The Meaning of Life Acrostic

WHAT cannot be explained is quietly under where breath
IS suspended and manipulated like
THE eye of a storm, confronting more
MEANING than ten thousand drops
OF rain or midair ideas or even the great blue heron, this
LIFE, this infinite container of time.

There, aren't you glad you finally got an answer to that one?

Mister Icky Sneaks Into My Hotel Room...

... and nobody was any the wiser! I believe it was Wednesday, which means I was in a medium-sized town in southern Minnesota. This hotel had the nerve to charge for 1)Maid Service, 2)Internet access and 3)An extra person in your room even if you're married to him all nice and legal. In addition, there not only was no pool, there was no exercise room, no carb-loaded breakfast and only one packet of coffee, which I assume I was supposed to make last for two days. After a trip to the grocery store, I made a secret call to Mister Icky on my cell phone and arranged for his arrival. Hahaha on you, unnamed hotel!

The Disease of Threes

If you're a poet, you probably have a very serious case of "The Disease of Threes," to quote Michael Dennis Browne. And is that so wrong? How bad can it be to pack things neatly together and tie it all up with a nice shiny ribbon? How can three things hurt anybody? It's good, I suppose, to know the rules before you break them. Which I plan to do Saturday morning, Saturday afternoon and Saturday evening.

Narcissistic, Self-Important Drivel

So Mister Icky says, "No, don't blog. It's self-important drivel." And I say, "Well, who isn't self-important? Are you important to yourself?" He thinks it over, scratches his bushy chin. "Uh." And I say, "Of course you are. You're the most important thing to yourself." "Oh, no," says Mister Icky. I know he was going to try some of that gooey romantic apcray that occasionally works. I need to step in quickly. "You are the most important thing to you, M.I." "No, I'm not." Mister Icky doesn't give in easily. "Well," I conceded, "You're right up there, now aren't you?"