlement class".

List! List!

See how it beckons us on, as if to convey something to us, a motion, and how like the king he looks, too, but in such a dour ensemble.

They said somebody killed Harris.

Don't blame me; they said it.

"Tennessee Harris MacConjugal."

It's the same, old song... but with a different meaning, since you been gone...


(The material was written as I cut grass one morning, my job circa 19-25 years old, a seasonal yard maintenance guy.  George W Bush, known as Dubya or Shrubya, was in the doldrums between his election and the 9/11 attacks in 2001.  I wore 15 dollar Walmart shoes, and 30 cent jersey gloves as I worked along, largely without a care in the world, but still with an eye forward to the potential of love in the future.  I had a special affinity for the 59 dollar Featherlite FL20 string trimmer I was tasked to use at work, and I would later go on to acquire a few for the family.)

(F)My name is Duane!(D)

(G)And I'm a fishing pole.

(F)My name is Duane!(D)

(G)And I got eyes 'a blue.

(The thing sounded like a slower version of "I Can't Explain" by the Who in their early days.  Back then I had two amps.  One was a Hondo 120x2 and the other was a hack of a GPX stereo, where I had spliced into RCA cables for the 8 track player, having opened the turntable top.  The baby was deluxe for its time, having that 8 track deck, a turntable, and even a new-fangled cassette interface.)

I recall well, that I worked three days a week and went months with a hole in my shoe, with no extra to buy a replacement pair of Walmart sneaks, and that for the princely sum of 29 dollars.  I had locked into a pattern of renting DVDs on payday, and getting a five dollar lunch special of full wings and fried rice from the local Chinese take-out.

Most of that is defunct now, and the big grocery store that was next to the Chinese take-out.  The video store gone, along with the 1.00 rentals for three days.  In fact, in the closeout of the video store, I spent a good bit on buying the rental copies of some of my favorite rents, among them the Dawn of the Dead 1978 Original Cut and Alexandre Aja's Haute Tension and Lucio Fulci's Zombie.  That video store had accomplished all that, put soft-core porn in the horror section too, and had a box set of the many faces of spaghetti western anti-hero Sabata.

I bought the Phantom Menace the day it came out on home video, ditto Attack of the Clones. 

(F)My name is Duane!(D)

(E)I'm uh mess with you.

Egg-seller: "Stuff this good sells itself." Or, "My kingdom for a baloney sandwich."

Ron Graf came down to the office a few days back with a briefcase full of stuff, ad mock-ups and so forth.  A lot of like, Q-Anon propaganda, and so forth, and such.  I told him, I said, "Ron, that's what the R&D budget is for".  We weren't enforcing any kind of nationalism or protectionism or isolationism.  Indeed, we were barely even guilty of enforcing capitalism.

We had got caught in a pattern of odd behaviors, coming to the office and just sort of hanging there, sort of face to the glass and all, even holding drag races during office hours, with Hondas and Subarus and stuff trying to shred tires in the company lot.

But we must imagine ourselves happy, rather than so indefagibly empty by the whole experience.  Why, someone like Q speaks to that emptiness and tries to make it eat one alive, make one just desperate enough to do the wrong thing when Q beckons us on.

I didn't refer Ron to HR, but instead just of sort of had a talk with corporate mission, said we were kind of losing our identity.  All we did was sell eggs.  We didn't feed into these weird political things.  Just eggs.

He started on about Faisbook and some of that stuff, and CripCrop and all, and I said, "no.  We're about eggs.  Good eggs.  Normal old eggs."

He said, "what about Donald?"

I said, "Does Donald want to buy some eggs?"

And that was the end of us talking about Trump.  We were egg-sellers, and if he didn't want eggs, then what did we have to talk about?

You just kind of have to imagine us happy.

That's what you have to do.

He's an endless self-promoter, known not to play well with others.  We sell eggs.  Sounds like a case of "nary the twain".

We were just not gonna make it complicated.  The Paleo people could call it Paleo. The Keto people could call it Keto.  But we weren't spending ad budget to give it that kind of market segmentation.  It was like, a staple.  A rice or paper towels of daily life.

"Stuff this good sells itself."

You have to imagine the egg happy.  If it had a soul.  And imagine young Cheever happy with a nice egg on his plate.

