Metamorphosis

I want to awaken one of these days to find myself transformed, not into the giant roach of Kafka's signature nightmare, but into Robert Goulet, a little past his prime, entering stage right to the opening strains of "Ohhhhhhhhk!-la-ho-ma where the blah blah blah blah blah blah blah! …"  Brimming with exuberance and energy and basking in the crowd's adoration that is.  Timing is everything.

The Several Cries of Covid

Le cri de coeur.
Le cri de Cormac (dystopia).
Le cri de cordite (civil war).
Le cri des co-morbidites.

June 29

The rains linger after last night's Rolling Thunder Review.

June 28

I walk in the footsteps of the ant -- the ant who must forage to survive.   In the darkness, in my kitchen cabinet, he finds the top edge of a water glass and perches on it.  He makes a full circle, at which point his tiny skull server instructs him to stop, recognizing that he has been here before.   He must consider an alternative path.  But there is none, and he marches forward, endlessly, until his death by dessication.

June 11

I am the last living speaker of a dying language, one that once was in wide circulation.  Now it dies with me.

The King of Bohemia

Your eyes seem from a different face.
They've seen that much, that soon.
Your cheek too cold --
Too pale to shine,
Like an old, and waning moon.

And there is no peace, 
No true release,
No secret place to crawl.
And there is no rest
For the ones God blessed
And He blessed
You best of all.

June 3

Another sleepy, dusty Delta day.