Like ants - but that's so clichÃÆ'© - yes, but they really do look like ants there, crawling out of a station or anthill one after another fanning out in straight lines in all directions. Perhaps to gather food and return again to the station. The only thing that speaks against this interpretation is the scale and timing.

The halting rhythm of a monolinguist speaking her second language. A constant search for "le mot juste" encased in mal-conjugated verbs and reversed grammar enrobed in a fairly good approximation of a French "ummm". More than this I do not know.

Bright yellow gerbera daisies, orange petaled roses, blue irises peek out of his backpack nestled with an orange, a banana and a hard-cover book on boat building. Why, whenever I leave my journal at home do the words flow, and the observations seem more stunning. The petals on the yellow roses have started to loose their perk, and fall off one by one. The ample rose hips sway in the breeze. Blue & blue striped socks have me thinking about her writing socks, and I long for something with a little more passion. Eight ways to burst a landlocked quandary.

Dahlia woke that morning with a splitting headache, and the faint fleeting memory of a dream where nothing was as it seemed. The memory fled before she could gather it into words to hold in her basket like dying flowers or scraping tree branches. She reached to it, but found it was gone. What was it? A military campaign, flying teacups, the fine & sweetly scented lavender flowers dropping to the earth. Addled mind, chorus of flies. What was the whisper they appointed? Why would they run away? Be here now or never. My sleeves are drawn back in readiness.

True confessions. I discovered too late, & had to cheat. I'm not proud, except of my accomplishment. In just two days, I managed to back-pedal into this. I'm here, fully, and with my conscience in tact. Would that I had known earlier, I'd be here with my integrity as well. Ah well, rules are made to be broken wouldn't ya say? A little bit more than not for those of us who tend toward the autonomy fit. Pedal forward or backward, but just don't try to go sideways, it doesn't really work all that well. Five, four, three, two, one.

Blisters on my finger-tips, Shoe-shine on my toes. The ball of my foot aches, & I'm sure my toenail will soon fall-off. What more will I ask of my body before it is allowed to rest? Soft satin sheets slink on bare skin over rough and ready bicycle scrapes, cancelled bargains and lost teeth. If the snake arrives at midnight, who will cross the channel? What lost pederast will find his way through dark allies and cautioned man-holes? I wander in, unaware, false hopes about in another bit of otherness. Ten days left before the beginning of what was it?

Hat check girl, she, watches you from across the room. Her white-gloved hands graze mine briefly and deliberately. Your eyes miss nothing.

Balboa bounce, a toy soldier pressed into action by the wooden dowel in his back. They dance with legs flying.

Touch the ladies, I accidentally touch an arm, a hip, to press my body into hers though we've only just met. The ultimate one-night-stand.

Bar man, mix this most-exotic drink. Fancy a Fur-Lined-Whiffle or simply a Lemon-drop? Keep 'em happy so they keep 'em coming pocketing the change before crawling into a steamy alcoholic fog of his own.

A bit of a poem. This time, I'm allowed near the microwave, but not to step away. Accidental fire notwithstanding. Internal twist and turn-about, the wild wish. More than just the whispy ships of overwhelm. Button-down shirt and sport-jacket. What more will be pulled from here or there? Can the humdrum day become you? Bat-seed-pod looks like demon or tiny steers horns or a skull. Bits of this or that, why does it seem so random and so loose? I sniff the lilly-livered innards of his arched acheing back & her crushed soul. Distance between me & you & they.

Intuitive understanding, waiting just incase someone needed to be heard. Waiting expectantly to love whatever or whoever should come. Review the welcoming. A piece of chocolate. What is prologue to the past. Return, resurrect, reflect. The tiny knitted toy captures her attention. Wishes for fortune. So how can I read to support the learning. The passion is real, but what of the story? If death comes, where is the wandering? Elbow ache, muscles pout. A confusing deportation from Eden. Still less comes everything less. Perhaps a bath will bring the universe into balance. Cool water. All pity and all hope.

Mighty predators slink in, tails held low. The paws cover eyes while hostility wanes. Look into social rank and fornication. The realm of the animals. Nervous about rank, they sniff briefly. No decision is really necessary. What else can, or must we retain of the future? Let me bathe. Then we'll be on even footing. Lavender bouquet. Ganesh travels by rat? Shiva, lord of the dance, travels to Ireland. What is in your 'god-house'? The dust settles and the tail flicks. Daring for violence and carelessness. Does it tell what it holds? Do you know where the priest sits?

Fish. Flakey flesh. Fried? festering? finning? For forty-five furlongs, Fred found fastidious flibbertigibbets, frantically fanning the funny flamingo. Flight fails fiddling food from afar. Fussily fathering formal or fleeing finks. Alliterations loose their appeal before long. It belongs to the land of irrelevance. Too often, the word "and" creeps forward. We want to say so much. We want to express more than we can take in. Hunt for a while. Where there is something to say, the limit arrives, where inspiration fails, the limit runs in the opposite direction. Is it spicy? Where is the yoghurt? My head burns hot.

