Whimsick

moments in time where pejorative poo-poos potent the primacy of the pulpit.

Disparaging days dissuade devout deviance drowning dreams of dastard do-gooders.

 For years I've wondered what is next, when next is dependent on the state of being here now. Do what you wish, but be sure to be here for the moments what do.

Structure is required of some populations; I'll refrain from claiming I'm not. Not in any span of time do a writer's flock coincide with an artist's intent.

Natured Constrictions

I hate that I always start filling in forums and questionnaires with: 'I'.Catching myself again, I realize I don't want to be passive in my intention to sell myself or my potential for contribution to an outlet, but MAN do I focus wholly on myself the great-portion of the day. (and suddenly, a silent desire to type on a pigeon-excrement-covered table in MacArthur park - stop searching for spelling of 'MacArthur')This morning I awoke and did what the priest vehemently proposed last night at mass following the novena, to which I stumbled upon late - stepping high over the lap of a veil-faced elderly to enter the pew. No one ever scoots to the middle; they always expect you to step over them. Some people, knelt in prayer, are seemingly so peaceful that disturbing them seems to be a crime. I just want to bottle up their gracious-peace and bathe in it, in the glory of sparkle-covered rained clouds, letting no drips hit the ground.So yeah, I knelt this morning and offered what good and bad would come of the day to God - and tried desperately to make a point not to do this for me but for others. Following my 30 second finger-combing session in the bathroom mirror, to the sound of the absurdly-loud bathroom fan, I put on a dirty shirt, same jeans, same shoes; socks, I was already wearing and tip-toed out onto the front porch. There I found darkness at 6:35 a.m.