streaming thoughts

bottle collection  24" x 30"  oil on canvas

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the hipsters always ate first. after that it was, in order of clocks, the people with the ring around the collar, the first communions,  mr. and mrs. disorderly conduct and, dead last, dr. ?  the barn cats waited for leftovers, an aroma, the hickory-dickory-dock, the heady scent of catfish. who says that coincidence is the territory of the heavens?  who says that we shall not be forgotton, clothed only with eyelashes?  while it's true that uncoveted wives are the missing link, there is an answer to all questions, one answer,  the answer, answer me the following: if the swamp is critical to sustaining the bird sanctuary, what word, only one word, would you select to describe a violin solo during a midnight rain storm under an umbrella on the edge of the bar strip of the old town?  yep. you got it. on the first guess too. you know me too well,  heard all the stories at least 5 times apiece. in the company of the right bros. you always laugh, always make a comment that makes me seem larger than life, the hub of the pub, the toy of the boy.  at times you're a slippery slope, you can do no wrong. other times, you gotta feed that cat, pinch that salt, roast the cashews, lather up the zanzibar'a soap. amen to that.

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