Many things, to-day, are not good things in our US of A, but as with always it is up to me, each of us in our own "I" to do what we do from who we are. I do not always 'feel' like making a difference, as a bit of honesty observes, but then other times I do. Like the Zen story, we all do make a difference, each of us throwing our pebbles into the pond, each causing ripples, then every so often our collective ripples meet, and something exponentially by way of synergy happens. We Breathe.
the ? is never, What will you do? the only ? that matters is what will 'I' choose to do, and then do? timothy
..
July 3, 2008 - Thursday
’revolution’ ’stars &’ w/freedom w/v&
..
'revolution' & 'stars &' w/v too
'revolution' timothy r gates, 7/04/2008
independence radical root route spent bent get give take receive free cost liberation reverberation aggravation aggregation collective superlative antimony harmony synergy apophatic attic lost found pilgrim journey sojourn glove love hugs wings she he we radical revolution freedom not free.
"stars and stripes forever" (trg, 10-23-2001)
freedom of speech or freedom of religion like the freedom to pursue happiness all, if one chooses, may be freedoms from a certain sort of speech or from any religion as well as from pursuing personal happiness; stars and stripes forever yes, our Flag was still there gave proof that rockets bursting in air can be both freedom's song and death's lament, depending whether you're on the winning side -- winners die like losers losers who live, live to win on another day; we all pray, "God bless America," like the angry wounded, embittered elderly, who remember God's absence when the enemy murdered their children, who still keep a plethora of Icons... just in case -- what's the difference between a rock star, sport's figure or a military leader declaring their innocuous gratefulness for victory over their competitors and the victor's victims who have also prayed, hoping to give the same innocuous spew? none, other than -- only one wins.
nations fly their Flags showing their pride and cumulative prowess, rarely do we acknowledge where, what and into whom these Flags have been jammed, 'less we might not have a choir to sing our patriot's marches, 'less they'd be dirges; Nations gather their children to sing, here's the epitome of propaganda, our Anthems... if we don't win by killing enough of someone else's kids our singers will then get to be enlisted into the ranks of our martyrs for a just cause.
NOW A LITTLE TRIP DOWN/UP THE ROAD OF A LITTLE HONESTY:
AND THE TRUTH IS ALWAYS REAL:LOVE:........
..
July 2, 2008 - Wednesday
stars and stripes for ever
"stars and stripes forever" (trg, 10-23-2001)
freedom of speech or freedom of religion like the freedom to pursue happiness all, if one chooses, may be freedoms from a certain sort of speech or from any religion as well as from pursuing personal happiness; stars and stripes forever yes, our Flag was still there gave proof that rockets bursting in air can be both freedom's song and death's lament, depending whether you're on the winning side -- winners die like losers losers who live, live to win on another day; we all pray, "God bless America," like the angry wounded, embittered elderly, who remember God's absence when the enemy murdered their children, who still keep a plethora of Icons... just in case -- what's the difference between a rock star, sport's figure or a military leader declaring their innocuous gratefulness for victory over their competitors and the victor's victims who have also prayed, hoping to give the same innocuous spew? none, other than -- only one wins. nations fly their Flags showing their pride and cumulative prowess, rarely do we acknowledge where, what and into whom these Flags have been jammed, 'less we might not have a choir to sing our patriot's marches, 'less they'd be dirges; Nations gather their children to sing, here's the epitome of propaganda, our Anthems... if we don't win by killing enough of someone else's kids our singers will then get to be enlisted into the ranks of our martyrs for a just cause.
Only a mist, rests upon my face, never disrupts my path, causes me to smile; in this embrace, I know; I know that I love this baptism.
I'm a four year old, without any answers, without any questions that demands any.
I'm a six year old, in love, giving and receiving my first kiss, not from my family.
Some kisses, still cause me to smile.
I'm four, six, seven, maybe eight, years old, sitting on my father's lap, playing Guitar, singing my father's Country melodies.
I'm eleven, sketching, painting, thrilled with it all, not yet following any said rules.
I'm much older, my beloved Grandfather's blessed repose arrives, I sob, weep, laugh off and on, for twenty minutes; then I smile. I still feel him near, like when I was one, two, three, four.
(Yes, I remember, not words, but his face through the bars of my crib.
His face, of pride, looking down at me in the stroller.
His hands reaching for me, picking me up to show me something he thought magnificent.
