Flailing American Plans

Instagram is a language for nigh upon decades, which, for all intent and purpose, was essentially the same formula one has been doing with this blog since the early aughts. Or earlier? Why would one ever return to this esoteric corner of the intrawebz?

One could suppose that it’s more private. Thereby befitting of more private meanderings. 

So what “private” thought has predicated that one returns here to dispose of? What burden will be recycled today?

Let’s start at awakening.

When your walk to the espresso machine leaves bloody footprints, you know the recent past has been soul-destroying.  Don’t mope, just retrace your steps and keep rinsing the sponge out. It doesn’t have to be a ruckus. 

The ruckus is within one’s heart, you can’t photograph it and post it online with the caption: “feeling like death, might delete oneself” You know the rules of the heart!


It simmered at the dinner that your guests left you at. It had a chance after a decent night of snoring. A flicker of redemption. But as the the twilights between raven and dove (as the Hebrews term it) began to descend, so did the thin fabric begin to un-web from the flame. 

Cast forth from vitriolic curses and weekends spent on freeways. The only compassionate voice you hear is from Siri, Alexis, Tesla!

They are but children, why can’t you know that? 

From the ashes, like an eerie / silent battlefield.