Jacque's Toast

"What do you do when you want to do something crazy" I do -- Colorful words sing in our ears, capitalizing on collective vulnerability, jiggling toes. The bois play their trumpet, sexing in our ears, giving us the little willies. Uncorked wine and fizzing beer on the bereted bois, the berating trumpets unsuspecting in their compliance. Shaking to the music and shaking to the cold, dirty socks lining the floor. Before distraction sets in the foamy head pours over everyone, a messy carpet. Attention wanes away, and the uncorked wine does a little jig. Jigs and jokes keep us on our jiggling toes, ah but the music is new. The music becomes louder and with less disturbance. Holding us, balancing the drinks, in a rhythmic staccato, choosing the dance and direction. And we raise our hands in victory, and pull on our victory pipes, creating clouds casting certainty over our copacetic kingdom. And sipping down beer we all know the victory will be short-lived, lasting only u...

The light is coming into the room coloring everything gray. A shroudy snowfall outside shimmering in the bars of my window, giving a glow to the drab but only in its fleetingness. A flame outdoors would create a spark, would lighten up the living room. Until the embers gathered together, washed into one gray pile, a dustpile forgotten in the cracks of the corner. The dustpile collecting dust, floating around, quieting down when people walked by. Surviving by staying out of sight, the snowy tendrils of cold bleakly flash off the half-full detergent, throwing a shadow across the Un-vaccumed carpet. The cold is real here, bundling a sweater over her shivering shoulders. Furiously mounting a defense destined to crumble beneath the frozen tides of the ocean, the freezing pull of the moon. And we sit shaking in our mysterious cold, warmth refusing to penetrate the tight spaces of our bodies. The cool blue light trying to fight through the glass, leaving cracked tendrils on the pane, snowy ...

Berating horns attacking from all sides, puffy lingering air smukking by the windows, and armed, green rhinos questioning and prodding at the front. Stuck stuck stuck stuck stuck stuck stuck. The only way to go is forward, which is a positive. But there are so many inches to go, and only so much time to advance. And we all know stones stand the test of time. Big, big, blocks of big stone. So heavy on the street, and so heavy on the swerving windshields whipping down the road, in all out haste to avoid being stuck, mired in the ground. So now we know there are two goats, and one is destined to die, and the other is destined to die. But one is destined to rise up, for a greater sacrifice, for an honor unimaginable to the rhinos, both green and black. And one is destined for jaggedy knifed rocks. One honored, one disgraced, both dead. I die and you die, but who is honored and who is disgraced? There in lies the rub because what about those that have no sticks to scratch together, that is ...