His old slouch hat, only removed to shade my tiny face.
No Polaroid's exist.
His face does.) I'd awake in the night to see him sleeping on the floor, next to my bed, making sure his grandson was safe.
In this embrace, I know; I know that I love this baptism.
IF...you desire ’vote for peace’ then pleace do this too:....
..TR>..TR>
..TR>
Dear Timothy,
I realize I am writing to you twice in one week -- but this is urgent.
If you had it to do over again, would you have done more to prevent the Iraq war and occupation?
Now you have the chance to take action to prevent the next war - a war with Iran.
Next week the House of Representatives is likely to vote on Resolution 362, also known as the Iran War Resolution.
I am writing to you today to take action to stop passage of Resolution 362.In the Senate a Resolution 580, has been introduced by Indiana Democrat Evan Bayh on June 2. You can take action today to prevent war with Iran.
The resolution's key section "demands that the president initiate an international effort to immediately and dramatically increase the economic, political, and diplomatic pressure on Iran to verifiably suspend its nuclear enrichment activities by prohibiting the export to Iran of all refined petroleum products; imposing stringent inspection requirements on all persons, vehicles, ships, planes, trains, and cargo entering or departing Iran; and prohibiting the international movement of all Iranian officials not involved in negotiating the suspension of Iran's nuclear program."
This resolution essentially calls for an act of war - a naval blockade of Iran.If passed by the Congress and Bush does what is asked, it ensures war with Iran.Iran is three times the size of Iraq. If you think the Iraq war and occupation have been bad, wait till you see what war with Iran brings.
So act now.Take two steps today:
1.Send this email to everyone you know.We need to have tens of thousands of people write all of Congress and tell them to "Vote No" on Resolution 362 in the House and Resolution 580 in the Senate.
2.Write a letter to Congress.With our click and send letter you can write to all of the members of the 1) House and 2) Senate.They need to hear from as many people as possible.
Please take a few minutes to do these two steps.It will take you less than a minute and you will be helping to prevent a disastrous war with Iran.
What of a word stretched over a canvass, Finding itself flowing across its texture, Arbitrarily halting at specified places? Audible sayings are less potent than those not said. Sometimes I push the paint across my framed construct, Squishing it between each of my fingers, Here I'm able to hear my own words. What of a medium applied to a blank page, Not that blank ever truly exists, With no knowing intent of purpose, Will I find what I thought about a month ago? Freedom is acknowledging the reality of preconditioning, And not having a need to feel guilty for it. I love the accident of taking my brush in hand And stroking it up and down my chosen point of interest, Finding that accident and creativity are twins of allusions. 'Speak to me,' please I say, 'Speak to me.' Here I listen. Sometimes I like what I hear, and sometimes I don't. Yet I do listen and hear. It would be, I think, nice if I could be the canvass, Communicated with by brushes, paints and fingers squishing over me. Whoops, I digress.
'writing' timothy r g 01/05/2006 (hope to inspire more writing, and to be gifted to be allowed to see it.)
i pick up a pen, yellow legal pad, write (many years ago) pens, pencils, acid-free paper to keep it preserved, write and sketch, tell a story, sometimes mine, sometimes theirs: my-story their-story her-story his-story many-stories (still do both of the above) thanks to typing 101 and 102 I still write, now at my computer, now with spell-check, but it doesn't know the words that I know, too many to update for it; but I write... I pick myself up, place my hands over an ergonomically placed keyboard, type into Word, my words, logois, logos, euphemisms, metaphors, similes, aphorisms, catophatically; apophatically I believe; I do not believe. rarely, but sometimes on a slip of paper I find at the moment, not wanting to forget the air's gift. I write.
'A Word' (trg, 7/17/03)
Around the room I look, on the shelves, next to the couch and the chair, no trouble finding one, just not able to settle on one. One describes you, another one condemns. I'm unable to be satisfied my insatiable appetite for yet one more. Damn or Blessed, neither sums up what one thinks, yet they do say something. Love or Hate, flip sides of the same coin express the habitat of the soul. Satan or God, words outside of the two dimensional. Under the couch, finally I find it. This will do for now.
