As I slip off into the savannah of high thoughts and skulking threats, with the watering holes that draw out the parching soul…

There the stars 'sans-electrique' throb eclecticly, their myth sprays spitting, drooling, the cooling anamnesis for:

birds of leisure, dogs with war wounds, cats' amicable antics and tiny thingie things that go bump (in the night).

And I can't help but remember that I've never been to either Toledo.

And I can't help but wonder why that is (that I should remember).

My cro-magnum cranial cup has been grailed, served on a bed of parsely. These languishments, these signatures of millenia, billenia recently arrived as twinkling constellations, post haste.

Looking up from the muddy ooze that squeezes between my toes, one step above the compacted dino/vegetal spendor that will once have driven us merely to commute, I pause between mosquito synaptic sputterings - the self-silly-slap of: “oh no, not again” - to drink in this endless “the.”

Jack Anderson - 10 Dec 2006

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