I am limping along here in heaven and Mr. Moon is about to cook some grouper he caught and I have a fistfull of green beans from the garden and the Big Chickens are making a lot of noise in the iron plant outside the back yard and one of the bantys escaped when I filled their feeder this afternoon and he can fly like a damn eagle already but we caught him and put him back.
I think it was the baby from next door. Banty chickens are not regular chickens and I can tell you that with certainty.
I don't know. I don't know.
I donated to Public Radio today, finally, during the last hours of the pledge drive and that should make me feel good.
Jesus. The GUILT, OH THE GUILT!
It's always the guilt.
Should we have grits with our fish and should we have stewed tomatoes and will I dare to eat a peach?
The mermaids call each to each.
I do not think they call for me.
There's a poem you can put in your pocket and I remember tripping my ASS off on LSD and my friend David reciting The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufock by heart, by memory in a car and we rolled the windows up so that none of it would escape.
Ah-yah. That was a long time ago.
Grits. I need to cook grits. And cook some tomatoes.
I am limping along in heaven.