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Last night wolves wailed hours yonder city light, domesticated dogs among us gained proficiency rehearsing ancient gruff song, translation please, man in the moon enticing also coyote’s howl.

Lotta talk, China, Russia, India, fraidy cats, satisfied the way Libya was or just sitt’n pretty until another tyrannous ruler in jeopardy losing country, owner of greater oil resources starts ripping apart at their seams. Viva la f’n France, First Lady wow factor Ms. Bruni must deem her Grecian formula man virile again, Mr. Haute Coiffure does, even though he’s only half pretend French, kind of like Carla.

During a much deserved Washington D.C. break, radiation cloud traveling east, unmixed coincidence, from Brazil yesterday our President promised no United States ground forces on Libyan soil; two times he announced this, the second after his eloquent trademark delivery, “I repeat.” If Pete and repeat were on a boat and Pete jumped out, who was left? Abbot and Costello’s slapstick performances hadn’t ever before come off dignified on any other former Presidents.

Was it Tuesday or Wednesday, by most historians a tragic week, Bo posted his top ten NCAA March Madness picks from the White House, little surprise, Las Vegas sprung to their degenerate feet, as should quality oddmakers.

Oh SuperMoon, where in heaven’s name have you been, eighteen years too utterly long, doesn’t your lunar magnetic pull relish the uncommon closeness our planet’s company experienced these past few days.

Inflight conversation during migration, two swallows return to San Juan Capistrano

2:20am Saturday March 19th, 2011

“I knew it Ali, maybe you’ll need to go on ahead without me.”

“What’s wrong with you Saul, we’ll be there in less than four hours.”

“Easy for you to say, my left wing isn’t exactly what it used to be.”

“Should’a joined the Independent Party, for ages I’ve been telling you. If it isn’t one disagreement today with the left side, there’s a problem within right wingers tomorrow.”

“I’m not joking around Ali, the pain is so severe it’s beginning to affect my cardiovascular rhythm, these palpitations are a bad symptom; I ought to rest.”

“Damn you Saul, these past five years, every year the same chronic beef, always bitch and moan the entire last twelve hours; can’t simply be content by what we have.”

“Yeah I know, lecture time again, how fortunate we are, a sense in togetherness, completely emancipated, zilch of possession and the unparalleled ability to separate from Earth at whatever second compels us.”

“Hey Saul, I do hope you realize God’s listening, there’s certain consequence later if we’re not grateful for which should be perceived our blessings.”

“That’s your conviction Ali, don’t obtrude anymore pompous language onto me; I’ll happily fall back into formation, continue onward with Yohji or Sanjay, hell if you insist, I’d even fly between Mark and John, at least they don’t annoy me inducing their words of nonsense.”

“I’m truly concerned for you Saul, there is the distinct possibility you’ll no longer make our annual journey, perhaps none following this year; you’d remain totally isolated by yourself in San Juan Capistrano. I mean that stretch of beach is breathtaking and sure those mission bells have definite allure while bathing in Nixon’s swimming pool genuine fun, but that final hour Sauly, how ya gonna spend it alone?” 

“Alright already, you’re too morose, the slightest mention in soreness, all of a sudden I’m solo, half dead, Howard Hughes, were it not his billions.”

“Saul don’t stop up here, however, after our landing take a hard look inside my fine feathered friend; you really should, when you’re not whining about your health, forever there’s the other issue, how much money you don’t have.”

 

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Sofia Coppola and Benicio del Toro wait in line just like nine people behind you, with another seven before them, at one more non-descript rollup garage door café serving coffee, period, nothing else, not a scone, muffin of any type, croissant plain nor chocolate filled, single drip eight ounce five dollar cups only. Next morning make your own coffee at home, but doesn’t taste quite so creamy, lacking yesterday’s bittersweet delicious head, leaves you feeling almost lazy, as prior putting your slippers on. Shower, dress, firming trying to forget that anarchist café exists, meander through errands, becoming unbearable by two fifteen that afternoon, temptation succumbs us, on the way lament this could turn into a ten dollar daily ritual, “Can I afford thirty-six hundred dollars for coffee every year?”

Similar que, half dozen customers there first, each minute wait longer brings an eager elite coffee fanatic; the wiggly line now outside increased approaching twenty in number, those counting. One, two, three polished bullet bomb proof vehicles pull up, stopping precisely ahead, the last bumper flush to this supreme caffeine establishment’s edge. Rather out of nowhere several secret service men bend curvy patient fellow coffee snobs into a closer formation clinging the building. Fourth vehicle double parks, front passenger door opens, secret service steps onto the street as does one more emerging from left rear, then walks around assisting his associate, positioned at ease in strict attention while agent riding shotgun clears passage for Secretary of State Hillary Rodham Clinton.