'no words' timothy r g, 02/09/2007
awakened in the middle of the night, not by anyone that I could see, but here, nonetheless ninety-one, dead, fallen asleep, all these years later I miss him still, I feel him still, I know him still, I miss him still, he seems to tell me, 'It's Ok, all will be fine, it is what it is, that's all, son.' pats me on the head, kisses my forehead, 'I'll see you later; I love you, son.' Grandpa slept at the foot of my bed: a little after birth, six months preemie, at six months old, soft spot grew together too fast, threat of death if operation not successful, no health insurance for my parents or for me; Grandpa slept at the foot of my bed. in my mind's eye it is as clear as then. sometimes the breeze hugs me when there is no breeze in the house. I smile, my eyes fill to the brim, I say, 'I love you Grandpa.' there's a pat on my head. -but no words.
'demure' timothy r g, 6/25/2008 (inspired by photo of car & person hanging out of it)
demure coy not timid or truly shy just aware. the fifties, cars, rods evolved from the twenties, flappers and speak-easy mobiles flipped out, whacked out and up -this fit her spirit, it seemed. any age would've been unsettled by her, comfortable in her skin, and making others' crawl, laugh out loud in public purr in private, difficult not to scream, yourself. what the hell, men and women, both, turn their heads. -i remember, at five, looking, and never looking away, save for my own pretense of, being, demure. timid? right.
'The Garden's Run' 6/24/08, timothy r gates for a Creature of The Garden
midst of the mist no lisp, only a hiss 'come and lock step with me, freedom to be, yes you'll then be free. ' immediately we accuse each other not the hiss not the progenitor, either we do our own thing, 'fuck everyone, everything else!' damn, it's my own hiss? came but didn't cum involved in my noise of my garden.
you, too in your garden.
...fallen under the tree guilelessness returns we arise death by death seed yielding seed progenesis to genesis to progenesis we whisper to each other, 'to hell or heaven with that hiss' in the cool of the morning we stroll divinely, hand in hand the foliage's dew filled cups wet our thirst.
We smile.
Now, this is not a dream.
-Let's run!
..TABLE>
June 22, 2008 - Sunday
’Fairy Poetry’ w/new Inspired by Fairy Friends.......
'Fairy Narrative' timothy r g, 6/22/2008
fairy dance run through the rain's mist through a morning's dew set foliage rules don't matter, sing to the muse skip to my loo doobie, doobie doo my sweet, sweet darling we recline when well spent love's amorous embrace, she too still seems to dance ballet tap jazz, blues, freely glide flower child, damn right - edge of the glen, but not out the green man's house no rules but one, give all, receive all. here i find my missing note.
'Grandeur Parody in Two Parts' timothy r g, 3/11/2008 Pt. 1 'grandeur parody, as with medicine' timothy r g, 3/11/2008
grandeur parody psychologist in peripheral plight psychiatry looks the other way, with pills md's and other doctors do the same, only with different pills chiropractic adjustments, massotherapy, -add to this whatever the hell or heaven you want- 'We'll fix you; the others are quacks!' trust only those that acknowledge, openly 'I only practice medicine.' and, those that try to keep their heads out of their own orifice of the darkest domain. No grandeur no parody listen, listen, listen then hear. damn, now if I can only remember to do the same.
Pt.2 'Grandeur Parody, as with Fairies in flight' timothy r g, 3/11/2008
grandeur parody a bit of fun, orneriness, mixed with pheromonal phenomenon Fairies never tire of the flight, then find a sight to be part of its plight, singing, dancing, yes always, the damn lovelies make amorous take a seat; I have prayed at their altars, worshiped their surreality, then fell prey to their prayers, thinking that I too am a Fairy, like the Queen himself, FM, he would've given into their feminine aromas, probably saying, after the fact, 'What the fuck?' but still, as with all who fall to Fairies, he'd smile, as he recalled their giggles, Queen or not of the Garden's prance I too, as with most, loved to be a Fairy, free to be, that's all. Let's dance.
