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LA Zoo May '09 (37)

My life is besotted with negativity and anti-climatic moments.

LA Zoo May '09 (42)

My life is faltering in edification; I am stultifying.

LA Zoo May '09 (40)

The ravages of this life weigh heavily upon my mind.

LA Zoo May '09 (39)

The heavy mantle of responsibility smothers me.

LA Zoo May '09 (41)

Somebody give me a cigarette.

LA Zoo May '09 (43)

Just let me sleep, or put me out of my misery.


Sounds pretty stupid coming from a kangaroo, right?

How do you think he feels when we say stuff like this?

Take a leap.  Take a bounce.  LA Zoo May '09 (29)Take a cathartic yogi kangaroo squat.

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Silent witness to the daily perambulations upon which we embark, the ceiling, tinged with jealousy and confusion, sees the rightness and forthrightness and uprighteous and the down and the downtrodden and the down-in-the-dumps and they are all the same.  

I strive to mimic the upside down distinctions and see past the gravitational boundaries of earth and culture, even if I fall down on the ceiling.  And I will fall down, often hard, and frequently.  The bumps and bruises will be badges unless I hide them with clothing.

The ceiling will still be jealous.  It cannot learn through bruised flesh as I do; it expires when earthquakes or demolition affect its form.  Instead it will seek vicarious learning through me, causing me to fall so painfully and forcefully upon it, and it will witness my reaction. 

It sees me stand again and continue.  In this way we learn from each other.  I am upside down viewing right way up.  A partnership of silence and standpoint (or fallpoint).

The floor is a totally separate learning partner, but no less prone to making me fall.

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Happy homemaking: I’ll make some obfuscated man a good wifey.

Fourth of July crackles and snaps overhead.

Scrubbing the mesh strainer from a personal coffee press (a judicious amount of vinegar, lemon, and soaking releases stained tea and coffee), I am stabbed by a fraying tine of thin metal.  Right in the side of my finger at the point of articulation.  I stare at the scrub pad in the other hand as if betrayed, look fleetingly at the finger expecting watery red sanguinity but find none, and gaze at the harsh pocked white ceramic sink.  Its age refused my elbow-grinding ministrations and fizzing baking soda.

A series of percussive blasts to the northeast: Hollywood Bowl.  Tickets were cheap – I should have gone.

My kitchen shelves needed lining.

Nearby bang-pop-peeeowwww.

In acknowledgement of the central barbecuing holiday of American experience, I cut up a watermelon, store the bulk of it, scoop down to translucent white with a spoon, and eat standing at my sink.  Though I don’t let the watermelon touch the sink.

Fizzling chortle followed quickly by gurgling whizzing and then abrupt silence.

I give the scrub pad a second chance or an inhumane punishment on the counter-top.

Simultaneous multiplicity of thunderous reverberations.  Must’ve been the climax, at least for some somewhere.

The scrub pad failed.  My elbows complain.  There is watermelon juice and a few stray bits on the counter-top.  I pick up a larger chunk and eat it.  The mesh of the coffee press is silver again with only minute hints of sepia.  I have a little blushed mark on the side of my finger that throbs slightly and is probably just watermelon juice and my imagination.


White counter-top and silver coffee press mesh and unseen fireworks – happy Fourth of July.

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I am the calm sentinel.

I am the calm sentinel.

My feathers are ruffled only physically.

My feathers are ruffled only physically.

You, my minions and flock, be.

You, my minions and flock, be.

I am the calm sentinel guarding the ocean.

I am the calm sentinel guarding the ocean.



Not a fish!

Not a fish!

I am the calm sentinel on patrol.

I am the calm sentinel on patrol.

Bothersome itch.  I make you no more...ooh!  Lunch!

Bothersome itch.  I make you no more…ooh!  Lunch!

You are visiting under the watch of the calm sentinel.

You are visiting under the watch of the calm sentinel.

I pay you no more mind.  Be.

I pay you no more mind.  Be.

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Move me.

Stationary progress settles over me like a comforting blanket that smothers.

Shift me.

My same-old-same-old scenery whirs by my eyes, or it would if I looked up from my phone.

Dislodge me.

My grip on the remote leaves marks and a bit of chair fuzz embeds in my skin.

Refine me.

The coffee grounds in my cup are reminiscent of tar on a beach; I need a filter.

Translate me.

I’m speaking the same language, traveling the same crossings, stubbing my toe.

Alter me.

Changes slap at my ankles like weak waves – I detoured around the tsunami.

Siphon me.

Mucus in my nasal passages acts as a secondary filtration device, but for the good stuff.

Push me.

Knee-deep in a sand dune, leaning into the gale, arms windmilling, I await the sandstorm.

Diffuse me.

I give up, I surrender to the elements and to entropy.  Then I move.

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Tar sticking to my feet; I walk past a slowly drifting woolly mammoth, unheedful to the frenetic jaunt of her street.  I pay little mind as well.

Wilshire blazes with the finances and grabbing-at-straws and exhaust shimmering of many.  I give her my breath and a slow lurch from side to side, celebrating slowness with a long-expired mammalian cousin.

From my perch on a railing, I see boxes of earth questioning their contents.  Unearthed when LACMA needed space to park, the earth only knows what the boxes keep; no dearth of tarred content, just waiting to birth new additions to the sibling pool of tar.  Boxes of fairly broad girth awaiting the investigation as to their worth, these containers protect earth and the remains of millennia I never got a chance to visit and someone’s Cheetos bag.

Swelling cacophony of light from 202 lampposts clustered soldierly becomes my playground of frenetic dance and irreverent appreciation.  Sister streetlights sigh that they are not as much a part of my spontaneous and modern interpretation of lighting up the night sky and must settle for my perambulatory passing and perhaps a swing around a lucky one as they are still tasked with their original purpose, not given second life to do art.  I’d promise them artistic grace, but I’m bad at keeping promises, so won’t.

Staring up the cliff facade of the erected canyon, reverberated car passing waves of sound strike me from two directions.  A highly anticipatory driver adds discordant honks that remind me of watching medical dramas when they use bone-cracking devices.  A bus partakes of the bass line, superseding a diesel truck’s bellowing, and a bicyclist whizzing by adds a touch of the postmodern aural.

On the corner of Wilshire and Fairfax the nervous and bored settlings and shiftings of those waiting for the appropriate bus make a noise akin to wind, if wind were impatient to be elsewhere quickly, and, since it often is, these waiting mass transit goers can only pretend to be the wind in its hurried arrival and departure.  Many of them look like they desire a transmogrification to wind, especially the one who adds a loud and protracted sigh.

I play the whole symphonic dialogue in reverse, walking away from the soughing people, through the canyon of car sound, swing around a lamppost, tarry to watch the stationary boxes of earth, listen intently for the drift of forever-sinking woolly mammoth, and make squelching noises with my feet.  This last motion does it: I feel profoundly glad, secretly look around to see if the audience has stood to applaud, and finding no one has done so, gather my courage and bow solely to Wilshire.

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