1885r

A classic. Such complex simplicity. Poor clouds looking at all those unkited children – of so many varied ages! We still have wind. My little Cali-kite goes to the end om my heavy-duty surf-casting rod with way too much line and I have to rein it in when the big field is but a little distance from the airport glide paths. I wait for visits to permissed pastures – and promise not to purloin the ‘shroons sprouting from psy-delic patties.

not so many kids
not so many kites above
clouds go unadorned

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“Who Maybe Meant It”

who maybe meant it:

‘Hope I die ‘fore I get old’

remind me to ask*

 

  • (You’re as squared away as a soup sandwich, were the words many-a-private heard spittle-thrown at his face from just inches away, not even noticing the morning’s coffe-and-sausage breath or the sonic levels at which the words achieved in such a short distance.  Sure and positive many if not all of us at Parris Island who heard those endearments up close and personal-like might make common cause with the song “My Generation.”  Some wag once sotto-voced: Death Be Not So Far Away For I Need The Peace? after such a sermon.” What often came next made the mad rush of invective mere canape.)