Wonderful ... I Was Up All Night

For If Jack Buggit Could Escape From The Pickle Jar, If A Bird With A Broken Neck Could Fly Away, What Else Might Be Possible? Water May Be Older Than Light, Diamonds Crack In Hot Goat's Blood, Mountaintops Give Off Cold Fire, Forests Appear In Mid-ocean, It May Happen That A Crab Is Caught With The Shadow Of A Hand On Its Back, And That The Wind Be Imprisoned In A Bit Of Knotted String. And It May Be That Love Sometimes Occurs Without Pain Or Misery.

I Rarely Use The Internet For Research, As I Find The Process Cumbersome And Detestable. The Information Gained Is Often Untrustworthy And Couched In Execrable Prose. It Is Unpleasant To Sit In Front Of A Twitching Screen Suffering Assault By Virus, Power Outage, Sluggish Searches, System Crashes And The Lack Of Direct Human Discourse.

But The Only Rhyme He Could Summon For 'out' Was 'sauerkraut,' Which Lacked Poetic Glory. He Let It Go. The Right Line Would Come In Time. That Was The Thing About Poetry. It Crept Up Through The Draws And Coulees Of The Brain.

Ordinary Parties, He Thought, Were Subtle Games Of Sexual And Social Badminton.

And They Shook Hands, Hit Each Other On The Shoulder, Then There Was Forty Feet Of Distance Between Them And Nothing To Do But Drive Away In Opposite Directions. Within A Mile Ennis Felt Like Someone Was Pulling His Guts Out Hand Over Hand A Yard At A Time. He Stopped At The Side Of The Road And, In The Whirling New Snow, Tried To Puke But Nothing Came Up. He Felt About As Bad As He Ever Had And It Took A Long Time For The Feeling To Wear Off.