Dosquatch The lights are up, all of the props are in place. The time is at hand. Must focus, must settle the butterflies. This is is, part of my Moment, some unknown fraction of my fifteen minutes. I step forth into the glare, and the show is mine. I am the Center, I am the all saying, all knowing, all doing master of the audience, of YOU, throwing down my words and imagry as pearls upon the ground, knowing that where they touch fertile soil there will spring forth trees and vines of thought, nourished by your mind into things of which even I cannot conceive.

I strut my time upon stage without fear of reprisal or critique - those may come later - but for now, for this moment, the spotlight of your eyes is mine and mine alone.
phil Feather, balloons, ink my strut cone. 040725
misstree the pups played.
one was bigger, and could get its teeth at the other's throat, but the smaller still kept going back, barking and grinning, nipping at ears, playing, and rolling over when appropriate.

how did humans lose such primal communications?

what have we lost because of it?
unhinged bad ass posturing is the human hackles of scared self defense

my back turned, rigid, tense, barely able to control the shaking in my limbs. trying to keep hate in my heart. afraid that i couldn't. my back turned, afraid that my shaking hands would finally find their way to her skinny neck. hate turned eventually to bitter violence.

my back slumped, my arms clasped around my bent knees. sitting, defeated, hugging myself because there was no one around that would. rigid melted to weary.
what's it to you?
who go