Self-righteous, exempt, showed no desire joining others previous arrival, even a close gesture by mere formality, our group regarded Hillary unanimously and instantaneously, to be perfectly candid, displaying ill-mannered behavior I’ve rarely witnessed. A voice in line called out, “Mrs. Clinton, where did the 2.3 million dollar blood money come from pardoning your CIA contractor Raymond Davis, not every American charged killing two inside Pakistan’s border finds fast release, skipping town onto further merriment?”

She didn’t respond, accepted their complimentary gourmet coffee, returned toward the idling car, sipped, quickly licking an upper lip, climbed back inside, partially lifted her cup, toasting us with a dishonest smirk and drove away.

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LouLou’s bunchy padded pants from diaper’s standing two feet high before her three foot Ikea easel channeled on any given day rendering’s perfection, free of preconceived notion, Monday, Wednesday, Friday to some extent Matisse inspired, Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday flawless Miró, taking Sundays off.

LouLou by four and a half years old grew twice proportionately when sitting became mandatory creating such masterful works at her easel, no longer hunched over, within seconds adapted to the newer seated position.

Upon age five and a half her knees couldn’t fit under the easel’s equipped tray anymore; LouLou’s art had of course by then appeared willful with purpose, though remained slightly loose, but in this vaguest sense, rigidity already overpowered movement, right shoulder and limb even tighter actually holding the implement’s color choice.

During whatever hour she singles out, LouLou all of seven and a half come six days elects each desired homeschool activity, reading most commonly her first pick, math last, yet after Jeanette’s tutoring multiplies three digit equations without assistance.

Unlike many children this age LouLou doesn’t have her own blog per se although every week enters several pages by pencil into lined notebook, an ongoing tale of romance set in India circa 1600.

LouLou and I occupy round the clock balance for one another. There are moments she keeps her playful eyes on my dire seriousness, while other less frequented intervals project myself the seven and a half year old, as reminder whose role must assume responsibility’s weight inside famiglia di Schiavo.

I opened what acrylic paint colors LouLou needed yesterday; she began using purple, then orange, to pink, yellow, lime, turquoise, dark green, fifty minutes more royal blue. Her inclination drifted toward adding black, I suggested others instead, realizing what doing so would’ve done, defeated the objective, veering exclusion in awkward form by forced continuous markings.

Four hours later at bedtime LouLou wandered into stuffed animal ventriloquism, a natural talent, briefly impeded that private dialogue holding up her abstract painting for admiration’s approval.

She questioned whether it was good enough to put in a museum.

“Maybe I could bring it to them and ask if they’d hang mine.”

We’ve been to SFMOMA once so far this year, not bad considering it is just mid-March.

LouLou’s final analysis, “I think they should, it’s better than anything they have.”

Peyote hardly a drug, definitely opium, wide cross selection heroin, Demoral, coca too, anesthetics or free base, hydroponic cannabis sativa, potent although still an unsophisticated weed, crystal methadrine worst ever manufactured, right there above LSD. Peyote, such a rarity Merck, Pfizer, GlaxoSmithKline can’t procure enough for business benefit. Futile to pharmaceutical firms anyway; Peyote’s highly sought after mind altering substance heightens undivided awareness while corporate and street drugs chain their addictive leash around the user’s vulnerable life.

Cleaning one’s peyote buttons cactus matter, an artichoke’s heart size, the critical step prior to ingesting, must be prepared by your sharpest of knives keen scraping at its strychnine surface. One dose, a handful finely chopped sufficient; my experience thirty-eight years ago continues.

Chewing peyote’s bitter sticky slime ultimately situated low, preferably on the earth in front of a wild campfire, beneath an overhead galaxy by which two maybe three hours possesses vision turned backward, an entire being within becomes those infinite stars, seeing ourselves through observatory lens, as energy billions of miles away.

North America’s ignored wisdom, our Native Indians, hoard their mysterious plant, few outsiders venture permission onto New Mexico reservations pleading personal intention. In secrecy an Indian Chief protects his heritage, revering the very culture to ride bareback amid his bison herd, trapping quail, snatching salmon. He’s sat this day five hundred years, meditating primarily without much word; Great Great Great Great Grandfathered from tethered young son examining each father’s thought, then his before him.

Our global dignitaries really dress smart, tailored suit, pressed shirt, silk tie or necklace, flying aboard private office, conference areas, gourmet kitchen, master bath and bedroom, arrive, smile, wave, meeting counterparts, shake hands, pose for photos, quickly returning to their respective country.

