Why is it that when washing socks in a washing machine there is always a missing one when finished. Seriously, after years of washing socks and being frugal with them I am missing hundreds. Where do they go? I’ve checked the filters. I’ve checked the sofa. Those fuckers disappear without any evidence as to why.

The Beverly Hillbillys are excellent to watch. Jed. Elle May. Jethro. Ha! What a fucking hoot! Raising cows in a tennis court. Those are my kind of folks.

Now why am I writing this shit? Is it because Old Crow is flying into my brain cells? Ha! Fuck yeah.

( Had to delete so you have to resort to looking at the keystrokes just erased. Sorry about that. ((not really)) not sorry for anything except wanting to know where those fucking lost socks went)

Sheriff Giddings once said “Where do you see yourself in five years?” Now the poor sod is sodden.

West Virginia! Whee! Gonna buy a shack and tell the world to get lost. Gonna stay away from the zombies. Gonna catch fish. Gonna watch fire flys. Gonna play with corgis.

Now, haven’t written a poem in awhile, a while, a spell, a bit. And, fuck the poetry crittics. Everyone is a poet whether they either know or don’t have a fucking clue.

(inspired by a humming bird. A real fucking piece of what for me is reality)

***

Concoction

There the hard reality of soul resides

sighing

Giving thanks unspoken while retaining the motions of life.

A small egg tendered with care to give flight to motion

A wing

A prayer

A flight where to meet with air tipped and enrich with flower.

Yes, and always so as to deny only brings the darkness of night

Swirling and twirling and hovering with trial

Always striving to cling to what is real

and Life.

***

(Whee!)

Now, where are those fucking missing socks!