Somewhere

“Everyone knows this is nowhere.” Is it? 

Can’t be. 

Who drew the map of the road to nowhere? The road goes on forever. 

Up ahead. 

Around the bend. 

Just over there. 

There! 

But there isn’t nowhere. 

Here isn’t nowhere. It’s here. It’s a half-rebuilt cottage where Johnny Gimble once fiddled. It’s a green and yellow Olympic medal stand shrine to John Deere johns. That’s somewhere. Likely nowhere else.

“Everybody seems to wonder what it's like down here,” but “everybody knows this is nowhere.” 

Where ya’ going? Nowhere. 

Whatcha gonna do? Nothing. 

Who with? No one.  

No one is no one. I mean a real nowhere man sits in his nowhere land “making all his nowhere plans for nobody” is “a bit like you and me.” 

Someone. Somewhere. 

Are we there yet? 

Are we there yet? 

Are we there yet? 

When will we get there? Tomorrow. 

Are we there yet? 

Are we there yet? 

Are we there yet? 

When will we get there? Where? 

“Somewhere else. Not here.” 

Nowhere to run? Too close and too far. 

Nowhere to hide? Hmmm. 

Nowhere is a bad place to hide. 

No one is nowhere. 

No one will find you. 

Gig’s up.

I Wish I Could

I wish I could throw like Nelson Mandela and sing like Michelangelo;

I wish I could blow like Lucille Ball and free like the mad Karl Rove;

But, mostly, I just wish I could talk like Johnny Cash.

I wish I could scheme like Mazeroski and speak like the Big Man;

I wish I could scream like Frank Sinatra and swing like Julius Caesar;

But, honestly, I just wish I could talk like Johnny Cash.

I wish I could field like Lindsay Vonn and act like Barbara Jordan;

I wish I could waltz like Pablo Picasso and rule like Justin Tucker;

But, actually, I wish I could talk like Johnny Cash.

I wish I could pound like Mario Lemieux and draw like Meryl Streep;

I wish I could win like Mother Teresa and laugh like Keith Moon;

But, most sincerely, I wish I could talk like Johnny Cash.

I wish I could shoot like Fred Astair and serve like Michael Jordan;

I wish I could think like Jerry Garcia and fly like Babe Ruth;

But, humbly, I want to talk like Johnny Cash.

I wish I could skate like Patrick Mahomes and joke like Albert Einstein;

I wish I could paint like Mavis Staples and kick like Tom Brady;

But, for real, I oughta be able to talk like Johnny Cash.

I wish I could write like Jesse Owens and survive like Carol Burnet;

I wish I could run like Vonnegut and pick like Bill Clinton;

But, don’t you think, wouldn’t it be great if I could talk like Johnny Cash?

I never wanted to dance like Rick Perry or Tom DeLay or Sean Spicer;

And I'm glad I don’t lie like Donald Trump or Richard Nixon;

But I really sue-ly do-ly, honestly and truly, wish I could talk sonorous and deep and big, talk just like Johnny Cash.

“How do you do?”

Photo by Heinrich Klaffs/Creative Commons license

The Brits

Names in British novels. 

So novel.

So British.

So mocking.

So true.

Bathsheba Everdene;

Uncle Pumblechook;

Lord Frederick Verisopht;

Henleigh Mallinger Grandcourt;

The Aged Parent;

Sir Damask Monogram.

Each, alone, evokes all appearance, all nature. Then, hundreds of pages to prove it.

A new classic British novel in five names:

Griselda of Xebec,

Sir S.K. “Silky” Pocketsquare,

Lord George Piggly-Wiggly,

King Kermit Orion Neville Gaitherslather (KONG),

Twitters McRobin.

Save me the trouble.

Fill in the proof.

Eye Fly

My pet fly lives in my eye. Loyal, true, and obedient. So well trained. He (my bias; he may be she) goes where I gaze. Up, down, in, out.

He flies around the room and back on my command. Today, when I brushed N’s teeth, I flew him in and out of N’s mouth and up his nose. 

If I forget who he is, I swat him on my food or flying in the door. I swat air.

Sometimes, he startles me. More than sometimes.

Slowly, day by day, he melts away. Soon he will be gone.

I will miss him.

HE'S BACK!!! FOREVER!