605

The ink rested on the page in lazy loops, rivers sifting through a vast delta, going somewhere, someday.

604

Glory! Sing to me, oh Muse, of how good Procrastinor, after many clever days evasion, beat them back at Last Pass, his chosen ground.

603

Better to eat nothing than eat ashes.

602

The unstrung bow rests, relaxed and forgotten, no memories.

601

The journey of a 1,000 miles begins with a single step. But then there's the step after that. And after that. Hell, I'll just lie here.

600

Tamales slow steam — laughter, cookies, and Merlot — no hurry, not today

599

If there's nothing to do, do nothing. Or something.

598

And after love's stormy night, fresh-morning friendship, cool and greeny.

597

Forsythe Gallery on N. Main St., poets gather, Beat children, wail behind looking glass, laugh at passers-by, on display.

596

Sandals and haikus tread the trail, soak in dirt, sweat, and become stinky.

595

Mad, naked, crouched, he growls and gnaws the too-giant gristle, cracks bones, cuts chunks, swallows.

594

Too cold! Too cold! The Blue Norther blows, and I shrink into myself like a turtle before a snapping dog.