laws of thermodynamics & the kinetic theory of matter

 

 

 

 

each snowflake,

      its own ripple

the lake in November

           its own ripple,

                each snowflake

. . . ;;;;;

 

. : . : . : More Fun With The Monopoly : . : . : . .................... Order #C69087795

(con't)

This correspondence was drafted July 10, 2017.
In the meantime, I've discovered my address never was in an area you serve. I did not receive that information from your offices, by the way. I had to go to a competitor before verifying with another one of your representatives ... if only they had been so forthcoming earlier. Was the first agent I spoke to able to retain his commission?

Now, here we are in September, after quite a few twists and convolutions, while you people must have stood around the water cooler, making predictions with chicken bones and which way the wind would be blowing until Voila! the computer program pipes up with a number, a different one on each day in fact, and makes its predictions, one of which is the most auspicious charge to bill my non-existent account.

Well, I have news for you. My account doesn't exist, nor was any service rendered. Therefore, I have deduced your accounting department is a figment of my imagination. I don't owe REDACTED a bill conjured from the ether and remitted to your dreams. Nor can I sue a ghost for lost time, seek damages incurred in a nightmare, let alone deny your staff complicit as I ran around in circles.

Noting these difficulties, I suggest you look for other work - I don't know how you're getting paid. You should look into it.


can't tap my feet
for fear they'll hear it
through the floor --
musk melons


;;;;;

Quick Shot: After The Holiday

Hey, Brother!Good to hear a friendly voice. Yeah, I hear it ...

Shooting off fireworks with the kids for the first time, huh? By the way, I got your numbers - hang on - hmm hmm. Boy, I can just imagine. First thing I think of is their faces lightin' up ... you ever wonder what moments they'll remember? Now there's a thought we keep to ourselves, for want of appearing stoic, or strong, or unconcerned with trifles - the first thought always for our kids, always wondering if we're right or wrong.

I sure as Hell hope you got that camera rollin' now and then. It's aesthetically pleasing - if you're good or just a lucky fella you might even catch that eternal moment, if at all possible - depending on your attention to details as they occur. That other stuff remains unrecorded - some of it deliberately - if only to exercise the mind, maybe. Years later, even, to judge your character or gauge your maturity; a marker set like a guide stone along the roadway to note the advance of time.

And then? The thrill of the Fourth when I was little boy, in all its noise and fury, popped into my pumpkin head.

"I know how to handle fireworks!" The 10 year old me piped up, looking hopefully at my Dad.

"You'll know how to handle them when one blows up in your hand". He looked at me directly, a little sternly, no malice intended but like he knew something I didn't, part of the Pantheon of knowledge only Daddy's had access to - O', would we ever rise to that level? Still, it urged me to take caution, if more for the seeking of approval than anything to do with my personal safety.

I did pretty well actually, even after we returned to River City, the City of Thieves and the most boring town in America. Plenty of trouble for a lad to get into, times being what they were. Each situation to be challenged or just ignored, at the height of your fancy for mischief. Plenty of that to go around, all right. Pre-Urban Renewal, the kids near feral and the people as funky as that Old River that flowed past at the lowest points along the Levee. Yeah, the return was a retreat really, to my "home". My father's, really, while I remained a stranger. I been one since, anywhere I go. I'm about the same age as him now.

You know what happens don't you? That firecracker with the quick wick blows up in your fingers. FUCK! Hurt's worse than frostbite, god damn it, hurts like a motherfucker for a while. So what do you do?

You sure as Hell don't cry. Not in front of anybody at least. Unh unh. Shake off those tears and just keep going like nothing ever happened ... show off the mark it left maybe.

But, what about your Mama's?


a piece of string
to hold it all together -
traces of dreams

traffic circle

a fine garden
in the traffic circle
once more around




(march 2009 world haiku review)

circle

.























unable
to draw a circle
a permutation, then,
of a bare, straight line
but ... it wavers



.