I think the wind in the willows is the
sound for me; the wind in the willows as it
tolls as it tolls as it tolls with glee in the
sound of the leaves of the back oak tree -
the wind in the willows is the sound
for me. Willows and oak are a down-
laid joke leftover from the birds in the
limbs that broke. The wind in the willows
sounds so close to you, the sound so close
to the dove and the mountain dew. Ahh yes
there it is. The mountain dew – what else
to rhyme with thoughts of you. I touch my
toes and list my woes but never today do
I not blow my nose – how silly and quaintly
degenerate I have become. I need a code
of Harry like the bloodletting Dexter. I can
cough up blood but how did the wind in
the willows, the cool breeze of the wind
in the willows transmogrify into discussions
of you and blood? You? Sure. Blood – No.
Blood is the sign of the grape on the vine.
Excitement, a 2-year old's excitement over
pooping independently on the potty is worth
more than blood on the backplane of my
retina. Feebleness is my only virtue, or gift.
How quickly laughter becomes tears in the
hands of a toddler. Bundles of unbroken
and untempered emotion – purse as the death of a
gazelle. Ewww. Pretty but not fast enough.
Mediocrity flows so easily under the influence
of cheap or expensive wine. Thinking under
the influence. Many a relationship have crumbled
in that mistake. Unfortunately not jail-worthy.
But still fermentation is the Yin and Yang of
our consciousness. Still the weak nuclear force
of our souls. Battered souls are like unbattered
souls – they're fucking souls. Not to be discarded
like feces from a rhesus monkey – cousin in every
way that doesn't matter.