What I had done was put something on social media, of course, Ron Graf swears its about the US President because there were some remarks by him near the same time, so Ron micro-manages his way into the Q Anon world, and suddenly, the Product Line Coordinator is a Q Anon Shaman, speaking at various rallies around the country, all but ready to quit the company and be a public speaker, like Kim Gilroy did.

I simply posted whole wheat toast, mustard, fried bologna, fried egg, and then another piece of whole wheat toast.  It seemed there was some regionalism at play as to what condiment goes with the egg, some even doing ketchup or salsa, some vinegar or other things.  Salt and pepper was pretty common though.

And I didn't need anyone on right wing radio to tell me that a baloney and egg sammie was a pretty good thing.

I imagine the egg neither happy nor sad, a life suspended in a kind of lack of energy, the 45 degree chill of the cooler, a dream frozen on a single frame, and in that respect, it was like the WWE Championship, never evolving, never improving, just sort of sitting there stupidly.

But I was thinking of various sub-products to weave from our vast supply chain of albumen, things like dyes and fuel additives and things like that.  Even a chocolate milk drink.


MILF Spit as car polish. An update from the small farm.


The morning spent, my body spent, and my money spent.  A caramel-centered Hershey's Kiss between my fingers, returning to its former liquid state, making poo colored love dimples on my fingers.

I got messaged about selling my rooster, but the price was abysmal, and I was for a moment, a faisbook troll saying, "I kNoW wHaT i GoT, Breana".

The compost pile was going great guns, but not with any weapons inside, though, just things rotting and things like, "returning to the dust".  Three days, water it, tussle it, get it damp, or at least, partial damp. Detritus of life past, a masoleum of things discarded.  I was going to put some plastics in one of them, just to see, you know, just to see, how long, how long.

I had held up, to the light, some of my own art, and it occurred to me some of it was rather dull, in need of an energetic polish.  It seemed I had been betrayed prior, so many times, by my own zest for the ideas I was trying to relate, and blind to the totality of the work produced.

I took a picture of Breana the Nipple Maven putting the finishing touches on the 85 Fox Body, the 5.0 that wasn't, the 302 transplant it was.  It needed a Tremec that was capable of over 150 MPH, and I knew there was one out there, but seriously, Breanna made it look cherry.  Her breasts were just sort of suspended over the hood, almost kissing the cold metal as she worked the cloth this way and that with her hands.  I had to get her on her back-Breana, not the Mustang, to have her crawl underneath and polish the chrome on the 9-inch differential cover.  Maybe make her place loving kisses on the hexbolt heads one by one and put that on Youtube, and dare them not to ban the thing.

I'd put a little Mother's on it, and you know what this is.  MILF spit. A bit of the old mouth wash.

Thought, sometimes, is much more obscene than the actual act, and the actual act, however gross, might seem rather banal, rather more commonplace than true life when taken under the indifferent lights of daytime.

My Tarot card for today was kind of a Dracula thing, which had me in my fields on the 866, feeling a kind of lumping up and down in the seat which was the masturbational equivalent of a bikini-clad woman on a Harley Davidson, what passed as that, but for a farm boy, that kind of Jingle Bells and all.

I was thinking Don Callus would show Kenny King and Chris Sabin, show them those beautiful documents, and send the WWE pretenders back up the river to where their own chosen loyalties lay.


Journal: I'm a little old, and even moreso stupid....



In the indefinite little paper-space between thought and action: a new book forming this week.  "I remind myself I am a little old, and even more stupid..."

When abounded with disgust, I raise my glass ever higher and make my voice a niggling trumpet to sound over the rows of the thoroughfare.

The neighbors all cut their grass on the same day, and I wondered, were it some kind of signal they get, the one through his conspiracy radio and the other through his cowboy re-runs.  Something to that to minded for another time, and I myself at ascrawl on nature pictures, trying to capture a sunflower, when maybe a moonflower would do; I've grown Moonflowers, the nocturnal cousin of the Morning Glory.

A seed bigger than Breana's nipple, I guess.

But the silence is circumspect, perhaps, and the words even less so.  The wind cut around my ear last night and I whispered a prayer, and watched NASCAR.

When disgust abounds, I alone pound my fists against the outcast state, and kick and the pricks, and grasp the smoking flax.  I can but relate my story, saying, "don't make the same mistake I made!  Don't do.... THIS!"

180 million things I hate about you: on the American dream and the month of February.

Women's better health, and the continuing upward climb of the American Negro across the nation's workplaces, schools and communities...