I live in the here and now, not the destination, but I have my sights set…
[[[ TBC… Bully work is tough. The next 40 paragraphs could use a playlist, some strumming, plucking, some zeroing in… plus, Musie wants a new tattoo. Hoo-Hah!]]]
These words will get better. I promise. I’ve been working so hard but I’m also between editors right now and I need help. Please pull him off me I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t– Breathe. … …Sometimes I wonder if I died that day, a child.
I live in the here and now, not the destination. But I have my sights set. I prefer to stay in touch with reality and sanity and I do my best to protect my health, my intellect, and my focus from the injurious sludgelanguage of tainted, manipulated media and the fear-smeared spittlewords of delusional, barking-dog demagogues, not to mention deranged, orange, spittle-chucking assclowns in fat suits. Time’s too precious and I have better places to be, better things to do. (This week my screen time is already up 68% to 30 minutes.) I need the good and the true and the unsullied words at the end to tell beautiful stories about horseflies and hummingbirds in their natural habitats. You know, real, good work to do. Shoot, that reminds me, I have to change the nectar in the feeder.
I don’t speak Dooooshenese or Twattenese so I really don’t understand a single toxic word of the current side-show barkers’ and ringleaders’ language anyway. I studied English in school. Languages are my favorite! I also learned hand-to-hand in sixth grade. I learned how to suffocate. The bully makes every day at school a threat and everyone seems to be okay with it. My bully’s dead. Murder murder suicide dead. Murder murder who knows how many. My bully’s dead. Now I must get my child out from under there. Terror. Need air. Ozymandian despair. My child is fighting to survive this familiar old terror. I promised I would get him out of there if no one else would. Concussion. Confusion. Stomping. World caving in. Crack in the window. Crack in the mirror. Broken tile. Glass on the floor. Sand forever. Noise tumbled in a mixer. No air. Noise noise noise with no language. Trapped. No language, I must get back to class! The bully’s words are in coward language, inert, impotent, of no consequence except that those words are rude spit and gurgling foam, bubbles in my face as they die. Fists are for taunting. You give yourself away. Coward. I forgave. The louder they are the deader they fall on my elephant ears. A whisper can slay.
Since I’ve been decades away from screens & TV (the last political ad I saw on a TV was endorsed by John Kerry or George Bush, can’t remember which) the loud, the skewed, and the fouled words don’t reach my sacred space and I haven’t seen many images at all of the tyrant in the white house or the terrorist on our streets, maybe since the first circus sideshow stumpings of over a decade ago. But yesterday one pic oozed through when I got online to check my email and Wow!, now the loud and sneering one looks like Hillary’s great-great aunt Gertrude in a Scooby-Doo villain disguise. Which got me thinking…
Who does his hair and makeup?
Does the red regime have its own special effects studio? A paint booth?
Why do they make him up like great-great aunt Gertrude?
Shouldn’t he wear a tight pants-suit and party-favor pearls?
Would Wardrobe be able to hide his panty lines?
Long Live The Queen.
Leaders
What are the greatest patriots to do
With big beautiful minds and hearts so kind and true
When the enemy of our enemies is our enemy too?
My dragon and I are almost out of fish
Now I don’t know who’s training who.