game on.

Pre­dictably, as we be­gan our way to­wards Ap­tos that Sat­ur­day, Tom Waits yelled road grav­el and bro­ken down dreams, as that is his role. At the pre­cise mo­ment that a yel­low Corvette passed us, he was roar­ing about tear­ing out the buck­ets from a red Corvette, and the num­bers screamed and cheered in ec­sta­t­ic ac­knowl­edge­ment that I no­ticed. Game on. The ad­dress num­ber was 31; that many years ago I was dis­charged from Un­cle Sam’s Mur­der Club as an en­try-lev­el med­ical sep­a­ra­tion on Sep­tem­ber six­teenth. Some small voice said, “Thanks for show­ing up and leav­ing the par­ty ear­ly, here’s the sum we agreed upon …” The lizard, bare­ly vis­i­ble in the dim light of the over­cast sky, turned its head al­most im­per­cep­ti­bly to­wards the tow­er­ing pine at its left, then scur­ried right into the se­cure con­fines of the bush­es. Ex­hal­ing the dead air of decades of ten­sion, won­der­ing no longer if I was WHERE I was sup­posed to be, I was fi­nal­ly ready to BE there. But, the time for ac­tion had long since passed, and the oth­ers had all gone on liv­ing their lives as if he had nev­er been more than wind and dry leaves and echoes of yelling. “You were made on Halloween/ Of tricks and treats, it’s true/ But now the can­dy’s GMO/ And so, my child, are you …”

—rob­bie ed­monds

Flom­mist Rob­bie Ed­monds would love to sit down with you and dis­cuss his the­o­ries of mind-swap­ping and time trav­el, but it ap­pears as if he, as his cat, just left to stop him­self from do­ing so … AGAIN! Copy­right © 2017 Rob­bie Ed­monds.

MOR D’ARTÍCULOS  MOR FLOMM !

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