The Sky Is Melting

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“The sky is melting, the sky is melting…” As told by a little chicken once upon a time. He was only looking for closure to his Gestalt Happy Meal. Just a little fryer looking for the real world, trying to be a mind in his own legend. Maybe that wee fowl discovered the bandwagon wasn’t singing “Happy Days are Here Again” anymore. Maybe he finally realized lemmings are just stupid, furry little rodents that eat their own feces.

“The sky is melting, the sky is melting…“ Would you like a nice Biscotti to go along with that hobo-shoe coffee while you’re waiting? Sorry, the trendy local coffee house is closed. No more wireless cloud network, so sad, too bad. Maybe you can find a wire-frame, fur covered surrogate mommy hen to kiss it and make it all better.

“The sky is melting, the sky is melting…” Chicken Little’s agitated barnyard cries and frantic running around would make more sense if his head was lopped off. The beat poets’ had it right, life’s all groove and
no vinyl, it’s all skin and no bones, it’s living jazz that doesn’t let you resolve back into the same life ruts and routines that chained and suffocated you in the first place.

“The sky is melting, the sky is melting…” Yeah, in trickles of back-stories, scribbled and dribbled on huge Pollock canvases, then scrutinized for DNA viruses. The clip-on-tie lie all for grandma’s apple pie. A deadened sight on a memory. How do you go about compartmentalizing a Kraken? China Syndrome hunks, puddling in humanity’s radioactive abyss. Everything comes to rest, collects in the crevices and gutters like so much ticker-tape confetti.

“The sky is melting, the sky is melting…“ You know what? Any  hold-outs were minimized to such an extent that they just gave up trying to communicate their last shreds of sanity. Up became down and these misfits couldn’t re-orient themselves anthropologically upright. They were too tired, too depressed, too medicated, and trans-humanly degraded. Must’a been somthin’ in the water, but who cares, whatever. Yeah, wtf, right?

If I were you, I’d Just go on vacation
Consume umbrella-drink libation
an’ dream ‘bout spiritual revelation.

Come on, gimme some skin
by the hair of your chinny-chin-chin
Just don’t lose your dopamine grin

Time to circle the wagons
drain and stack mead flagons
you’ve slain the very last dragon.

There’s a new Renaissance a comin’ called the Apocalypse… be there or be square little chicken.

Summer Magic

There’s a magic time that announces summer has arrived. It’s not the warmer weather or the ending of another school year. It’s not embarking upon of a long awaited vacation or even the ding-a-ling of a neighborhood ice cream truck.

Summer arrives at a special moment when the sun begins to lower in the sky, the night starts to seep in and the air is humid and warm as breath. At this very moment, heady scents on the evening breeze meld together in a brew of ambrosia. Like an organic pheromone tantalizing your imagination that laid dormant the rest of the year.

This scent, this aromatic vapor invades the body like a succubus, seducing mundane thoughts into anticipated adventure and conjured fantasy. This scent plays and blends with temperate fertile earth and stirs together with sweet blooming flowers, herbs and hidden honey combs.

It’s a sensation that hints you might have stayed dormant too long and spurs in your stomach a butterfly tingle of curiosity. Your anticipation is heightened by a cool trickle of sweat on your neck as the first summer scent wafts under your nose and introduces the magic of summer.

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