Bass Drum

Something wakes me, Loki rolling rocks, lightning on the horizon. The weather update is that this is a mother of storms, tornados and micro-bursts, so I set out a flashlight and my headlamp, a legal pad and pen, a bag of trail mix, and the last of the little nips of Maker's Mark I bought for Chautauqua. Getting my house in order. If I sit in the steel office chair I can feel the thunder as it happens. Ginnungagap. The actual French would be gare l'eau. I'm pretty sure. I got it from a french man, and he poked me in the chest several times. Meaning is enhanced if you poke sharply with your index finger. John, for instance, telling us to be quiet, when he was watching his show. Not to mention a single nuance, where the mundane achieves the sublime. I taste a great many cheeses, as one who makes cheese himself, most of them are lacking, and I don't really want to tell someone that their cheese sucks, I'm not a decent judge or jury. Mocking bird singing in the night; what, actually, is the song? I have to go. It did storm, and I'm very glad we had spent some time on the driveway. A good night's sleep, rain on the metal roof. Then another hot day. I make a list of things for the holiday weekend: backup whiskey, extra tobacco and papers, flounder fillets, sliced roast beef for sandwiches, a bag of mussels, a bottle of wine, a bag of baby purple potatoes, makings for cole-slaw. Stopped at the pub, and had a pint in the coolness. Then came on home, turned on the AC, so Black Dell and I could conspire together, ate a sinful meal of potato logs and a foot-long hotdog, with sauce, mustard, and cheese. I can eat this shit because I am pure of heart.