What Truth Should Do

During an internet conversation with my friend, Danielle, she mentioned that she was "shivering a lot." This was due to a lack of heat in her room, "Not because truth makes me shiver," she had to clarify because we had been talking about truth and the announcement of her physical condition at that moment came as a non sequitur. To which I replied, "Truth should make you shiver...and it should keep you warm...and it should tell you stories at night to fight off the darkness...and then, it should welcome you to the darkness."

Anti-Wind

Wind blows.
I don't mean in the gusting
sense of the word.
I mean it blows in the way
that things that suck blow.
You know, the slang
use of the word.
Like how having a broken toe
blows, or not being tall enough
to ride the ride
blows, or pizza
outside of New York
blows. That is how the wind
blows.

Always pushing you around.
Knocking your hat off your head,
making you chase it down the street.
Turning your umbrellas inside out.
The wind blows.
Howling through reeds,
scaring small children at night,
and then, during the day,
slamming their kites down
into the ground, smashing them to pieces.
It blows.
Knocking down that house of cards,
you spent most of the day building,
with one gust from a carelessly opened door.
It blows.
Wafting all sorts of foul smells
straight up into your nostrils.
It blows.
Whirling up women's skirts and dresses,
and puffing out their hair,
causing all manor of embarrassing clamor.
It blows.

Snuffing out the flame
on that last match
before you can get the fire lit.
Blasting your piss back at you
when you try to pee into it.
Oh, how the wind blows.
Swirling your father's ashes,
whisking them off into far away places
that your father never wanted to go,
like Guam or Iowa.
The wind blows.
It blows, big time.

Adversary Rhymes: Peter Piper

Peter Piper porked a pair of puckered pussies.
A pair of puckered pussies Peter Piper porked.
If Peter Piper porked a pair of puckered pussies,
where's the pair of puckered pussies Peter Piper porked?

Peter puffed a pipe of pungent pot smoke.
A pipe of pungent pot smoke Peter puffed.
Then, Peter passed the pungent pot pipe to his pal Paul.
Paul, too, puffed the pipe of pungent pot smoke.
The pipe of pungent pot smoke Paul puffed too.
Then, Paul passed back the pipe of pungent pot to Peter.
Peter puffed the pipe of pungent pot smoke again.
Again, the pipe of pungent pot smoke Peter puffed.
Then, Peter and Paul stared at the wall because the pot was pungent in the pipe they had puffed, and they began to postulate that the predicament of the populace was propagated by the privileged, and that progress could only be procured by perseverance, which was proceeded by the proclamation, "This pot is particularly piquant."

Adversary Rhymes: Little Mary

Mary was a little lamb with snow as white as skin. And every time she went on the lam, she'd flee the place she'd been. She followed a school of fish one day, but realized she couldn't swim. She began to drown and sunk straight down, and was never seen again.

Mary had a little scam: to fleece a dealer out of blow. And everywhere the dealer dealt, Mary was close in tow. She followed him to a school one day, and watched him sell to teens. She studied him for many weeks and learned all his routines. Then, it came time to do the deed, and Mary began her con. It seemed as though she would succeed, but the dealer soon caught on. He let her think that all the pieces were falling into place; so when she finally dropped her guard, he shot her in the face.

Mary liked a little lamb minced in her Shepherd's Pie. She was Irish, and that's how they make it.

I am being followed...

and not in the digital sense. Someone is following me. Physically. A person, male, with dark glasses and darker clothes, a hood encompassing his face, casting it in shadow, hiding any distinguishable features. Nondescript. Unidentifiable. Except for being a man of considerable height and build. He is not far from me right at this moment. I can see him in my periphery, hear a rustling, smell a conglomeration of strong cologne and sweat. He is holding a paper cup of coffee from one of those vending machines, which dispense those cups with the playing cards on them. He is holding almost a straight, seven through Jack, with the eight missing, and he hasn't taken a sip. And though I cannot see his eyes through his glasses, I know they are fixed on me, and he is making note of everything I do. I must lose him. What does he want? Who is he? Maybe if i turn my head, pretend he isn't there. Maybe if I look directly at him...

The Somethingness of Being and Doing Nothing

It's been almost a month since last I blogged. I could lie and say that I have been keeping busy with things of importance, but the truth is I have been doing a plethora of nothing. However, I've come to realize that the last bit of the previous sentence is sort of impossible. You cannot have a plethora, or any other amount, of nothing. Nothing is an immeasurable thing. It is not even a thing; it is no thing, the absence of thing, thinglessness. My friend's daughter posted on her facebook that she too was doing nothing. To which I commented:

It is impossible to do nothing. Nothing is the absence of doing. Nothing is the absence of everything. Doing is related to being because you must be in order to do. You are being, in that you are, therefore you must be, thus you are a being. And if you are a being, then you are not nothing, and since you must be to do, then you are not doing nothing, which is a double negative proving the positive that you are doing something. Only one who is nothing can truly do nothing.

And that, in someway, makes sense to me, and sounds like truth, but it is not. For even though there are words here for you to read on this page, this screen, they mean nothing, and are nothing, except bullshit, which is something that would negate the nothing that I have attributed to what you are seeing, which would make sense since it is unlikely that you would be able to see nothing because nothing is not there and you cannot see something that is not there, or nothing, but it is all subjective, or objective, whichever applies or doesn't apply, all are welcome to apply, but none will be accepted. Nothingness, thinglessness, wordlessness. I will cease to write about this any further.

Because I haven't Blogged in a While

It's not that I've been too busy. It's not that I haven't had anything to write. Blogging is an evacuation of words from the mind, like shitting is an evacuation of feces from the body. So, in keeping with that analogy (Don't you like how the word "anal" is in the word "analogy"?), the reason I haven't been blogging is because I've been constipated, word wise. There are so many things inside me, so many words that I'm blocked. So this blog post, you might say, is sort of an enema, an attempt to clear out the blockage. To this end (end is another word associated with ass), here are a few words of which I really like the sound: gurney, meander, cretin, llama, beard, brewery (that word always makes me sound drunk when I say it, which is why I like it), phalanges, malcontent, curmudgeon, putrid, and discombobulate. That was fun. More word musings: I always thought the word infinity should be longer. It would make sense. I mean, I know it can't go on forever, which would be cool, making its spelling the literal meaning of it. Or maybe making it a palindrome would be a more practical way of giving it that literal effect, spelling it infinifni. For that matter, why isn't palindrome a palindrome? Are there any words that are the literal meaning of themselves? Like the word noun is a noun, but verb is a noun too, and that's just annoying. A gerund is a verb acting as a noun, and there are many nouns that lead dual lives as verbs, such as run or go, but I don't think there is a word for those words. I think that might be a paradox, but I'm not sure. So, instead of pondering further, I will just end this blog...if I had said that with an "ing" after it, I think it might have been a gerund.