I . . . try to be artful . . . whenever entering a new piece . . .

I dont want to appeal  immediately  to the lowest common denominator as media does: 

If it bleeds it leads

or its familiar POP! moneymakers  those brilliant pearlescent maggots of Reality TV

(for full disclosure: except for occasional college and professional football games  -   

the Stanley Cup play-offs  --  I havent watch broadcast satellite or cable television in years)

I suppose this “entry” isnt too inelegant   

                                                                     theres no need of Mercedes–Benz foreplay

so  as is Our . . . what shall I call it: habit  too lackadaisical . . . our bent . . . style . . . what have you . . .

              Ours  is my pic and I   we adore taking walking-discussions . . . arguments . . . alignments . . . free-for-alls on topics that happen to crowd our endless and at times butting curiosities

shes my pic

Im hers

its a selfassessed acronym for partner-in-crime

together  people tend to recognize us as separate from the rest of the herd  and unless we walk past reflective plateglass storefronts and happen to cast an errant eye on its mirror  we rarely see ourselves through the lens of others eyes

their perceptions of us  frankly  are of no matter

they neither pique our curiosity or intrigue us         

                                                                                              we are simply who we are

there is no notoriety

this afternoon we decided to spend our walking-talking on the Bob Jones Trail

as I said  --  not sexy  --  no POP!

we followed its historic trail into the seaside community of Avila California

the trail runs on a berm that was excavated in 1873 for a narrow-gauge wagonway which was drawn by six horses

                                     the horses were replaced three years later by a small steam locomotive

it runs beside the freshwater San Luis Creek  where steelhead trout hopeful can traffic in either direction for spawning

we conversed

I had been stymied by what I thought truly existed

it wasnt necessarily an acronym I was searching for  --  I am not fond of them despite our pic  --  but I imagined there must exist a short derivative of it

as I repeatedly tripped over myself my pic said  --   Its called female genital mutilation

--   Yes  I know that  I imagined  somehow  here in America  there was something catchy or flippant which alluded to it  There is a lack of social engagement here over this torture 

and ruinous butchery

--   Ah  Better be careful  Some believe circumcision is barbaric

--   Circumcision I can address  Ive been circumcised  But I dont remember  So if it is as horrific  

a mutilation . . . why no memory

--   Perhaps youve erased it from your memory

--   Or  my tableau upon emerging was so scribbled upon there wasnt worthwhile room remaining

--   Youre so full of shit thatswhyIlovesyou

--   Quit trying to change the subject thankyouverymuchIlovesyoutoo  However female genital mutilation has too many syllables  It doesnt rhyme  Or have music in it

I might suggest shebob

after the notorious hebob

committed on Bobbit

--   You dont think it borders too closely or insensitively to sheshkabob

--   Sheshkabob  Clever grrl  Of course it does thats why I chose it  One can easily flash   imagine   raw hunks of flesh  shebobs or hebobs  skewered between colorful vegetables roasting over 

hot coals

Theres no telling the things that will past between us on any given day  Were a pair of priceless pics

2127,  Day-Between-Two-Ts,  11  6. 14

He sat again  --  it was a succession of days now  overlapping Memorial Day  providing him 

a keen solace  --  on a heavy dull battleship-gray painted wooden bench outside the 

Loaves and Fishes

                            the immediacy of his butt sharing the seat where anxious or more desperate moments skinnier butts had tried to manage with some tenor aplomb or distinction  was palpable

their unique renderings

either by circumstances deeply formed by their own hands or minds or those who utterly and simply were beyond their abilities to alter or influence them   seemingly a divined course

                                                                                       by either their own fault or faultlessness   

their base dignity was badly beaten up

                                         and even the ball and peen hammer of the Loaves and Fishes wasnt going to be able to beat out or straighten up their troubles or sorrows

                                                                                                                   though it would help 

and that was all they were asking for

                                                         they had come for help

so the grimy nails clutching the tails of reused plastic bags containing a few staples or provisions for the matter of a couple three days 

                                                            or those hard-aged   or those unfortunate youthful hands 

not yet turned by experience

what they share 

is what most of us dont understand

                                                                 empty bellys

and its hard to do most things

when youre starved

                          0740,  Thursday,  5  6. 14                        

the silhouette of digger pines

and dead diggers  clawed  interspersed with live oak

                                                                                      console me

etched

up against mauve plum purple grey skies

                                                                they console me

                                                                                               black bats furrow the dusk 

the first evening star blinks   then is suddenly shrouded by a crawling marine layer         

eight leagues inland from the sea

these are natural consolations I cant ignore

  

                                                                                                      soon the star reappears 

its cold burning light is a steadyfast companion  she offers me her shoulder  her embrace           she is unlike  anything else

                               there is nothing and no one who can compete with these consolations 

when I suffer                                                 

                        or when I am troubled 

their nature has always provide me comfort   has always encouraged my willfulness and unnerving adamancy

and yet  while I know one day my eyes will be taken from them

                                                                                              they will never be taken from me

is there a more perfect solace     anything more confiding            or more unquestioning

                                                           

                                                                         this night the trees the bats the star       found me

2020,  Twosday,  10  6. 14