chicory correction

Correction.

It is chicory I see whose blue dazzles me.

Chicory, common by roadsides; uncommonly colorful; distinct.

coneflowers

I've been seeing coneflowers and still love their distinct blue, which isn't really blue.

comments

I wonder if anyone will ever comment here again?

Sometimes I pine for the days when we had a regular vrew, a community, as it were.

It's my own solipsistic fault.

One needs to converse to cultivate conversation.

hum, baby

sometimes the hum of a fan on a summer night reminds me of a long plane flight, such as I've taken to or from Berlin

can't much sleep on planes or jets, either

once, coming back to the States, the movie was "Lost in Translation"

perfect for my semi-awake, jet-lagged haze

the arc of the air

thanks, arctic air

for ever so slightly squinting southerly

hinting at cooler climes

less sweltering soddenness

the promise of comity

sorely lacking in the mingy mien

of budget hawks

their hot talons

tearing at the populace

as the oligarchy caviar crowd

whine about why

not more for me

it's mine

mine mine

how taxing

and tiresome

the tip of the iceberg

the country club cabal

plots its permanence

art+poetry

participated in art + poetry workshop

now it is yesterday

young and old

in the city

urban and not

but more art than poetry

or is it merely redefining?

or am I too confining?

in a kindle age,

visuals rule

as a matter of fact

and fiction

am I merely ancient

anchoring the word?

or chained

to the sea's sybaritic syllables?

cheeseburger cheeseburger cheeseburger

At Quaker State and Lube, QSL, I ordered a cheeseburger, hold the cheese. Otherwise, there was no way to get a plain ol' hamburger w/ lettuce, tomato, and mayo.

The cheeseburger sans cheese, a.k.a. hamburger arrived.

Atop the underside of the top (i.e., the puffy, rounded portion) of the roll sat the patty, the meat.

The bottom portion of the roll held some shreds of lettuce and a flimsy tomato.

This is increasingly typical, the new normal.

Upside-down burgers in an upside-down world. The burger should be on the bottom, the other stuff on top. Period, no questions asked.

Tully's does this, too, I believe.

Many places do it.

Why?

When did this silliness start?

Why?

Serves me right for failing to practice my more typical locavore principles.

heated reflections

Mr. Lucas standing against the brick wall of their apartment, cigarette ash visible. Heat lightning. His talk of going fishing the next day. Dad fooling around with the antenna in the attic to improve TV reception, grumbling about "sun spots." Headlines of tanks rolling through Berlin as a wall is built. Tension as electric as the static from storms. Hitting 'em out. Shagging flies. Guzzling ice tea so cold it burns. A hot bath to feel the contrast. No shower head. Talcum powder. Nervous about September and school. Seal off rooms with fans on exhaust during the day, on intake at night. no such thing as AC. The drone of a ballgame. Haircuts cut so short. Delivering the Shopper. Asking the Italian lady for some water. Ice water. Take it in like a boy in the desert. The beach, Dad and Mom never once ever going into the Sound. Fear of atomic war. Rabbit ears. Potato salad. The little metal box for the milkman to place the bottles. Caddying. The straps digging in, the thirst. The spidered night flashes but no thunder.

voice

I confess to a fear. I confess to the fear that I've lost my voice. Not the voice loss associated with laryngitis. Not that sort of -itis. I fear blogitis, the loss of my blogging voice. Having been Tweeting (or tweeting) away like a madman (MadMen? BTW, I await the return of that stellar AMC TV series), I wonder if I've gone to the word-well so often and so distinctly differently that I lost my Kokonuts voice, diminished my Laughorist persona, lessened my serial-comma loving stature, skewed my Kierkegaard-name-dropping identity. Of course, some would argue for marked boundaries of these voices, clear boundaries on the verges of Facebook, LinkedIn, Twitter, and Blogger. Those "some" may be wise to counsel such; or not. Nevertheless, having glanced at the aforementioned words and having heard their cadence and rhythm and substance, or lack therof, I can rest restlessly assured that this voice is still full-throated. Warbling. Wandering.

Carry on.

As you were.

Laugh. Or...

Else.

Oxford Comma Scare

Phew.

There were some alarums [olde spelling] that the Oxford University Press was axing the Oxford comma.

Not so, apparently, as noted in this excellent piece in the Los Angeles Times, which also discusses the Shatner comma, comically.

No serial comma killing this time, though all offices of said staid educational institution should be consistent on such matters.

Serial Comma Commandos of the world, unite. You have nothing to lose but your [something something; failed to make Marxist pun here].