Sometimes, The Thing That Stands Out Is Small

Sometimes, The Thing That Stands Out Is Small

 

It is the board in the fence,

shifted only slightly to the right,

opening a breach in your understanding

of the neighbor—

and making you wonder which way they lean.

Is it safe to bring a hammer and a nail,

or would that cross the line itself,

that invisible border saying, without words,

where your limits lie,

what may be carried in your hands,

or whether a weapon still counts as speech?

Because you might expose what is already

plain,

and then they would have to set it right—

straighten the board by making a hammer of you,

in their grim reckoning,

and leave you on the fence, a warning to whoever forgets where they do not belong.

Blue State of Mind

 Blue State of Mind

The bleeding hearts and forget-me-nots have not bloomed.

How can this be?

It is September 2025.

The war has not happened yet.

Gas is cheaper for the moment.

I do not have to listen to a calm voice

still draping a silk sheet over the obvious

while its weather gathers at the door

Oh, happier day, while the weather gathered

So get to work on something that will not fold.

If you want greatness,

then alter the course of history.

Come up with answers that can stand in daylight.

Real answers. Real solutions.

For problems already licking at the frame.

We’ll keep the time.

Power, Code, and Accountability

 Power, Code, and Accountability

What is real? Who lays the first name on it? And when the system splits open—when the bright machinery throws sparks in the dark—who is left beneath the light, carrying the answer like a weight?

The documents are the Rosetta Stone. Not the smoke. Not the theater. The record. The fragment. The half-buried tablet that teaches you the grammar of power, syllable by syllable, after the public story has gone thin.

Power moves like weather now—crossing borders, climbing walls, outrunning the old alarms, leaving the people at the fence with their hands still raised.

Capability keeps widening its river. Reach keeps learning new roads. And accountability arrives downstream, late again, counting what the current carried off.

So skepticism is not a luxury. Verification is not a luxury. Scrutiny is not a luxury. They are the small lanterns we keep lit for one another. They are the habits that keep the dark from getting organized.

Because the danger is not only the face you can point to. It is the institution that goes soft at the hinges. The incentive that bends toward profit. The signal, smothered under so much noise, begins to sound like an echo.

So support independent reporting. Ask the harder question, then ask the question beneath it. Demand what can be shown. Demand what can be checked. Demand something sturdier than performance, something that can hold in the light.

The Seashell Indictment

 The Seashell Indictment

 

is like the proverbial ham sandwich

burning taxpayers’ money,

time,

and oxygen.

like a war with Iran

the cost of regime change,

nukes,

shaking hands with a dictator,

gas contracts,

ballrooms,

and data centers.

86 the mayo.

Ground your flight of fancy.

Do a 180.

Clean out the barn.

Signed, the people.

 

 

Posing For The Directory

 Posing For The Directory

Hello there—name’s B. Owl, pleased to meet your gaze,
Local legend, night patrol, working oddball days.
I haunt your hood, patrol your block,
A burrow boss around the clock.

My family tree? Oh, quite profound
We dig our dreams straight underground.
Champions of the sandy sprawl,
Cape Coral knows—we’re tiny but tall. 

We’re pocket-sized predators, yes, that’s the deal,
Mini Hawk vibes with a bargain‑meal feel.
Feathers fierce but fun-sized, cute,
Think raptor… in a travel‑size suit. 

Prolific? Please. We multiply like gossip,
Burrowing babies—you simply can’t stop us.  

We’ve got runway legs—oh, honey, they strut,
Long, lean lines? Yes, we serve that cut.
Takeoff smooth, landing bold,
Frequent flyer miles untold.  

We soar like Allegiant—no snacks, no frills,
Just feathered finesse and aerodynamic thrills.  

By day we chirp, by night we scream,
We cluck, we rasp—we run the theme.
Coo, rattle, shout, a vocal buffet
Broadway cast of the avian way.  

So do admire us—but mind your space,
We’re cute, not cuddly—respect the face.  

Spring has sprung—our season’s prime,
Burrows buzzing—it’s go‑time, it’s time!  

 

 

 

A Bit Much

 A Bit Much

 

A

Book

I’m reading currently

Tells me more

 

Much more than I wanted to know

Understand, it’s poetry, and my take is a

Cautionary tale on being too 

Honest.  I mean, some things are better left unsaid. Right? 

 

Yeah,  fuck that. 

 

Like MFA also stands for 

Many Followers Acquired

Make Future Amazing. (Fill in the blanks.)

Meaning Framed Accurately (For once)

My Filter’s Absent. (Found a new home)

Moon Files Applause (Universal approval)

Mirrors Flash Agreement (It’s confirmed)

Ministry of Forthrightness Affirms (Impeach him)

 

I rest my case.

Time To Wean Myself Off The Helium

 Time To Wean Myself Off The Helium

 

I’ve got a little chronic inflammation
camped out in my belly like it paid rent.
I feel like I over‑inflated myself
party balloon, car‑dealership, wavy man
except nobody’s clapping.

I don’t feel like my old light self,
you know the one
pre‑90‑day bender, pre‑wake‑up call,
before gravity found my forwarding address.

Yeah, I had surgery.
Now I feel dense.
Millstone chic.
Like if I took an ambitious, heroic dump
I might retire five pounds lighter
and emotionally reborn.

But no.
Everything’s tightening its belt.
There’s nowhere for the extra air to flee.
Not even a tasteful hiss.

My blood’s gone viscous.
My heart and organs are marching
to something that sounds like a funeral dirge
played by a tired band
slightly out of tune.

I’m slower.
Duller.
My knife couldn’t cut string cheese
if the cheese insulted its mother.

I’m fresh out of freshness.
Past my sell‑by date.
Like, yeah.
It’s time to go home.