Picking the Grass out of AstroTurf

I stumble around, but with purpose.

The forces of contradiction won’t let me go, so I cling to their centrifugal powers.

I wonder? How many times have I seen myself as two different people at the same time?

The seal on the bottle of whiskey stares back at me, daring me to break it.

At some point almost everything I think feels to me like criticism of another.

This won’t do, nor will that.

The chorus of almost empty city busses keep chugging up and down 10th Avenue.

I try to draw a straight line from Derrick Chauvin to Mitch McConnell but my pen ends up on the statue of Verdi in Golden Gate Park, an act of graffiti that is a clear reflection of our collective thinking.

The actress on the TV program I’ve been watching on Hulu, a minor character, a lesbian, proves my contention that actors have gone from acting with their eyes to acting with their eyebrows.

News bulletin: flash flood in Death Valley.

I’ve just heard the golf announcer say that there will be “an effort of labor” to get the golf course in shape after the rain delay at the Wyndham Championship, and so I look for a piece of paper to write what he said down on a piece of paper: an effort of labor. Golf’s far too stuffy these days; the PGA Tour needs to have a Jimi Hendrix Classic or a Frank Zappa Memorial and wean itself off the corporate tit.

Then I turn off the tv, listen to rock & roll, The Kinks, “You Really Got Me.” It sounds as if Ray and Dave Davies are right beside me inside their guitars, having a fist fight.

Award-winning dahlia, San Francisco Dahlia Show, August 21, 2022.