Always with the thinking, always with the seriousness, I am. Or at least it feels that way. I can't even write about my stupid birds without applying some kind of philosophical weight to it. Today, I am having none of that.

Today, I will not attach significance of cosmic proportions to my pets, Freudian slips, or whether my African violets are blooming. Today, I am just going to go with the flow.

Quit laughing.

You may read on, but I am off to pursue my less neurotic Self. In lieu of all the writing I am not going to be doing today, I will leave you with the following things that I cut and paste here in place of my usual long-winded post. Enjoy.

You may remember my previous two comics (medheads and froggy spoke sooth), which before today were the only two I had ever made. Because nobody can get enough of my comics (aren't I funny), I have created a third one. Here it is (and I do apologize for the small print):

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Here is a ridiculous story related by Blackbird in yesterday's comments section (which I am quoting without permission):

Many years ago, my father surprised my mother with the gift of a tall cage of finches. Cheery little birds that lived in a corner of the enormous kitchen, which, coincidentally, had wallpaper with birds on it. These birds brought great happiness to her as my father traveled often for business and they cheeped and chirped at her all day.
One day she called him in tears -- beside herself really. She had been vacuuming the bottom of the tall cage and had assumed the finches would be safe on their perches at the top of it. Somehow, one of them flew or jumped down and...she vacuumed it up.
But ever hopeful, my father instructed her to take the vacuum apart. It was not to be -- the bird was dead and stretched and elongated in the shape of the hose it died in.
Fast forward.
One week later.
Mom is vacuuming THE KITCHEN and glances over to see the surviving bird fall from his perch. To the floor of the cage. Dead.
There was no autopsy, we can only assume he had a heart attack.
Two weeks later, my father purchased a soft-sculpture type thing. To hang where the finch cage had been. It was a parrot.
Named Hoover.

Poet Robert Creeley died this morning at about 6 am in the hospital
in Odessa, Texas.

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Photograph by Allen Ginsberg

"A Wicker Basket" by Robert Creeley

Listen to Creeley at NZEPC

Listen to his album, "Courage"

A Post In Which The Fiery One And I Converse (And Some Ransom)