and once more now, briefly

Chapter 01: great uncle bobby
Chapter 02: perverse excelse
Chapter 03: adjecaspirations
Chapter 04: king of the cavemen
Chapter 05: the little first violin
Chapter 06: to be a brass player
Chapter 07: pinball wizardry
Chapter 08: creatures great and small
Chapter 09: at the end of it all

great uncle bobby meant to paint purple his neighbor's car
so he bought blueberries, and fed them to the birds for a week
being of a particularly petty irish wit, he was, of course, successful
but his own vehicle, bright white, did suffer some in the following days
and then great aunt debbie was cleared to park beneath their streetside tree
said bobby, whoever put the leaves there can take them away. indeed

i think i might be someone else. i think i might be changing
i think i might be changing and my purpose all-over ranging

but it's a little difficult, you see. they don't let you be someone else for free.
even as much as others might not care, they pin you down to everywhere

there are corners to be turned. there are pages to be burned.

and so you have to do it underneath. up you shuttle. into the breach

what if i could be an instrument tuned
- with generosity?

what if i could be a tone, long and stout
- with wanderlust?

what if i could be a baton, beautiful to follow
- with flexibility?

what if i could be a solo, poised on my own
- with appreciation?

these four qualities will take one most places. perhaps some brains, to be recommended, and a fortitude to back the bending, accommodating spine, but these things, in balance with one another, will yield a fabulous friend. for it's people we want, we need, we depend upon.

the loveliest things, independent of singularity, are those that are repeatable, by charitable choice. the people we make of ourselves, fortunately, are the best people we can be.

who do you want to be? rather, what?

perhaps talented, perhaps extraordinarily beautiful. perhaps one in a million, one in a world.

remember all the people you know who are all of those things to you. reflect to them your loveliness. do what you can do.

there once was a man, third of kings, who ruled over junk, antiques, and things.
this man hated his name, loved his mother, and flew on radioactive wings.

he jumped out of airplanes - and by jumped, i mean, was pushed. the foot in his back became the knee in his head.
he professed to "crack" plaintext computer code, and best comically, cataclysmically be-clogg-ed drains, it's said.

he laughed at everything and nothing. he was an ipad baby just as every boomer should be, being hopelessly attached to his TV.
he got himself into many a situation, over the years. he's off planes, now - one of his only fears.

this man's name, chosen for him long following the extension of his empire across states and cities, was og.
og had children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, none of them related to him by blood. medical complications caused him to nip that right in the bud.

aside from his sister, persona non grata, he also had one brother and one grandchild who had each appeared in his life by mere chance.
og's brother, of course, was bog, characterized by fluctuating size in pants. bog's car, famously, was quite the clud, and he used it to crush fire ants.

the little first violin labors away
with eyes rolling and feet planted
(with leg and knee jumping, jumping, jumping)

the little first violin arrives early and leaves late
chattering and nattering with every face in the sea
(with everyone one mind can even hope to know)

the little first violin stands to tune and appears invisible
with a peace sign held out unassumingly
(with a silence of apprehension and tenacious fear)

the little first violin commands the chair as if ten feet tall
with weight set and grounded, energy confident to the core
(with the sound of a section in its grasp, back to the brass)

the little first violin is the biggest ham of us all
he draws out his darkest tone with abandon
and cannot wait to drive on home

brass players, i've heard, are quaintly crass. they live back there somewhere south of sass.
is it the mouthpiece full of stultifying spit? do you think, perhaps, that could be it?

conical bore. cylindrical bore. if they're truly mouthbreathers, then they're all at once a bore.
but a brass player is irrepressible, unimpressible, and ever-accessible, clamoring for more.

they're often men, it's true. they may not look very much like me or like you.
but what they lack in diversity they make up by talking smack - to each other, and to winds, and to string players beyond that.

a brass player is fun-loving, always having or making a blast, no matter the toll.
the bearer of the bell is a valiant soul, and will remain complaining to the last.

there's a game i play with the old folks i know - accumulation of information.
it starts with the video doorbell, installed while i was living there.
it moves to the notebook of passwords, decorated in alternated grandkids' names.
then the passcodes to the phones, and the lack of obstruction at the laptop.

i amass these layers of lace that endrape the technology complicating their lives,
and when the terrible time comes - grandpa's sat on his phone - i employ each one in time.
this email. that app. i make myself indispensible in a terribly fashionable way.
no one can do it like i can do it. no one's around quite so much as me.

my backdoor key to usefulness: mutually incomprehensible twine.

i believe us to be creatures both great and small
i believe there to be a universe so magnified
i believe us to be dwindling dots, under the sun
and i believe you are wonderful to be, alongside me, a creature.
just one creature. one.

let me tie your tie. let me button your nose.
let me follow along with you, wherever you go.

these creatures, so great in their intricacy.
it is the little things you do that make you a marvel.
each nuancer tinier. each bold motion the finest stamp.
and i make my steps along your shadow
i find your soul to be a lamp

everything feels like the end of the world, doesn't it?

but stopping the rotation of the earth takes a hell of a lot more effort than that.
i think what we're scared of is the fact that it'll keep turning. that threatening, dooming, damning reassurance.

oh, this concept of inertia...

and the movement is smaller from farther away.
the movement is smaller when we keep moving.

we'll look back in just the same way. we'll say:

my life continued on just exactly as it had
and i find that, all in all, it really wasn't half bad