Catching Up On The Last Week Or So

March 30: "Writing"

What comes out of my fingertips is what comes over the airwaves and comes into your eye sockets. Where it goes from there is all a matter of synapses. Nerve endings? Memory banks? I don’t know and I only care a little. What I’m worried about is the specific connection between my fingertips and the non-biological cavern in my brain where original thoughts are spawned. If the connection is unimpeded, the transfer between the cosmic and physiological reactions pure, then the writing process is complete. You, the reader, are inessential. But of course, I’m still happy that you are there.

March 29: "Song For The End Of The Day"

The toad says grub grub grub
The toad says grub grub grub
I sit in my tub tub
Down in the suds suds
Listening to grub grub grub
 
The moon goes down down down
The moon goes down down down
I wear a frown frown
My head spins round round
While the moon goes down down down
 
The wind says sigh sigh sigh
The wind says sigh sigh sigh
The earth can’t lie lie
Or give another try try
My mind says sigh sigh sigh
 
Goodbye goodbye goodbye
Goodnight
Goodbye goodbye goodbye
Goodnight
 
Grub grub goodnight
Sud sud goodnight

Goodbye  

March 28: "Jules Verne"

            I opened a heart-sized chest in a Chinatown tourist shop, and inside I found Jules Verne.

            He was resting against the end of the box, reading a tiny copy of Chuang Tzu.

            He told me all the human beings – writers, thinkers, inventors – I look up to are also waiting, just like him.

            After we discussed for a time how to find giant crystals in the earth’s core, I gently closed the chest and walked into the street.

            That’s why I lift every mossy rock; why in every field of dandelions gone to seed I look for Albert Einstein.

March 27: "Odds"

            Two jet airliners collided high above the Midwest on Tuesday.

            United Flight 291 and Virgin America Flight 48 struck head-on at an altitude of 30,000 feet, instantly destroying both aircraft. An estimated five hundred total passengers and crew were on board.

            “The chances of this happening are astronomical,” said United spokesman Barry Clark in a statement released late Tuesday night.

            Dorris Greenwater, a resident of Topeka, Kansas, described the explosion. “I could see two contrails getting pretty close up there, then a bright flash like a camera bulb, then nothing.”

            Crews are combing the state of Kansas for fallen debris.

March 26: "Towns I've Been In"

Aberdeen, Anchorage, Antelope, Astoria, Bakersfield, Bellevue, Bellingham, Bend, Berkeley, Billings, Boise, Bozeman, Butte, Capitola, Coeur d’Alene, Cooke City, Corvallis, Dubois, Federal Way, Fresno, Friday Harbor, Gig Harbor, Gilroy, Hayward, Kent, Key Center, Lakewood, Los Angeles, Las Vegas, Medford, Missoula, Moab, Mobile, Monterrey, Moses Lake, New Orleans, Oakland, Ocean Shores, Olympia, Palo Alto, Playa del Carmen, Pocatello, Port Angeles, Port Orchard, Port Townsend, Portland, Puyallup, Redding, Redwood City, Renton, San Diego, San Francisco, San Jose, San Ramon, Santa Cruz, Salem, Salt Lake City, Sausalito, Seattle, Shaniko, Sitka, Spokane, Tacoma, Tri-Cities, Vancouver, Victoria, Walla Walla, Washington D. C., Weed, Wenatchee, Yakima, Yreka.

March 25: "Speckled Fingernails"

            My fingernails have always had flecks of white in them. Today I found out why.

            I went in to donate blood, and when I was strapped into a chair, I could see my blood draining through a clear plastic tube into a baggy by my left foot. Every few seconds, I noticed, a patch of chalky white blood would move through the tube.

            The nurse was worried, for obvious reasons.

            They did tests in the hospital all afternoon and finally called ten minutes ago with the results.

            The white liquid in my veins that condenses into my fingernails?

            “Genetic miscalculation.”

March 24: "Unfortunately, The Bench Is Destroyed Too"

“Dude that bench has our name on it.”
“Word! Pristine pizza eating spot.”
“Man I’mma eat this shit in three bites.”
“Wait, yo, what the fuck?”
“What?”
“Check this plaque man.”
“What. ‘In loving memory of Blake Lundy and “Corkscrew” Bailey.’ Yo, shit man.”
“That’s fucking us.”
“What the fuck is our name doing on this bench?”
“You asking me that? Dead people are supposed to be on benches.”
“Well, we aren’t dead, it’s some sick joke.”
“Dude, this a omen. A sign.”
“Whatever man. Let’s nibble these slices.”
“I got a bad feeling.”
“You’re hungry. Cheers, to greasiness!”

METEORITE

March 23: "Things"

The trail through mossy gullies
The beach with its dried band of seaweed
The fences with wobbly corner posts
The ponds, each with its own disposition
The trees and their rings
The porches and patios where people grill and chat
The mountain that rests across the bay
The bridge across the lagoon
The barn with its smell of chickens and dusty machinery
The afternoon sun going over the hill
The tideflats out under shallow water
The birds that call and soar
The houses where people end up in the evening
The forest that wraps like a scarf around the farm