In a remote sacred canyon, petrified carved rock his shelter, Great Grandfather burns sage. On a single lengthy unpaved road, twenty miles entering his land, that familiar black line proceeds the presidential motorcade kicking up its trailing dust cloud, six unmarked town cars lead, nine suburban’s follow, without reason every grill flashes their alternating red and white lights. Great Grandfather is not fond of hypocrisy

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FREEZE EACH AND EVERY CALIFORNIA MURDEROUS NUCLEAR POWER PLANT NOW GOVERNOR BROWN; SEIZE THIS HOURS SECURE EXISTENCE BEFORE CITIZENS PAY THE FINAL UTILITY BILL, DEATH BY STATEWIDE FALLOUT FROM MASSIVE RADIATION EXPOSURE. MAGNITUDE 7.9, 8.9, 9.9 EARTHQUAKE, EPICENTER SOUTHERN, CENTRAL OR NORTHERN CALIFORNIA, SIMPLY SAID, TOO LATE, OUR APOCALYPTIC CONSEQUENCE INDISPUTABLE, SUCH UNNECESSARY REGRET. WHO HADN’T SUFFOCATED, POSSIBLY DROWNED, CAN THEN AGONIZE DREAMING IF ONLY THEY HAD WHEN THEIR BODY POKINGLY FAILS, SHUTTING DOWN TRANSFORMED INTO PURE RADIOACTIVE WASTE.

FAIR-WEATHER WAR PROTESTORS MARCH 19TH PRIORITIZE; RESPIRATION OR FATALITY UPON YOUR OWN SHORE. NO NUCLEAR POWER PLANT DISASTER SEPARATES HUMANS FROM ANNIHILATION, CHILDREN, WOMEN, THE SICK AND ELDERLY SWIFTLY MELT AMONG BOLD MEN. NOTHING CONSIDERED COLLATERAL DAMAGE IN DOMESTIC NUCLEAR WAR; OUR OMINOUS ENEMY AWAITS US WITHOUT PREJUDICE, ALL DIE EVEN MAIMED SURVIVORS.

WHAT COULD HAPPEN TO CALIFORNIA’S UNSTABLE ECONOMIC FOUNDATION IF THIS STATE’S ABLE POPULATION ASSUMED RESPONSIBILITY’S COURAGE AS EGYPT’S PEOPLE PROVED LAST MONTH, SWARMING EACH AND EVERY CALIFORNIA NUCLEAR POWER PLANT, UTTER RUIN COMMERCE, PRODUCTIVITY, FINANCIAL COLLAPSE, HOWEVER FUTURE DESTINY SPARED, HEROES AT THAT PRICE, DEAL OF A LIFETIME.

WORLD WIDE WEB, GOOGLE, FACEBOOK, YOU TUBE, TWITTER, HARD DRIVE, SOFTWARE, SEMI-CONDUCTOR, BIOTECH, CALIFORNIA BORN AND BRED, AN ARTICLE OF GENUINE CONCERN, THE INVITATION FOR URGENT SOCIAL MEDIA NETWORKING IS OPEN.

THOSE PROUD, PERHAPS TOTALLY EXEMPT, OTHERS HAVING RECOUPED LOSSES SINCE ’08, AN INVESTOR’S PORTFOLIO VALUATION FOLLOWING 7.9, 8.9, 9.9 SAN ANDREAS FAULT LINE INDIRECT HIT, WITHIN SEVENTY-TWO HOURS WALL STREET COMPLETELY UNDER, MY UNPRECEDENTED GUARANTEE.

CALIFORNIA’S TSUNAMI IN MONETARY AFFAIRS, OUR PACIFIC RIMS BORDER REACHING LOWER MANHATTAN’S ATLANTIC BATTERY PARK EDGE, BRACE YOURSELF LADY LIBERTY WHILE THIS STATE RAISES A PATRIOTIC GUIDING FIST.

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Armstedler Lane three miles, until Capps Dairy sign, the big one illustrating a blonde brother and redheaded sister, books dropped after school, sneaking homemade chocolate chip cookies warm off mom’s baking sheet, both grinning unaware they themselves wear two identical white milk moustaches, applied drinking their cold glasses pleasingly half empty. Can’t miss it, they pay Greer Erin Booth a nominal fee each month for use of her building’s west façade which she leases its interior square footage to Hartlin’s 5 & 10. Ben Hartlin was much nicer than his daughter, who’s practically run it to the ground these eight years now; her father I believe died back in ‘58. Don’t even try parking in the spaces out behind reserved for Hartlin’s if you’re not shopping there, no real reason too, Sears is about forty miles east on Highway 12. Two blocks north past Harlin’s on Sycamore, there’s a chapel, Shepard’s Way, might be Light, don’t hold my word to it; I’m horrible with names, religious ones in particular. Make your right immediately following their gravel drive; Paul’s alley isn’t marked, just between the chapel’s property line and Mrs. Ronson’s home, largest in Cassidy. Peach trees ripe in her backyard these days, stop if you like, pick a few, she enjoys good company, welcome yours I’m sure, lucky passing by when she’s finished canning preserves. No more than halfway down the alley on your left is Paul’s, only corrugated shed at either side. Peyton’s his, looks mean, he won’t bite though, barks at everybody, doesn’t matter whether you’d been there a thousand times. Since Paul can’t see, it’s usually best announcing yourself, soon as Peyton stops barking. They’re a lot alike, Paul’s got a mouth on him too, won’t last so long, especially if you bring Peyton a fat bone and some cinnamon oil toothpicks for Paul. He doesn’t accept credit cards or checks, cash only; exact amount paid in advance, no exceptions.

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