'Winter's Solstice' timothy r g, 12/2005 Winter's Solstice sways back and forth, Dancing with the Fairy Queen, Delight of the forest. She says little, The Sirens allure does little, The ones listening to the little said from She are safe. Yule logs set in their place, Christmas trees twinkle, Chanukah candles are lit, reminding how the Hebrew children did not run out of light on that day; Kwanzaa has borrowed from this. Everyone has borrowed from each other. Everyone opines that theirs is the most ancient. Everyone blesses the waters. Protestants don't bless the waters; Pagan or something. They used to not say, "Merry Christmas," Because literally, they said, It was celebrating a RC holiday, "Merry Christ-'Mass'." Most of them say it today. The calendar no longer matches anyone's holiday. Between the progression of our Earth's rotation, And the attempts to correct the calendar, Presumption exclaims that, "Mine is right." I celebrate the waters, the earth, the sun, the moon. I celebrate the incarnation, the nativity, Earth's Mother giving birth to Heaven's Son. I celebrate the light given at the Maccabee miracle, A little oil was sufficient to light the Temple. I celebrate the frivolity of Fairies, The flight of Dragons, the orneriness of Gnomes. I celebrate an apparent dying of the forest, And anticipate its resurrection in the spring. I celebrate the goodness of peoples that love to celebrate. I celebrate the calm of a fast, That gives way to the exuberance of a feast. I celebrate the freedom to celebrate, gratefulness. I celebrate.
then some things inspired by Fairies and such mischief in beauty: 'Festivals' (trg, 9/19/204)
Strawberries, if dipped in chocolate, especially dark Bavarian Blueberries, if dipped in real whipped cream Apples, caramel dipped, with or without nuts, or sliced and individually dipped Grapes, California and now Ohio, both praised internationally, pressed for drinking or not all emit amorous temptations best summarized by The Songs of Solomon. Chocolate everything, one that needs two to know its true enticement, dip, smear, lick, chew, to start with, takes on an insatiable apocalypse, praying, 'Come, quickly, Lord Jesus,' yet, at the same time, 'But please, Lord, not too quickly,' St. Augustine's honest desire for conversion. I pray for chocolate's converting of me, daily. Eros dances through the fall's foliage, hand in hand with Psyche, Aphrodite, Hope and Faith; Agape jumps up and down in the middle, like children after the leaves have been raked into piles, like adults who are unaware of others watching. Corn, baked, creamed, charbroiled, roasted, boiled, with baked potatoes, mashed potatoes, with or without garlic, with peelings and lumps, or peeled and creamed with heavy whipping cream (at least a half of a stick of real butter thrown into its center), roasted, then mashed or not Zucchini, green tomatoes, squash, sweet fall onions, egg-washed, floured, egg-washed, floured, peppered and lightly salted, fried, joined by dessert sweet yellow tomatoes Pumpkins opened, seeded, carved for contests (Children can teach us about this fun, without contests to be won.), pulp blended with spices and sugars for pies, cookies and cakes, can be used for a delicious soup too, and if you'd like – they make great heads on scarecrows Garlic, as many ways as are moons and stars, hop-scotching from one galaxy to another, eaten raw, sautéed in butter, caramelized with a little finger of grape-seed oil, roasted in a 400 degree oven, held in tack in their bulbs, smothered with a first pressing olive oil, excellent for squeezing over freshly baked French or Italian Bread. I understand why the Hebrew Children desired to return to Egypt: Garlic and leeks when not eaten alone, has its own Gospel converting the stubborn, adds to a bed's warmth; gold and silver can be stolen, a satiable kiss surprises the insatiable appetite, like a toddler sitting in their highchair, squealing at every bite, happy to catch it in between their lips, then bouncing up and down, saying, again, 'Again!' Then there's cheese, blue, Swiss, Gouda, Brie, cheddar, Alpine lace, mild, strong, odors to last into the next week, others not beyond their tasting; -- Italians spend more money on a well hung aged Romano, brittle if not sliced carefully, a top shelf balsamic wine vinegar, drizzled over a sliver of the Romano (for an early evening, late afternoon snack with friends), the palate neutralized by a ripped off piece of a wheeled loaf of bread, washed down with a blood red, fruity, southern wine, than most middle-class (Whatever this is, do you know?) Americans spend on a family's Sunday dinner. -- German, Irish, African, Swedish, Amish, Slovakian, Greeks, Serbian, Syrian, to name a few. Plus we now have the 'God Bless the USA', $80.00 per head patriotism-fest, with the incessant intoning of this sentimental prayer of sorts. These too have their own appeasements and irritants I do believe: The only true irritant is to be left out of these feasts, or to celebrate with a nonreflective glutton. (Problem: Who's the glutton?) Feasts do not exist, do they, if there are no fasts? Worse, to be invited only to stand alone watching others play, and who said that there wasn't a hell? Play, play, play until another day wherein we'll play, play, play. For those who choose not to be gay, gay, gay… (St. Benedict's fourth century words, a corrective to the morose, 'A sad monk, or person, is simply a sad monk,' instructs my own latent erosion of the dance with Beauty.) For those who choose not to laugh, laugh, laugh… For those who choose not to giggle, giggle, giggle… For those who choose not to be free, free, free… For those who choose not to feast, feast, feast… Embrace Joel's solemn fast… so you and we might play again.