Contrite blessings. Religious words only soften the lesson of daily hysterics. Hippopotami can outrun you on land. There is more to this mystery than you have had reason to know. Why did they close off the street? What are they digging for this evening? What will they find? Spotted deer antlers pierce the castle's crumbling ramparts. There is no way for you to watch the smaller birds' butter knives. Do you know where the elephant's body-parts are stored? Touch the inside of an elephant's mouth. It's oddly and surprisingly sexual. Warm and wet. Do you know where they hail from?

Read some of the 100-words entries from September 11. I don't know what possessed me, but there I was, drawn by a morbid curiosity. What was it like for all those other people? We all have our stories, all want someone else hear our story. I was at the pool, coolly swimming laps. Splash, splash, splash, turn, repeat. Fragments arrived as swimmers arrived late with words that didn't add up. A plane off course in New York, ran into a building. Two planes collided mid-air, another plane off-course. The laps continue as we try in communal isolation to understand.

"Vex not his ghost"

I always thought I liked three-toed sloths. The opening paragraphs of the "The Life of Pi" confirms this intuition. Nothing like a three-toed sloth to make my afternoon naps appear active. Hot months in Brazil not withstanding, they are "upside- down yogis, deep in meditation". Normally, there is a miracle in the aged hard-taught window. As the bumper sticker reads, "Suffering is optional". In what form does the skull reside. What does death believe? Where does the shadow of deep emotions lurk. House-lizards, a brief, yet catastrophic window into the daily-lives of those from warmer climes.

Relish the moment, or catsup it. I the moment, transported by woeful dissolution, I stand entranced. The essential bellowing cancels tomorrow's tale. The tale begins and ends in shame and cries for medical support. Your lady died after the poison, married in an instant. Do the god's shake the heavens? Do they list in nightly repose? Self-slewn Cordelia cannot grant reprieve. Lessons learned in nightly screaming. The great king moans in his deep loss. Only in grief, can the mirror fog, or the feather stir. Stay a while and hum. Rock with me to an old air in gentle breeze.

Treason is for you. You, before the taste of bread should touch my lips. My honor heralds and my sickness grows. The conveyor will sound the trumpet & Roland's story will be told. Treason's tooth parts the widow's lot. Nobility reports to no one. The cautious youth lasts only through mirrored breath. Conspire before you see the dust cancelled in the fading sun. My best arm rests here for thou. Inspire and spurn. Tree-fish thoughts speak trumpeting to resound. Save this practice by the law of war. In the vulture's hand, read your evil. Hate is not worthy of you.

Compassion away, you don't know where the wilderness will take you. We find what we can when we can. Compassion for self & others is just another option in the day. God's spies aren't here on earth to count your sacrifices. Be who you can, when you will. There will be no blinded, or guiltless pleasure. Willow bent in your hand there is more than an exalted edition. The lady is not well, though she holds birds in her hands. The walls are for thee. Master meaning, before the drums strike. It will be no more. This is tomorrow's interlude.

"Take the shadow of this tree for your good host."

Let my branches surround you & hold you in your hour of need. There is nothing here, but the clinking of chains, & the clash of swords to be oppressed and fear the coming of the prison guards. Sing like caged birds, they will. To tell the tales of gilded butterflies. The pack of grapes that stand upon your table reclining in their wooden bowl, peeled gently by the good servants who know not ere they work for thee. Eat dried oats if this is what will nourish your soul.

Declaration of Egregious Popish Impostures.

"Indistinguished space of woman's will", the spirit of the text rests still in the whispers. The accent will not hold, the agent is but a piece of rakish foolery. Kneel before the hourly breath that seeps from cautious hands. Do not laugh for this cannot be other than what we have endured. This can be naught, but Shakespearian influenced prose. Speaking brightly and in honor, there is no further cause for enduring. Be not familiar, be not bright, it is for France that the loving sister cries. I never yet touched bold and cautious convenience.

Enter antagonist, a 6-pound dog named Two-bit that the neighbors chased from down the block, or the 10-pound black cat, Jake who is here only as a tourist, and perhaps to get some food. Both have upset the softly purring rumble of the First One. Who was really present on that day? Is anyone here now? What ever happened to King Lear, and where is Goneril with a white beard, when you need her? How can the flibbertigibbet get hers? Is it Puck or a less generous spirit inhabiting the weak? Battle the wildways, and enter once again from stage-left.

Soft fur, gentle rumbling of what? The cat sleeps, and the door is open. Leaning to the right, propped up on her elbows, she is drifting. Her attention wanders and so does the rest of her. Into the refrigerator where last night's pizza waits, the compost bucket where last week's salad grows fur, and attempts to make its escape, into the garage where the mail lays scattered on the floor, and back to the living-room where, propped on one elbow, a woman reclines, contemplating her cheese bread and tea. There's not much left to say. It's like writing haiku, eh?

