The Mavericks Ride Out of Town

The story winds down. Once and only once there was maverick from Arizona. His name was Johnny Mach 1.

He came from Tombstone, an ancient deserted tourist relic town filled with unemployed actors and weather beaten facades. He believed in the confluence of universal string theories in infinity. 

Johnny was old, senile, tired, washed up, washed down, hung out to dry and known to have a quick trigger haired temper. He was actually a Machiavellian maverick focusing on using brute power and doing immoral things to maintain his power.

His motto was, "Shoot first and ask questions later."

He'd escaped from a nursing home and rode off into the sunset dragging a screaming Bush behind him. "You haven't heard the last of me!" It was his last howdy-doodle dandy. 

Then, one day along life's dusty trail of tears he met The Ice Queen, a maverick named Sarah from the State of Confusion north of the lower 48 as she was proud to tell everyone who bothered to listen to her ranting ways. She lived in an igloo. She was the inarticulate queen of the permafrost tundra and badly needed articulation lessons.

She, like old Johnny, believed in Greed, Fear and their offspring. Because he came from A and she came from A they were together in AA. They were in a long recovery program. They prayed together. At AA meetings they stumbled, stuttered and whipped their flag wrapped nags. They assembled their collective naive stupidity and spewed forth vague verbiage designed to attract insecure and desperate people.

And then, the 4th of November loomed on their immediate horizon. It was bigger than a mushroom cloud and more powerful than a radioactive bolt of lightning illuminating the crumbling empire, the decaying civilization and broken financial capitals. 

"It looks like this is the end of the trail," Johnny cried.

Sarah comforted him. "Now little Johnny, let's not forget the good times we had riding the range, and shifting the cow shit left, right and center. Destiny's a funny little creature, you betcha."

"You gotta point there," said Johnny with a final salute. "An old fart with a young pop tart did ok, I guess."

"Yeah, whatever," Sarah sighed. "I'll be back in the saddle before you can say, 'Drill, baby drill."

"Yeah, the thrill is gone."

Metta.

Bird

It's the first. A number, a digit, a finger pointing at the moon. 

Curving white reflection. 8% of full.

Orchids receive water. Gnarled roots snake through charcoal.

Tyrannical brooms caress leaves and stone. Yin-yang.

Charlie "Bird" Parker's sax...read and hear more>

Breath.

Metta.

Hallow's Eve

Your letters say, "A body is required. Unable to complete your request."

Waiting. 31 October. Dark is the night, cold is the ground.

Waiting for the night, for the quiet reflection shadows, waiting for you to rise and fly, to wander among friends,

Sharing stories and tales. Memories of laughter's bliss, music.

Dancing on graves smelling roses, hearing water. How you came to this place.

Bones rest in dust. Exhale exile. 

Waiting.

Spooky

So, the story goes. Once upon a time there was a chemist, physicist and economist out in a boat for a picnic.

One of them took out a soda bottle, "Whoops," they said, "we forgot the opener."

"No problem," said the chemist. "Just shake it up and the pressure will blow the top off."

"I have a better idea," said the physicist, "lean it at an angle until the heat from the sun creates pressure and the gas will force the top off."

"Excellent suggestions gentlemen," said the economist. "However, I suggest we assume we have an opener."

Metta.

Doing the Mango tango

 I go, we go, you go.

Mango. Super Fruit. Buy one, peel it down. Savor the succulent mass of alfa bet your sweet antioxidents.

A, C, E.

Ace a mango.

The humility of a mango. How the skin releases it's interior dally daily dialogue.

Being unknown. Practice flowing sensations, this dancing mango simplicity. 

Mr. Mango said, "Remember, there are two kinds of people in the world."

"What are they?" wondered a child.

"There are people who want to blame you and people who want to distract you."

"I see," said the child. "You mean, according to the philosopher, Damon Young, 'distraction is chiefly an inability to identify, attend to what is valuable, even when we are hard working or content.'"

"Yes," that is what I mean," laughed Mr. Mango doing the tango with some Taoist monks.

Metta.