'Dar Williams' (trg, 9/13/03)
Her bouncing up and down, strumming of her guitar, sliding from note to note, both with guitar and voice, sometimes almost a yodel each unsettles me. When she sings she puckers her lips, raises her right eyebrow, looks like a lightening bolt, tilts her head back and sings. I especially like her neck as she sings. I wonder, is this what Elvis did to people?
'Pagans and Christians sat down to eat' (trg, 11/27/03)
The Pagans and Christians sat down to eat, both pronouncing a Blessing, while the Wicker people are outside awaiting their feast. Here accused of being one or the other, neither proud of their death in this way, protesting often till the end. 'You're a witch!' the crowds cried out. 'You're a cannibal!' yelled the audience. 'You're a spell caster!' their accusers spewed out against what they didn't understand. 'You sex-a-oholics!' came from an Aphrodite in the back of the room, praying that the you heard them. Both have played the fagots thrown into the bonfire. You can be the feast or you can feast, both know the cycle well, watching the thirteen Moons sometimes pictured as stars, set as a crown for the Mother of us all. Pagans sit at their table, coming from an altar of Blessing. Christians sit at their table, coming from their thanksgiving altar. "My God's bigger than your God,' both yell, each await a stream of fire from heaven to consume their gifts. There are those who say that they have no God, as they look at themselves into a mirror. Dog, the true one, being dyslexic, the heavenly means of reading literature, chuckles at their fun, thinking, 'At least the Wicker folks have a clear focus.' We could be their altar and food set for meat If we don't devour each other first. I pray that I would say, 'Fuck off,' to both, knowing that the corner on the market actually belongs to someone else. This I can do.
WITCH'S SABBATH timothy r g, 11/01/2006 PAST, TIME'S VIEW ILLUSION, TRICKS, SUPERSTITIONS 'JESUS,' AN ACCEPTABLE CURSE 'MOHAMMED,' NO ONE DARES TO CURSE BY... REDUNDANCE? OXYMORON? AN ATHEIST SAYING, 'GOD DAMN,' OR, 'BLESS YOU.' BLESS YOU WITH WHAT? AND, WHY? THE EARTH CRIES OUT, TODAY OUR MOTHERS, FATHERS, SISTERS, BROTHERS, THOSE OF OUR SPECIES, THOSE NOT OF OUR SPECIFIC SPECIES -THE EARTH CRIES OUT, 'ADAM', HEBREW FOR FROM THE EARTH, DRINKS OUR BLOOD, EATS OUR FLESH, LIFE IS DEATH; DEATH IS LIFE, AS IN THE BEGINNING, 'SEED GIVES FORTH SEED,' DEATH IS BURIED, DEATH RESURRECTS, DEATH BY DEATH LIFE IS GENERATED GENESIS SABBATH IS TODAY, EARTH'S SONG TO THE MOON, 'COME OUT TONIGHT, COME OUT TONIGHT,' I LOVE TO WATCH THE MOON ARISE IS THIS A METAPHOR OR EUPHEMISM? MATTERS NOT, THE MOON WILL RISE NO, THE MOON DOES RISE.
"to contemplate the universe" (trg, 5-22-2001)
to contemplate the vastness of the universe can be exhilarating -- so can the anticipation of your first, well, almost anything; out into the expanse where we can finally behold the turtles beneath our earth, no doubt needing a break from what they do; off to their left is Atlas, off to their right is Oedipus, both thinking that turtle soup might hit the spot -- just have to decide whether it will be Manhattan chowder, New England creamed chowder, or a simple garden herbed broth -- one of the amphibians appears to be ready to break rank; pixies who are really nymphs are delightful imps when they sprinkle their golden dust -- fairy, fairy, fairy! (was that a parenthetical thought? shame, shame!) now just maybe Atlas and Oedipus both got under the planet in the neck of time (could this be a Freudian slip, or intent?) only to find that Venus had already taken up residence, belting out an Aretha rendition of Amazing Grace -- the two other queens were less than happy, which sparked a wrestling match as to who would get to wear the crown? ...Zeus, with his dark sense of humor, sent Cupid to fix it all, and the world has turned ever since.
