The Old Man finds and ant. That's ant - A-N-T, not A-U-N-T, but that is already apparent. Still. There is a need to make a distinction. The ant crawls along the rim of the toilet bowl -- seat up -- over dried urine stains.

It is that time of year again. But tiny invaders usually encroach via the back door, breeching cracks in the floor near the threshold, gaps between the door and the door jamb. There's a screw lose in the latch plate that keeps backing out. Leaving the house vulnerable. The ants march in, along the floor molding, making a bee-line (why not an ant-line?) for crumbs.

The Old Man suspects he will return from his trip inundated with ants. That's ants - A-N-T-S, not A-U-N-T-S. It has been too long since he's seen any of his aunts, but perhaps on this trip he will be allowed access to at least the one. Laid up in Buchannon. A regiment and routine of medications and television. Three meals a day. Visitors, when they can. When allowed. The lady is an iron horse, outliving The Old Man's mother by going on eight years now. They were twins. Still are, perhaps. His mother persisting in his aunt's image.

The Old Man pokes the ant on the rim of its world into the bowl. Into the pool of chemical blue water. It swims. Or walks on water. The Old Man directs a feeble stream of urine at it, creating waves and eddies. The ant struggles against the tide. The hue of the bowl-water change changes from the cloudy yellow into a green merk.

That little old ant persists even as the flush carries it away in a rush down the pipes.

#TheOldMan #Ants #toilet #riptide

If I must insist, Sir,

That you are quite rude, Sir

Then of course I would insist, Sir

That you are not rude at all, Sir

But, Sir

Life is in death and death is in life, Sir,

You would be the death in life, Sir

So I must, Sir

Absolutely insist, Sir

That you go back to the death, Sir

And leave me to soak in my thoughts, Sir

You are gorgeous.

Gorgeous

/ˈɡôrjəs/

adjective

beautiful; very attractive; very pleasant.

I don’t know the meaning of beautiful

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder but

I don’t trust my own opinion on anything

And I don’t know what it means for someone to be conventionally beautiful.

All I know is that if you aren’t gorgeous

Then what is the point of the word?

I don’t know what this feeling is.

No that’s not right, I

Know how I feel about you but I

Don’t know what it means.

I know it in English and in heartbeats but not in the language of

Labels.

I know with all my heart that you are

Gorgeous

But I don’t know quite exactly why

Which beautiful thing tipped the scale this far.

Gorgeous.

Gorgeous

Gorge.

Gorge

/ɡôrj/

noun

“a narrow valley between hills or mountains, typically with steep rocky walls and a stream running through it.”

Hills or mountains with steep rocky walls

You have walls

Don’t you?

You hide them well

Because you let people through the place where they think the walls should be

But your walls aren’t there they’re

Somewhere else hiding

something else.

I don’t know what.

But I think you have them.

A narrow valley with a stream running through

Maybe.

Maybe you are something beautiful in someplace unexpected

Maybe I’m looking too hard for a metaphor or maybe

You are a stream of thoughts and personality

All contained in one narrow valley that is the small vessel of a human body.

Are you a stream

Contained in a narrow valley

Or are you an ocean

Uncontained

By the world?

Gorge

/ɡôrj/

noun

archaic

“the throat, the contents of the stomach.”

I don’t know about that one.

Gorge

/ɡôrj/

verb

“eat a large amount greedily; fill oneself with food.”

I could gorge myself on you

On this feeling

On your eye contact

Your touch.

I could gorge myself on this moment

No this one

This one

When you are still looking at me and

I am still looking at

you and

Here we both are

still.

Dead moths and

flies, stuck

crusted on the buzzing

light box

shining overtop the

bludgeoned deer

grey tongue brown

eyes shining in the

dusty moonbeam

of factory shimmer

A mango smoothie

at midnight.

there is an old arab proverb i’ve come across once: if we get what we deserve only rom our hard work, donkeys would sleep on satin sheets.

much beauty, much success, and equally so-much ugliness and failure are not a result of actual effort, struggle or pain. the world was not created with equality or fairness in it. the jury is still out if there’s even any justice in it.

i listen to beethoven, or john coltrane, and know with certainty that i will never create anythung equally beautiful.i live with the knowledge that such a feat of perfection is just nor within my grasp and never will be.

i can try my best, as we all should to both appreciate beauty and contribute to it, if at all possible.

both genius that i mentioned,were actually known for their unrelenting pursuit of beauty. each in his own way went to extremes in this search, and to some degree or another paid a great price for it. consider also, that there were some foul-ups, some setbacks , that would have disparaged many, but not them. so effort plays a part in beauty, but what of other forms of beauty?

a flower will sacrifice much of it’s resources for the sake of producing a flower. so does a butterfly, a spider weaving his web, a tree bursting into bloom. it all requires sacrifice and effort.

nothing will come out of nothing. there is no product without the materials to create it.

but is the actual effort that the flower puts in, the pain of producing, a component of the beauty?

it is not. donkeys on bedsheets again.

saying the opposite is dangerous both logically and morally.

what of all the beauty in the world that is not aquired through our effort?

what of all the effort and struggle that produce NO beauty at all? how about the effort to produce ugliness. even that doesn’t come easily at times.

would we be selfish in enjoying the beauty made by others, while doing nothing ourselves?

should we destroy or marginalize much of this world, because it came of it’s own?

will we let those donkeys on the bed even?

SHALL NOT

PASS.

ay

be

see

di

ee

eff

gee

aytch

eye

jay

kay

elemenopee

Wombats are marsupials. They have a pouch where their belly button should be. That’s what the tv is telling me, at two a.m. while I’m clipping my toenails in the dark. These guys are rambling about some fancy animal, and I’m tired of it.

“There are more important things to talk about,” I lecture the tv. “Anyone can store things in their belly button.”

To prove my point, I grab a couple of hamburger pickles I left on my plate, and try to cram them into my belly button. They stick to my skin and stink an awful funk.

Sometimes I feel on the brink

of total mental collapse

like the very slightest nudge

will send me careening over the edge

my mind feels like a web

built of finely spun thread

that will tremble and implode

at a single whisper of a breeze

and the thoughts that flicker

like a shorted out storefront sign

speak of shadows and neon horror

with a dread I struggle to suppress

What do I do with these pieces

of my fractured consciousness

I’m loath to give voice to them

making them seem all the more real

The only thing that reels me back

is the knowing that this, too, must pass

I'm the guy that laughs at inappropriate times,

Like a wedding, funeral, or tragedy.

Not because I am a sadist or uncaring,

I just can't help but laugh at the irony.

When one takes themselves too seriously,

I find it kinda funny.

Laughter is the great equalizer,

That mocks the broke and those with too much money.

Everything is not what it seems.

In my world mixed signals are the norm.

They roll in waves,

a fog,

thick with the scent of subterfuge.

Up is down, yes is no, green does not mean go.

Words dipped in sugar contradict bitter energy,

served on a platter, pretty little pastries best left untouched.

I try to hide from the knowing,

but it’s always there to be read as easily as a book.

Even after all these years of being right,

I still doubt my ability,

because everything is not what it seems.

Pretty little pictures on a screen,

rotting from the inside,

Salvador Dali was a prophet.

What I’m trying to say is,

even if I don’t let on,

I know.

I know what you’re really feeling.

I don’t always understand the message,

let's be fair, neither do you.

Not everyone speaks their feelings in a known language,

but energy is universal.

So please remember,

I may pretend I don’t know,

but I do.

Everything is not as it seems.