Foggy Day

Foggy day…

my horoscope agrees…

smiling feebly at passers…

words are unusually hard to come by…

shakuhachi echos ennui…

sliced turkey for breakfast…

that should give you some idea.

Nothing more…

the clouds are there in the sky…

I hope it doesn’t rain when I go

to get pizza…

hard to predict.

Hard to predict when the weather changes,

when the mood changes,

when the world changes.

I’ll just let it be, as always.

Then, I had some hair-of-the-dog,

(which dog?)

and a Nazi parade in 1938,

(just a little is enough)

and was propelled out of the gloom

suddenly, for how long no telling, 

but good lord you never know 

how slippery reality will go

this way or that…so, now is still now,

though the feathers have changed,

if you can imagine a bird molting 

in a claymation, kinda like that, only

without the D.M.T.. They say (it’s 

always “they”, isn’t it?) perception,

a sensation, is the only how we know.

Slightly sad, when the fog lifts (I guess

this is the way it’s going to go) like

my brother whose mind was clearer

towards the end, not dulled out by 

the meds, but what was more clearly 

there, the real Fred, was clearly an

asshole, to be clear, what he was…

interesting, I guess….not much of

an improvement… sad for me.

The truth is neither good nor bad.

Is it the sun that burns the fog away?

Does the wind move the flag, or does

the flag move?

It’s the mind that moves.

They’re building that house next door.

How easily the mind is distracted.

That’s not very interesting.

I saw Paula Poundstone in Fort Collins.

She did her riff for about an hour, 

took a break, and did another hour,

took a break, and started again, by that time, 

I could see that something  was wrong…

people started leaving…

It’s just a story 

on a foggy day.

A riff from riff-raff

in the peanut gallery…

why does the end

continue, unless…

Boom Shaka-lacka!