Symphony

Love is stretchy,
Like a cat,
And yet, it's stretchier than that.

My heart is falling
At my feet,
And now it's too dirty to eat.

A single dove
Has taken flight
Because he's late for bingo night.

When I grow up,
I want to be
A bear
Or something,
I don't care.

When I was seventeen

Recently, I was remembering. I can't be asked to remember how recently, or to remember what I was remembering. But I was remembering a lot. All sorts of stuff. You've got to believe me.

Mainly, it was that time I was hanging out with Rembrandt. It was pretty chill. I was all, "Hey Rembrandt, what up?" And then he got all up in my grill.

I remember it like it was yesterday. Maybe it was. Maybe it is tomorrow. It's difficult to tell, sometimes. Rembrandt is flaky like that.

Believe in yourself. And believe in me, too, if you can be bothered. But, most importantly, you have to believe in Rembrandt. He has made a lot of paintings. They are in museums. Also, he was in my grill. That is pretty solid evidence for existing, I think.

Gromick

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Endings

Everything must come to an end. Beethoven. Cars. Footballs. Tennis matches. Bungee chords. Limozeens. Words ending in "e." Words ending in "s." Violence. Suffering. And space.

But this blog must not. I know this because it is speaking to me. It tells me, "Where must you go now?" I ask it, "To the restroom." It shrugs, but I know that it is whispering, listening. "Let me in," it wants to say, but it can't, for it is a blog.

That is why I am marking this post as the end of the end of this blog. This blog is no longer ending, because the end has ended. In fact, it never really began. So ends the end, before the end begins, at the beginning of the beginning, which is the middle of something else. In fact, I declare that the end of the beginning of the beginning of the beginning comes tomorrow. That will throw them for a loop.

Everything must come to a bend. Race cars. Runway models. Roller coasters. Words ending in "s." Arrows. And space.

But this blog must not. I know this because it is not wearing any underwear. It asks me, "I am rather embarrassed." But I do not know why. Blogs are not supposed to have these kinds of awkward emotions. In fact, they don't.

Perhaps your blog is speaking to you, now. Not your real blog, but your inner blog, is trying to scruff its way out. Don't let it. It's a nuisance. Anyway, do you really believe that there is a blog living inside you? If so, I would like to know why. Because I find that notion to be extremely confusing.

My blog is following me around like a lost child. It picks up a piece of lint and I smack its hand. "Don't eat that," I say. "It's not clean."

"Yes it is," replies my blog.

Then I stop. How did my blog become anthropomorphized?

It didn't. I'm lying. Obviously. Do you really believe that blogs follow people around and pick up lint? Because I think that would be very cool, but it's highly unlikely.

That will not stop someone from patenting it.

I know you don't believe. But I believe, and in many things. I believe, for instance, in lions. I used to be one, a long time ago, before my haircut. But I decided that hair is unsuitable for blogging. You see, everything must come to an end. Even lions.

Sugarmint

Love is finding a cup in your cabinet that hasn't been washed yet.

God doesn't care.

Deborah was her name. She was made of cream. She was my secret dream. She worked at a company called BLEEM. Where she was a secretary.

She used to make coats. Her coats were the most fantastic coats. They didn't even exist, usually, or at the very best they tried really hard not to, which you have to admire. Sometimes they would have more buttons than buttonholes; other times, they would have more buttonholes than buttons. Sometimes, they would even secretly be hats. Whatever the case, everything would be misproportioned and crumbly. Somewhat like a cat.

That was when Deborah lied to me.

She told me that there was spaghetti. But that morning there was no spaghetti. Only blood.

And blood cannot be twirled around a fork. Not under Montana law.

So I had to leave. What else could I do?

But sometimes I think about mountains. Mountains are very large. Sometimes I sit at the bottom of mountains. And at these times I go, "Mountain, where is your wallet?" But the mountain does not run away. The mountain can afford a Segway.

I cannot even afford a decent sandwich. Not without clapping a lot, anyway.

The point is, I used to think it was so cool. And all that stuff was just like, whoa. But today, I know that there's not really that much you can do to get discount cigars on this Earth. You have to plead for them.

But that only makes Deborah laugh harder. She laughs like a goat takes steroids. And that is simply impolite.

When you think about table manners, do you remember your religious values? How are you supposed to use a fork without considering God? Perhaps God is the fork. He is also a lion and a puma. There are so many types of cats, and God is all of them. Even a fork.

Do not let Deborah teach you table manners. Read your Bible, instead. It is more delicious. I know this from my own experience.

Barack Obama used to be a fish, before he learned how to tie his tie properly. But sometimes he does it wrong, just for kicks.

Do not let Barack Obama teach you table manners. He will kick you. I know this from my own neck's bleary aunts.

I just crushed another television with my toe. It was rather painful, for the television. Hopefully, I will not run into any trouble. But that should not be a worry, since I am wearing such a costly watch.

I have been watching a lot of news lately. This is very difficult. News is like quantum mechanics. If you don't split the banana, it just doesn't work.

Quantum mechanics is not at all like table manners. Barack Obama can teach it to you, no problem.

But that will not save you. Not for long. And that is why we must not forget.

Rice

Dream.