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 |    A log of the magnificent journey across the vast sea of my imagination. |
 A log of our magnificent journey. |
| Pompous professors endlessly pontificate in pure gibberish about the relevance of poppycock and dirty socks. |
The crape myrtles wave as robins sing and sun peeks over horizon. |
Springtime fantasies, where thoughts of summer romance float like butterflies. |
| From flying dragons and other psychedelic relics to paddy wagons at my ex-lover’s mountain cabin, anything can happen when I allow my muse to frolic in the playpen of my imagination. |
| On leave from academia-- rum drinks and tiki torches down in Tahiti. Munching kiwi fruit and macadamia nuts on the leaky porch of my rented beach shack. Doesn’t matter. It only rains for half an hour, every day at four-- like the clockwork I left behind. Bikini-clad wahines keep the tropical punch and chimerical visions flowing under the mango tree. Time flies. Too soon, I'll have to leave this Bohemian paradise. |
| We dance amongst the fragrant roses there-- the rabbit, squirrel, faithful dog, and I-- cavorting in God’s garden ’neath blue sky. My friends and I enjoy our pied-a-terre away from the clamorous thoroughfare. A meadowlark serenades from nearby. It’s a wonderful life, I can’t deny-- even better than that of a billionaire. A robin joins in lilting harmony. We’re blessed to spend our time where lilacs sway in gentle summer breezes all the day, beside a mountain stream gurgling with glee. Our little soiree is a splendid way to sooth away the cares of yesterday.  June 15, 2012 |
| Black feathers flap and settle, as the crow finds a meal ripe for picking. A visitor surveys the grisly sight, intent on spreading the word. The bird begins to peck at rotting flesh, while others gather to share the feast. Young Tim sets up his apparatus to preserve the scene for posterity. Raucous cawing fills the putrid air when corpse-laden hills become a banquet. People must know about this tragedy before our country can be healed. A clap of the hands sends scavengers flying from the blood-tarred flax of windblown hair. Daguerrotypes record their sacrifice for all the world to see. The carrion crows can only watch, while Mr. Lincoln solidifies the cause. Historians will always remember when he speaks, “Four score and seven years ago…” May 3, 2012 |
Insensitive louts pouring macho gibberish into the gene pool. |
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