garamondyo

my my. I have danced this week to the end of soap. The fin de pickle.

I think I can come back now. Looks like the fire went out. I been on a stomp of zero cool proportions. One ferocious pot-boiler!

What is it that I did? A spectacular display of cognitive misbehavior. I did a very towering Nothing.

I dodged and wound around ringing cell phones and demanding associates. I shot down the yammering minor bits of tasking like birds on a fence. Like so many wee shots of soft booze.

And most importantly I evaded the arresting thumb of a looming shame and have emerged die cast in sterling. Certified, too. Franklin Mint, you twats, Franklin Mint. For good measure, I'll abandon this hyperbole before the inevitable and totally unwelcome phoenix metaphor takes a stroll across your patience.

And o look. did it anyway like a schmuck.


A stick, a stone, It's the end of the road,
It's the rest of a stump. It's a little alone

It's a sliver of glass, It is life, it's the sun,
It is night, it is death, It's a trap, it's a gun

The oak when it blooms, A fox in the brush,
A knot in the wood, The song of a thrush

The wood of the wind, A cliff, a fall,
A scratch, a lump, It is nothing at all

It's the wind blowing free, It's the end of the slope,
It's a beam, it's a void, It's a hunch, it's a hope

And the river bank talks of the waters of March,
It's the end of the strain,
The joy in your heart

-Jobim