Posts for June 16, 2021 (page 10)

We all exist in a state of continuity,
No matter what happens,
In the end time continues on,
If not for us then for our descendants,
Until it doesn’t,
Life is fragile,
No species is eternal,
Human continuity exists,
Up until is simply doesn’t anymore,
Be that from an asteroid,
Nuclear war,
A supernova,
Or any other horror among the cosmos,
Much like the age of the dinosaurs,
Human continuity can end in seconds,
Enjoy the life you have been given,
For at any moment,
It’s continuity can collapse

Everyone wants their children to thrive.
How does the saying go? If you teach a man to fish…

Why don’t you want to be a carpenter? I say aloud
to winding road and son, an imprisoned passenger.

Why don’t YOU know how to build your own house?
If you live in a house you should know how to build it. 

Does everyone who wants to use the toilet know how to be a plummer,
guiding the connections, tightening the notches, lines in, lines out?

Does everyone know how to poop?

What will you do to support yourself,
care for yourself, believe in yourself?

Smoke weed
and die.

Do you know how to grow marijuana?

No, it’s harder than you think.

If you grow one or two plants you can harvest seeds.
Seeds to anything is everything.

The female grows the bloom
the male grows the seed, like sperm.
The female and male who grow too close together
are hermaphrodites.

I didn’t know that.

Everyone knows that.

I didn’t know that.
Why not get a degree in agriculture?

Why don’t YOU get a degree in agriculture?

You can grow coffee,

You are the one who likes coffee.

and weed…

I don’t know how to grow it.

Then learn.

Clickety Clack, on Amazon.
The Marijuana Growers Bible, 5 stars, 2500 people.
Arrives in 5 days.
Ordered.

If you teach a man to fish
he may plant seeds instead.

*(Medicinal Marijuana is legal in Hawaii.)

The Conde Fritos originated in the Pyrennes 
bordering with France,
and they had an innate disgust for the French,
particularly their saucy food and chivalric customs.
Near the mountain pass of Col du Pourtalet,
at a French monastic celebration of Holy Mass,
Rodrigo’s proud ancestor Raúl became so incensed 
with the snide, 
over-the-nose taunting glances of Count Fromage,
that, lurking in the cypress trees near the necropolis
he blew the nobleman up with cannons and firecrackers
screaming——que te vayas al carajo, conde frito!
                                                                              Fried count!  
Since then, it has become something of an insult
across Spain to curse saying conde frito.  
If someone utters this, it might be the last thing 
you ever hear.

He was simple.  He worked hard.
He liked spiced lard scraped over bread
for breakfast, a fried fish and salad 
for lunch, and a puchero—carrots and celery,
onions and potatoes floating in a turkey stock
for supper.  The egregious family motto 

was Caedite eos. Novit enim Dominus qui sunt eius—
Kill them now, God knows those that are his own.
Nights, he guarded his mountain pass,
contemplating family history
but no one knew what he was really doing.
There was a time in the light, but no longer.
Nobody knows there was a story.  

His most divine study was a most sacred pastime
comparable to the rabid enthusiasm 
of blue haired widows playing 
primetime bingo for Barry Manilow tickets,
or to jaleo, that uproarious fervor of flamenco—
he drank.  He drank like a field surgeon leaving 
a botched procedure—but with a difference, 
stewing himself from the inside out 
with only very special brandy wine.
With the ambrosial amber taste of flowers,
fresh and dried fruit, and tangy citrus zest,
brandy is similar to cognac 
except that it can be made anywhere.  

The French will tell you 
all cognac is brandy– 
but very little brandy is cognac.
Rodrigo de Conde Frito refused to drink anything French.  
He never drank cognac.
He could never forgive the French for being French.

Antonio de Conde Frito gave me my first snifter.
Darting across the room with a cigarette dangling 
something dangerously from my seven year old lips,  
I cried “Yes!  This is what men do!  Yes!  More!”
I would drink until it filled my soul.
I fell worshipping, prostrate under Antonio’s seat,
like a priest singing Mass in cackles.