Wait… what? Vol. Sixty-Super-Spectacular!

Writing is a lot like smoking weed. If you smoke the same strain all the time, you don’t get any higher by smoking more. You just get lower on weed.

Writing is the same, in that one has to have more than one voice. This is despite the fact that it is generally considered that “multiple voices” are sure sign of mental illness. One of these statements is true. Or both. I’m not certain that the two ideas are mutually exclusive.

 

Treacle

You are not essential

Salute the heroes

It’s all for them

or it’s for the children

Targets unassailable by design

I am Eric Cartman, hear me roar

Respect my authority!

We’re all in this together

We’ll get through this

These trying

These difficult

These challenging

These unprecedented

Times

When this bottle is empty

suck your thumb

Go back to sleep

When you wake

they will change your diapers too

 

The un-season

In our angelhood

Spring emerged in light

from Winter’s sun waning

She came as a pale girl

dancing barefoot from the forest

into awakening meadows

A blank canvas blossoms in colors

Grows in light and life

then fades to a wraith in Summer’s cauldron

Now the axis has turned

the days grow longer

Still light and color elude us

She comes now as a grey matron

in her shawl hobbled and bent

Down to the river bank

where she will lay down to sleep

Calendar pages flutter in the wind

and time remains still

Inflation

Perverted by language

Wittgenstein’s bane

Basis for human constructs

a pliable tool

to use for conflation

Distorting translation

Manipulation by inflation

The devaluation

of your currency and law

Inflation of panic more hot air

to inflate your own egos

 

Grand Traverse

Four ribbons in flat symmetry

barren strips bespoil the tawny plain

A world still in color;

color different than before

Drawn north to the pole

Slicing through evergreen seas,

until melting into sylvan shadows

Beneath cottonball mosaic

on robin egg tapestry

the caravan proceeds

in sneering indifference

Shining yet empty smiles

of Mercedes grills

Cocoons on wheels and trailers laden

march to the sandy dunes,

where summers are fleeting

Rheumatoid claw sweeps the cold waters

Orchards sprout cool upon swollen knuckles

The hand that shelters the bay

Her coastal beacons blink

distress call to any who will come

Still only winter will answer

 

Happy 420…20…20!

It is indeed 420. 4/20/2020, to be exact! We’d had hope that this would be a much larger celebration this year. Thirty days of 420 only comes around once! Alas, it is not to be and so we must celebrate together while we’re all apart. Our resident botanist, Carlton Milhouse, has composed some 420 thoughts for us this year. These are after the fashion of  T’was the night before Christmas. Carlton hopes you all enjoy it and all of us here at the Ale 81 Inn wish the very happiest of 420s to everyone!


 

T’was the eve of 420

T’was the eve of 420 and all through the land

Not a head shop was selling, for this act had been banned

The storefronts were shuttered by some governor’s plan

due to some virus; they say it came from Wuhan

The people were chastised and sent to their room

to prevent what was certain imminent doom

Like sheep they all went and meekly obeyed,

away to their homes and there they then stayed

It will be for a month, certainly no more than two,

or until we determine what the hell we’re to do

Now bring on that Fauci and that scarf lady too

We’re led to believe that they might have a clue,

but when one is a hammer then all is a nail

and this is where experts most often fail

For billions of dollars we bought Red China’s shill

We’re all still paying, but I doubt he ever will

With a sickening thud we have screeched to a halt

while media pundits seek to find fault

A banquet for jackals and vultures to dine

They don’t care about shutdowns, they’ll manage just fine

Now Wuhan! Now Corona! Now Covid 19!

Now shut it down! Shut it down! Mass quarantine

When government shuts down it’s the end of the world

Now that it’s our turn? Your true colors are unfurled

The networks persist in their daily charade,

never missing a chance for some point to be made

that has nothing to do with the crisis at hand,

almost as if they had this all planned

And oh! How the spending! Let’s break the bank

so when this is all over we’ll have you to thank

for tiding us over with this little loan

for this time off from work (through no fault of our own)

There are still special favors in the money they’ve spent

Your little tidbit is to buy your consent

The airlines and bankers again are in line

and just like the last time they’ll make out just fine

All that debt will be added to the burden we pay,

but somehow the fat cats will all skate away

Each relief package tied up with a bow

with motives as pure as the wind driven snow

So the stem of this pipe I hold tight in my teeth,

as the smoke encircles my head like a wreath,

because all papers are gone; there are none to be had

Since the head shops are all closed, it’s really quite sad

That last book of Zig-Zags was really quite dear

between rolls of Charmin for wiping my rear

Now we’ll scrimp and we’ll forage for each vital need,

all the while praying we don’t run out of weed

If things grow too desperate it wouldn’t be wrong

to smoke up your bud in a green apple bong

Still despite all of this madness and disarray

Snoop Dogg still came with his magical sleigh

So look in your yard, you may find something there

Because he didn’t make contact, he took special care

But I heard him exclaim, ere he flew out of sight

I’ll see ya’ll next year, ’cause this shit ain’t right!