well well well

Think things are beginning to settle and a clarity is forming if not flowering or on the cusp of rejuvenation like a few plants out there; wasn’t unaware of the humid heat around here but returning to it and this much time after so many years in which these pores leaked elsewhere….

But it isn’t as stringent as some of those names I call elsewhere, though these pores do leak lots more sweat than I recall these pores leaking in those elsewhere names. Maybe the heavy sweet tea doses are supplying assistance for easier cog-spinning.

Absence of liquor? That’s an adjustment. Beer is easily had. A walk around the corner to the Exxon station. But I don’t know how much domestic beer I can handle after all those yummy bottles of Ciuc and Ursus and Timisoareana. Really gonna need to go with hard liquor here. But access is far away. Someday. Someday. Wild Turkey. Someday. Some night.

Maybe by the time fall rolls in. Trees. This is the land of Trees. Hardwoods. From the heavens they’d look like they covered the earth and the hills and the modest but beautiful blue ridge mountains with a shag carpet doused in deepest greens, until fall of course, fall around here would cause any soul to contemplate taking up landscape photography if not landscape painting, or so I can’t help suppose; ought to at least be oodles of poems coming to tug on these sleeves.

Anyway, the concerns appearing to come to terms that want to dab a lot of dabs of brightness to what has can only be politely called a leaden pall, or not dab a lot of dabs of brightness but to poke some holes in the life-love-love-of-life enemy tarp which has lain over that most friendly of spirits, well those concerns have come to a calmer course and it’s because I realized the swivel word is Weird. Or if it isn’t Weird, Weird will do for now. Or Weirdness. Weird and Weirdness in general.

There was so much weirdness about Bucharest; I mean that as the highest compliment. Weirdness + swarms of gorgeous girls + all kinds of booze in such easy reach…. Well I got lazy. Didn’t have to turn and delve within.

Oh there is weirdness around here. But one could not really say it openly parades. I must get back to work. The Weird Inner Factory Workers are flabby. I know what must be done.


About Timmy the Scribbler

Love to write all kinds of stuff I love writing so many different kinds of stuff it is a constant struggle to narrow the focus to a manageable handful and let the others go. But a few years ago I dipped my fingers into a poetry pie and of all my uncertainties, one thing that is no uncertainty is that it is one passion that must remain, so maybe that's the one. I do dearly delight in chopping up fictional works into stanzas and syllables.
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