Blame Canada, blame CAN-A-DA
Of course Loose Cans was the first. Kicking up motes of motivation and merely enjoying it. He is a voice. Became the Village Voice of our scattered town. An Op-ed column, arts and entertainment, potential personals page (funnyface seeks Mr. Wonderful). There're reviews and rendez-vous, records of goings and comings, debates, debauchery and tone. Also serves as my news site. On the blog, I found out Arnold got govenor, Hussein was nabbed, and Sam played frisbee, again. And it is a gravitational hole; it does not obey the same rules of time and space. If ever want to crawl into the black hole of high school, it's strangely comforting and expectedly exasperating.
Then Seema with her sketchbook. Steadily practicing her craft or art. Not sullenly in the dead of an occasional night, but daily, the thing she carries with her everywhere. So to daily themes, through daily streams I'll struggle. I'm not doing this for someone to talk to, at least not for a page or imaginary readers. Perhaps this is to talk with my most imaginary friends, the man moved to page by those cherry blossoms in Bavaria or the rhythm man who knew some woman lovely in her bones. But I have breathing beasts to talk to. I'm cat-sitting Will's cats and, very Zen, where there's no Will there's a way for Whaylon the wailer to escape. Overly competitive I'm gloating over my recent win. The game is this: Whaylon and Claws look pitiful in the window. I open it. We hang out on the sunset roof. Then Whaylon darts from one side of the roof with the view to the other. He leaps onto the tree and goes ungainly, indelicately down. At the bottom he rolls on the ground happy to be on terra firma again while between terza rima tangles of oaths I smile disapprovingly at him. He has descended into the Inferno I threaten him with. So it's in the window, down the stairs, out to the porch. Cajole, coddle, grab the cat. Up the stairs, out the window, across the not hot, not tin roof, and into his window. Which I draw down fast and taunt him as he peers dramatically through purple and red reflections of a sunset he's never going to sail away into.
The last reason was Ben. He thought we should all have blogs so there'd be more worlds to check into to check out at work. I don't know if this inn is ready to be openned.
Then Seema with her sketchbook. Steadily practicing her craft or art. Not sullenly in the dead of an occasional night, but daily, the thing she carries with her everywhere. So to daily themes, through daily streams I'll struggle. I'm not doing this for someone to talk to, at least not for a page or imaginary readers. Perhaps this is to talk with my most imaginary friends, the man moved to page by those cherry blossoms in Bavaria or the rhythm man who knew some woman lovely in her bones. But I have breathing beasts to talk to. I'm cat-sitting Will's cats and, very Zen, where there's no Will there's a way for Whaylon the wailer to escape. Overly competitive I'm gloating over my recent win. The game is this: Whaylon and Claws look pitiful in the window. I open it. We hang out on the sunset roof. Then Whaylon darts from one side of the roof with the view to the other. He leaps onto the tree and goes ungainly, indelicately down. At the bottom he rolls on the ground happy to be on terra firma again while between terza rima tangles of oaths I smile disapprovingly at him. He has descended into the Inferno I threaten him with. So it's in the window, down the stairs, out to the porch. Cajole, coddle, grab the cat. Up the stairs, out the window, across the not hot, not tin roof, and into his window. Which I draw down fast and taunt him as he peers dramatically through purple and red reflections of a sunset he's never going to sail away into.
The last reason was Ben. He thought we should all have blogs so there'd be more worlds to check into to check out at work. I don't know if this inn is ready to be openned.