'The Eve is upon us' (trg, 10/22.03) The eve is upon us, full is the Moon as he looks down upon her, never eclipsed by their cycle together. Ancient as this is new, he's unable to ignore her unique beauty as it speaks loudly in the quiet of the night. Howl to the Moon, run through the Earth, all the while anticipating the Sun rising again at dawn, once you recline in this mist you'll never desire a leave. Let us raise our hands and dance as they did in the Garden, anticipating the day when the forbidden tree gives us life, here we'll not need to run away. In the cool of the day we walked together, we were thankful to the Moon and the Earth, their gifting us with satiability for one evening. The Sun reached down and took our hands and said, 'Let's walk a bit.' We did.
'Mystical hug' (trg, 10/18/02)
One day when heaven sent down it's glory, I found a word speaking of innocence, inculpable and frailty. Sweet-kissing icon says more. Mystical hug - more real than any other, infinity wrapping her arms around earthen vessel, finite child gazes through his divine dove's eyes. I smile, gazing, too, into both the child's and queen's face. Do I understand the dilemma, or am I able to construct a grove that'll lead into a nirvana of any sort? No. Am I able to hope for resolve some day? Yes. Will I expend much energy upon these answers? Yes and No. Yes, because sometimes it's the nature of the beast. No, since all answers are blurred by their questions. A hug is better than propositions. I smile, gazing, also, into both the child's and the queen's dove eyes.
"A Wingless Angel" (trg, 9-06-2002)
Am I enamored with her? Why yes, I am. Soon she'll be ten, not long away from a seeming Alzheimer's affect upon innocence's recall. For the moment, though, this little one, amazingly, yet has stars for pupils. Her narrative allows me to be her student. Am I struck by her? Why yes, I am. Soon to be ten, yet this young lady's joy is intoxicating Am I jealous of her? Why no, I am more grateful. She tells me of her Great-Grandmothers' dying, how, when, Daddy came home from her last breath and told their household that his Grandmother had died. She said, "We cried together on the couch for four hours." No tears were to be found in her eyes while sharing this story; rather a sparkling sort of happiness: Daddy, Mommy and the girls were all together. Am I jealous of her? Why no, I am more grateful. We talked, talked, and talked, sharing our commonness Am I struck by her? Why yes, I am. She puts no apparent spin on her remembering of an Angel's visit when she was but five, saying, "Oh how I wish that I would see the Angel again." Smiling, almost in a whisper, she quickly says, "I'm the only one in our family who has seen an Angel." No flowing tears, though, momentarily, her eyes do fill up to the brim; however, to my delight, her laughter did often erupt. Am I stuck by her? Why yes, I am. She lay in my arms, telling her nine, not too much longer, year old stories. Am I put off by her? Why no, I am instructed by her. Her eyes reveal what she knows that I know, her fears and hidden pain; but also the innocence she's yet holding. For a moment, though, this wingless one, amazingly, shares her desire to live forever: "I want to live forever, so that Daddy, Mommy, the girls and I can have breakfast together every morning." Am I put off by her? Why no, not in the least, I am baptized by her.
'evening's vespers is intoned' timothy r g, 2/11/2008
I'll sing a song, if i will. not, if i won't. hymns, poetry, prose attempts at saying what isn't easily said, when said, still not more than an icon into the day. Evening's vespers is intoned, setting of the sun anticipates the day star. We fell in repose, well spent from love's enthrall, too worn to change the sheets, only pushed them off, pulled up the spreads and fell off into dreamland, a silhouette moves across the room looks like fairies swirling, their shear gowns aglow; if only when awakened I see a beloved. Jump up, startled, find one side of the bed cold. Sheets still snug, hugging the mattress. I'll take another nap, praying for an aglow song to intone.
hugs no ridiculous demure, saccharin. penchant for sweets chocolate, to die for to die in to make your throat thick, after eating a bag (any size) of candy covered, chocolate covered peanuts -you know when you've had too much, sorry, but not truly- saccharin, for those without knowing a moderate intake of real sugar like light cheesecake ...why? indulge intoxicate preoccupate not suffocate a hug, a well placed kiss -anywhere- opens the window a breeze over you reddened cheeks give permission to smile hell, heaven! i know i do.
