Void Set

The color of the day is desperation.
It’s a bit sky blue
mixed with a touch of grey steel.

The letter of the day is repetition.
Keep up, children.
Enunciate or fail to communicate.

The number of the day is -10.
How many cookies do you have?
10 less than zero.

That’s right.

The color of tomorrow is new normal.
That means normal, tomorrow and thereafter.
The color of new normal is partially hidden.

The letter of tomorrow is stumbling.
It’s like a dream, a nightmare, a poorly-coded VR experience.
Expect no one to catch you if you fall.

If you’re lucky, you’ll float down.

The number of tomorrow is {}.
{
                                                                                              }

I’m sorry you had to read it here
but do consider how often something great
comes from nothing at all.

 

Void Set

Cold Tequila

We drank
cold tequila
on a simmering summer night

We went
skinny dipping in the river
under stars a-shining bright

We lost
innocence and inexperience
just trying to get it right

Desperate youth
and cold tequila
on an endless summer night

I saw you in the parking lot
of the Town & Country store
Riding shotgun with your girlfriends
in a dusty, rusty Ford

Your hair was blowing out the window
Your smile an acre wide
I chased you down to invite you all
to go swimming with us that night

We drank
cold tequila
on a simmering summer night

We went
skinny dipping in the river
under stars a-shining bright

We lost
innocence and inexperience
just trying to get it right

Desperate youth
and cold tequila
On an endless summer night

You showed up close to twilight
with cold tequila and warm beer
We listened to No Fences
And we hollered and we cheered

Billy built a bonfire
Right on the pebbly shore
The reflection in your eyes
Left me hoping for a kiss or more

When you handed me the bottle
and said that you was having fun
I knew you’d be my only girl
Until our days were done

We drank
cold tequila
on a simmering summer night

We went
skinny dipping in the river
under stars a-shining bright

We lost
innocence and inexperience
just trying to get it right

Desperate youth
and cold tequila
on an endless summer night

The night it ended far too soon
It was time to get on home
As you piled into your pickup
Said I’d call you on the phone

Watched your taillights as they disappeared
down the dark two-laned highway
I could taste your lip gloss just a bit
And my memories replayed us

drinking

cold tequila
on a simmering summer night

skinny dipping in the river
under stars a-shining bright

losing

innocence and inexperience
just trying to get it right

Desperate youth

Cold tequila

Long gone summer nights

Cold Tequila

Little Lord Sauceleroy

tinyletter.com/ballsauce/letters/little-lord-sauceleroy

First, those of you who write poems and read this newsletter, send me an audio recording of you reading a poem.

I had hoped to have something to announce to you today. Well, I do have something to announce, but the crucial deliverable required for that announcement to be worthy of announcing is still pending so the announcement as a whole must also pend for the pending time pending. 

Let’s talk about pending. Originating ‘round the 1640s, “during, in the process of, for the time of the continuance of,” pending is a preposition formed on the model of French pendant “during,” literally “hanging,” as well as a present participle of pendere “to hang, cause to hang” (from the Proto-Indo-European root *(s)pen- “to draw, stretch, spin”). The meaning is patterned on “not decided” as a secondary sense of Latin pendente (literally “hanging”) in the legal phrase pendente lite “while the suit is pending, during the litigation” (with the ablative singular of lis “suit, quarrel”). The use of the present participle before nouns caused it to be regarded as a preposition. Pending began being used as an adjective ‘roundaboot 1797. 

Isn’t it all pending at present? Hanging right there in front of us? Swaying to and fro like a confused monkey in a tree? “It” being everything, of course. Our safety. Our livelihoods. Our futures. Our country. Our planet. Our supply of factory-farmed meats which must be protected at all costs so help us God if McDonalds runs out of burgers…hell hath no fury like a Trump starved of Big Macs. 

Let’s talk about Big Macs. The Big Mac was originally created to compete with the Big Boy hamburger, a signature burger made by a local McDonald’s competitor in Pittsburgh, PA. The Big Mac had two prior names before getting its current name which, incidentally, was bestowed upon the meatiest-meat-meaty sandwich by 21-year-old advertising secretary, Esther Glickstein Rose. The Big Mac’s first two names were not Jim nor The Greasy Mouthfeel. No, its first two names were The Blue Ribbon Burger and The Aristocrat.

Isn’t it all pending the Aristocrats at present? Pending right there with decisions pending before their eyes, Aristocrats influenced by corporate interests and ideologues peddling dipshit theories? Aristocrats swaying to and fro, like confused, well-suited monkeys in a forest of new growth trees? “It” being everything, of course. Our safety. Our livelihoods. Our futures. Our country. Our planet. Our common humanity. 

Let’s talk about humanity. Humans, together with chimpanzees, gorillas, and orangutans, are part of the family Hominidae. Humans have eyes. Humans have hands, bodily organs, a human shape, five senses, feelings, and passions. Humans eat food, get hurt when attacked with weapons, get sick with diseases, get healed by medicine, warm up in summer and cool off in winter. If you prick a human with a pin, it will bleed. If you tickle a human, it will laugh. If you poison a human, it will die. And if you treat a human badly, it will try to get revenge. 

Isn’t it all pending revenge on the Aristocrats at present? 
“It” being everything, of course.

And yet, we’re embedded in the systems built by Aristocrats to benefit the Aristocrats. Conundrum, ho hum.

The question then becomes:  How to reframe one’s existence outside of Aristocratic systems: land ownership, planned obsolescence, outsourced slave labor, consumption as a substitute for community, and the like? More figuratively, how to completely rebuild our aeroplane while we’re in it, flying over the sea?

I don’t know. 17-year-old me wants to watch the motherfucker burn down like a Rage Against the Machine song. Diabetic me wants to ensure the pharmaceutical supply chain isn’t disrupted by 17-year-old me’s wanton arson spree. Psychedelic me wants to drop out of everything and grow mushrooms on a farm in north Arkansas and have you all visit when you need a good mind cleanse. Father me wants to be better able to tell his children he tried to effect change, if for their sake alone. None of my many mes, however, wants everything to keep on keeping on this very way. Not one of me. 

Now I’m rambling (oh, now you’re rambling?). 
And with a Flower Moon o’erhead, forgive me. 
Look up at the moon. 
We’re floating in space. 
It’s amazing. 
Aristocrats, despite their plans to mine the moon, be damned.
It’s amazing.
“It” being everything, of course.

Little Lord Sauceleroy