Holy Motha Freakin Gosh

One morning the Little Bird awoke. Still, the trees. Still, the seed on the ground. But the sky- he noticed the sky… Felt, Different. Or maybe it was he, Who could see himself less clearly, In this patch of the Great Quilt. Where would he fly, If not here? That cloud, This bend of earth and wind, Seemed to outline him in a way that felt less like a hold, And more like a shove. Could other birds see? Or was it just, he… To work! This is home. This is the place that… is… known. Then why? Does it seem to pull? This “sky”. Why, Am I so small, then yet, able to fly, If not to follow the sky? He stood on the brim of his nest. The sun whispering over the edge of the world. The wind battering at his little bird heart. To write it all down. To jump, Soar, Start.

Sudan, the last male white rhino on the planet Earth has died. His two female offspring are the last to survive. His sturdy white Tufts, And thick oceans of leathery skin, Wore like that of a dino. How could we not know, Where this would go? And even when we did. Still more. Never less. We must improve, repeat, impress. Be the best? Sudan, may you rest.

He does airports well. He stands with purpose and finality. His voice stretches because it has to. Like, his life depends on it. He talks to me. Just to me. Like, Lee Harvey Oswald must've felt. In that musical about Assassins. I could dance with him singing in front of me. To a simple empty chord being almost mindlessly vamped. ‘If we hadn't spent 10 years finding it.’ He does airports well. So the planes will fly. The passengers will sit. And the birds will continue to wonder what it is that invades their God given skies.

“There was once a nanny-goat who said, In my cradle someone sang to me: “A strong man is coming. He will set you free!” The ox looked at her askance. Then turning to the pig He said, “That will be the butcher.” Bertolt Brecht Brecht was a left-wing writer who had his work banned. 7 words. 7 deadly sins. Censorship. Making. America. Great... Again. Control. Distraction. Disregard. Elite. Rice. Porridge. Wine. Red meat. Many words have been said, Many wars have been won. To ignite the bomb, It only takes one.

My friend Diane de Boer-Phelan posted this and I really needed to read it. And wanted to share it because I think it's really important. Please read and share: "Tonight was extra cold. I walked by a guy on my way home who I noticed had been sitting there since 1pm. I felt his despondency. I walked another full block and a half saying things to myself like "he knows where to get help" "what if he's crazy" and "what if he thinks I'm hitting on him like the last guy I stopped and tried to help" "I'm beat, I need to get home"... So many what if's crowded my mind and I just observed them and then saw myself turning around and walking towards him. His name was Mark, and when I asked him if I could buy him a coffee he looked amazed and relieved someone was talking to him. Turns out Mark is from Queens and lost his job when he had a seizure on the job. He wasn't crazy. In the least bit. And when I told him to pick out anyt...

"On the Other Side of the Door" I think she would've been proud, As she held her head up high. That the boy she once gave... Like changing leaves into an autumn sky. Had learned to dance, Had such a sing! That her forgotten boy could do anything. I think she would've been proud. If she ever thought that all her choice would be the best for him. If her little life and it's rejoice didn't fit inside his skin. If the song, the lullabies, she sang wouldn't make him win. I think she would've been... The summer air has cooled, here. A chill is turned, again. And life is sure a place to be, When it's all about what could've been. I ask the grey inside the morning sky if what I do is right. Her answer is just a whisper, A blur passing in the night. I think, I hope she is proud of me. And all-that-he-has-done... For losing is the winner's way of how it must be won. He hides his head up, now, so high it does not see the ground...

I love this moment in flight. You've made your connection in Middleapplolis , USA and eaten the worst God-for- saken - sacrelig of a "sandwich" in the 20 minutes you have between tease touchdown, bathroom and boarding. You scored the window seat which of course means you're destined to share your row with a devil child or wild service orangutan. But you've isolated your self successfully with your swipable memoir and b luetooth earbuds ( You can barely hear the child's head exploding over in seat D-24) You've dosed. You've drooled. You've cried/lip-sang to Dear Evan Hansen. You've photo booth-ed in the mile high bathroom. The high afternoon sun is filtering perfectly into the cabin as you wake up from your most recent nap a nd you dare slide the eerily, toy plastic insert up to reveal that lake, that desert that must mean you're under an hour from touch down. The friendly attendants offer you one last cup of coffee and you, of c...