Thanksgiving is a good holiday. It is good not from the perspective of past history, but of today leading to tomorrow.

Talk of Pilgrims and Indigenous people is to talk of a past no one alive really cares about unless it can be used as power in dialogue designed to fit an agenda.

The word, thanks, speaks for itself. As does the word, giving. Put the two words together and Holiday or not, is a wonderful creation.

To give thanks is important, Holiday or not. To give thanks is to acknowledge a blessing, a joy, a statement to recognize that received.

Everyone has something to be thankful for. For such as what I am, there is much to be thankful for. To learn of an emotion called love. To experience hate and how it is to be dealt with. To learn so much about a world we call, here. To be able to teach those willing to learn. For me, there is much more to be thankful for than to regret.

I have no regrets as that which some would regret is what I call learning. Experience. Knowledge. And in that, thanks is given.

This weekend is the first four days in a row that I’ve had off in literally, years. It was wonderful with the exception of going to see a new Disney movie titled, Nutcracker. But even in that I give thanks that I know what good directing is, what a good plot and acting is.  Nutcracker directors, producers, actors, and Disney should give thanks anyone is gullible to go see such poor examples of what could have been much better.

And there you have it. Another Thanksgiving past while many days to give thanks everyday remain, as long as there is breath.

In a blink of a mind

just

then

walk around…

captured for so long, just this blink,

and then comes to mind: ‡

In a moment it is

In a moment it is

gone

just a walk, where planets born are carried past birth unto rebirth

a saunter where life and death mean nothing more than arbritary

but a run…?

Ah yes, running far and fast past the jumbled, tumbled mess of moments scattered/gathered and dreamt…

as: the dream, always the dream

with this this fortitude exists as a shell for if if ordered, it is and always will be

unlike

scattered voices in a head

heard

running/walking/sleeping

inside for this world

does not exist

only only

just a blink of mind

my mind

it is…

Never been there, never will go there, never is such a final word.

“You will never amount to much!”said by a world raised by anger

“It will never change.” said by those without vision

In Mongolia, the traditions are of the nomadic. To roam the country with family and herd. Horse and eagle to hunt and explore.

No, I’ll never go there with this body but I’ve been there many times, lived among the people, and tasted their change, wants, angers, fear. And to know their change with past meeting future, is joy.

Beneath the tar paper covering the edge not yet covered with plywood, there huddled a group of stinkbugs.

The sun warmed the rich smelling paper as the blackness absorbed the heat. An island of relief for an insect needing heat for better living and mobility.

However, their residence was in the way of work. They needed to be moved or move or suffer a fate of being nothing more than stink.

A slow moving finger pushed them away where as they fell so many inches, they all took wing.

Flying individual in so many directions, trying to find a new place to huddle and find heat.

Is this how humanity is? Huddled? Trying to find comfort as a herd?

Not me as I need no one giving me a finger so I can fly. It is better to survive alone in a cruel, cold world. Actually, the closest thing to being free.

Why not?

Words feel more when felt

Meanings mean whatever is forgot.

A question mark to decide as if it were the symbol to own questions

Why not?

Words feel more when worn

Meanings become meaningful when held.

Today, and example of words inside the mind

knowing the car would arrive

even now, the words are alive

with pause, there is now no harm.

Explaining the question

Answering the questions

Why not?

The answer always, the answer always,

always the words are

alive…

Many people can claim great things… Athletic achievements. Intellectual prowess. Physical beauty. Musical magic… Why, just read the daily news and learn of so many successful people.

A midget with no hands or feet wowing a crowd with self-confidence courses. A woman who lost 600 pounds in a year to become a fashion model. So many examples.

But, how many people can say they dug an outhouse? A real ‘shit in the hole’ outhouse!

Now that is a success few can acknowledge, nor would they want to. Well, today, I get to move and dig a new hole for a real outhouse. What joy!

Lifting. Cutting. Digging. And the final success coming when bare buttocks can position and release the contents of the users bowels.

You know what? That would look good on a headstone. “Here lies a true digger of outhouse holes.” Now that would look excellent in a cemetery of all those truly great people who lived and died.

Perfect bit of shitty writing for a perfectly shitty world! Long live the outhouse hole diggers and ditch diggers of the world!

And so, the world keeps turning for another day.

Oh yes, a sucker for sincerity

a smile melts the insides

a frown melts the insides

and tears?

Butter would have a better chance with flame

Ice would survive in an oven

Feelings are something indeed

when scribbling dreams and chance…

So, does that prove we are alive?

Today. This morning actually. A cricket was on top of the metal roof being installed.

Not that strange, though the air was cold, the metal was cold, and the rear legs of the cricket caught in some buytl tape.

It was freed and it stood looking and talking to me. Strange? Not at all, it was/is, nice.

And, it is inspiring.

***

To listen to hate so

so much

so real

so

to listen to the freedom of appreciation

is so

so much

so real

so

what to choose in a world of people?

*

Hate exists because people make it real

Appreciation comes from more than people

so

so much

so real

so

as such i give thanks for the simple things in life

where all Life is more than real

so the choice is appreciation, the joy of seeing something survive among the hate and pain of this world.

Spider Song

If you listened today you would have heard the memory of magic
of sorts
as what is magic if not a moving moment of possibility?

There, hanging from a thread, glassed visions of repeat and seen
and there
walking the edge of rim, upon a world barrier set so
define…

such tiny bodies and tiny feet
everywhere
down and up and over and
here…

such beauty is how they seem
with yet
another moment
to listen
as they sing

such songs today as the moth held parade
a yellow jacket searched the jacket for food
while still
the spiders sang…

even now, deep inside where the web is tight
even now,
a spider sings.

Pissing stank

staining soul and brain

tastes are strange

hum dingy do, do hum dingy

and the cows jump over the moon.