Simple Theories

  Millennia ago our intrepid pumpkin ancestors made the trek from their Greek homeland West to the happening place, the magic of effort on the game board. Freedom is just another word for whatever, what are words but the soul’s complex of growth principle times cardboard box for shipping in a race against existential not having. Pumpkins are not shipped in the sense that someone wearing shorts and driving a truck leaves pumpkins on doorsteps at all hours driving economic points of tinder. Pumpkins grow in earthly paradises until ripe enough to take shelf space. Shelf space marks the end game of saturated marketplace of pumpkins rotting in the pleasure. Realize place of big, where couch cannot hold candles. Pumpkins and the panoply of curcubits grow into the land with roots delving deep into an earth made of earth and dogmatic tryst. Pumpkins know the importance of holding place. Place becomes a canvas with boundary. Boundary poses a moment.  Here  becomes handled, just li...

  Amongst the most succulent of storm systems, Planet Earth Division, hurricanes prove the most succulent. They tend to bring utmost wetness to mind, like you took a bad turn with the mighty deities of our realm. Hurricanes bring a savour of the sea long before they have reached your locale. This boding brings the net effect of uncertainty to the parlours of the just. Of course strong winds also typify the ministrations of these minions of nature's mayhem. In human colloquy, hurricanes cannot legally be described by fewer than five adjectives, and those adjectives must be strong and kinetic buzzwords of apocalyptic zing. Oddly, tho much smaller, tornadoes demand no less than  eight  adjectival descriptors just to get the point across that the deities that join us in and to the world offer mercy most awful sometimes, at their disgression. Hurricanes exist thru admixtures of hot and cold, plus bold applications of nature's unmappable intent and Republican transgressionary f...

  The wind’s unmatched tonic, that specific note, owns Heaven and Earth. Earth is the hard part, solid battalions of molecules make the most of dance. Heaven bears the softness of launching thought asseveration. Wind carries, looking empty. Platitudes of direction grow amidst the balancing temperature exchanges ploughing entropy fields. Worth a chuckle to imagine the acrobatic play for things and no-things directed in the wind. The battalions scurry for mundane practicality: everything fits. Birds have fast-as difference ringtones slinging in the wind. The wind passes thru nations where umlauts do their best and the cedillas try to explain. Nothing really inveighs against the stasis but momentum. In this instant, a calling.