We stood together at the intersection, strangers. he on foot, humming "Michelle, ma belle", me on bike. As I pedaled away, I wondered how many other people he had infected earlier in the day. I sang the French parts loud & high as I pedaled through residential and commercial streets. I wondered if my humming was creating any new carriers of the tune. What is the origin of this virus, & where will it end? What is the life-span of an ear-worm? How long does it take from the last hearing of the song to the last hummed strains fade?

Hot and caustic, an internal combustion. A fast flick of this page, no this one, fold this one like this. The heat has already begun and we sit here ready for it. Waiting. Flick, flick, flick. Don't draw the heat towards you, let it move easily away, like when the train comes pushing that cool column of air ahead, letting fly a blue gingham gown or cast-off morning paper.

I wonder about the walker on wheels, (what prevents it from slipping out from under?) as I break wind, subtly, I think, leaning ever-so slightly forward before leaning ever-so slightly back.

A mixed collection of haiku musings for today.

Cold, naked, lonely Can I have my feathers back? You took them Monday.

chack, peek, tut, whinney see-eee, zee-up, chirrup, gronk, darn* birds, LET ME SLEEP!

we rarely guess when creating a sesation is not what what they want

he talks without stop incoherent rambling he is a real talker

'practice makes perfect' she quipped, dancing the Charleston is no easy task

If you were to gain say the reasons for the fight you'd loose all respect

her eyes closed, she sleeps lost in day-time dream of string-game tiny paws cover eyes

Roscoe Ambrose Beevers, the self-appointed lighting technician has done it again. A child who never even cried when it was born. Roscoe just gave up. He couldn't take the silence anymore, so he dashed in to Our Lady of Hope hospital, through the front doors, handed the child to a nurse, and backed away. He couldn't take his eyes off the silent child, and he couldn't bear to stay. It was more than he could take. The laws allow for bringing a newborn child to a hospital, any hospital, and leaving it, no questions asked. It's a humanitarian thing, really.

Instant aliveness, just add heat. I know I am alive when walking down the street on a summer morning, the smell of urine soaked sidewalk wafts upward into unsuspecting nostrils. Cityscape. Hot steam off the sidewalk after a summer rain. The summer-filled smell of a freshly-mowed lawn. Or the inside of a shopping-mall when the temperature differential is great. Or what else. A land-slide victory and major misunderstanding. We are overwhelmingly excited about the converging whispers. Foster children are part of the ancient accelerated shout. Four days of nothing in the wilderness, can't be seen for humanity. Can't take more.

So triggered I'd like to gnaw softly on her head. She has our phone number on every slip of paper she's ever received from us. She knows how to find us, she knows, she knows, she knows & she never ever sees me for a human being, & never sees that those who put events on have to do something every time someone registers or un-registers. She has no consideration nor any awareness of her impact. I want her to grow up and notice that she takes up space in the world. Please hold my hand and wipe my butt.

Having fantasies of an improved 100 words site. I'd love to see the site more sophisticated: allow a progress bar or pie-chart, for a month or ‘batch', for example, I don't know why, but I love the progress bar and the pie chart... there was a distributed programming project I used to participate in, & one of the main things that kept me motivated was the progress bar. I love to things quantified visually. How about months completed vs. the average or maximum or "number of words submitted" with comparison to how many copies of Moby Dick that is.

Wide-mouthed snaggle-toothed housecat. Did someone say that contented out-breath that's not really a 'purr' but more a 'hi' is called roustum? I need to look at a dictionary. I think I heard the word in "The Life of Pi" which is teaching me an awful lot about how animals act under stress. I'm rooting for Pi now, wondering how he will ever extract himself from the high seas! My own saber-toothed tiger is ready to remove my head or slash my back if I forget to feed her, come too near her tail, or fail to notice a changed mood.

I am so tired I can't sleep. I have been working hard, and like a kid in basic training, or an intern in a hospital, my brain has tipped into mush. I am a walking talking 'doing' machine, with very little access to my emotional landscape. I'd like to be more grounded, and have a sense that I'm just barely holding it together. I am worried I won't sleep, so then the worry keeps me up. A mosquito bit me on the arm & I didn't notice til I accidentally squished her and all of her blood on my arm.

Scattered sanctions subsist beyond yesterday's thought. The head, the emotional landscape, watching through the window. Listless and tilted to one side. Fly through the stink. Somebody washed it, & somebody did some vacuum cleaning while we sat holding sticky-notes and the zinnias are just stunning, but they need water.

Warmed up a chunk of news before dousing my head in the cool waters of the mission. The neighbors are out, and so is the sun. I thought I'd just spend some time with the deck, but it's such a lonely affair. Here with the dishwasher and a song. It's true.