Monday, November 18, 2019

What Happened To Aunt Flossie

Arsenic in the wallpaper killed Aunt Florence,
her demise hastened by her habit of banging her head into the wall
at the slightest provocation.

Last time we visited,
my sisters and I chimed "Hello, Auntie,"
followed immediately by our polite curtsies
and more thundering head-bangs
which shook the house and dazed poor Aunt Flossie.

At tea, she spoke of being haunted by the spirit of a skunk
which had been living under the back stoop.
Her dog killed it, but the striped stinker in its anger
sought revenge.
We held our napkins to our faces in order to endure it. 

"How awful," we remarked,
upon which Aunt Flossie let her tea cup drop
from her fingers, and would have
banged most ferociously into the wall had we not instantly intervened.

My sisters and I are pious girls and we have faith
that the stinker will not be permitted to follow Aunt Flossie
into the golden gates of Heaven.
We shall miss her.

Sunday, November 17, 2019

Do The Do

Let's have some fun. Today I'm participating in Song Lyric Sunday, which can be found HERE. This week the theme is "Done With The Verb Do" and you can choose to feature any song with any variant of "do" in it. I've chosen Tim Hardin's "Do The Do", a lively dance tune, pretty atypical for the moody, introspective Hardin.

"Do The Do" was written by blues man Willie Dixon, a favorite songwriter of late 60's blues rockers. He also wrote "Backdoor Man" popularized by the Doors, and "Spoonful", memorably recorded by Cream and also Etta James. "Do The Do" was recorded by several people (according to internet research--I have never heard any other version but Hardin's) and the lyrics I will add at the end of the post are from Howlin' Wolf's version. 

I can't listen to Hardin's recording of "Do The Do" without wanting to get up and move, and it always puts a smile on my face. That it should have been recorded by Tim Hardin is surprising. Hardin is best known for writing and singing amazing ballads such as "If I Were A Carpenter" (made famous by Bobby Darin), "Reason To Believe" (which charted for Rod Stewart) and "How Can We Hang On To A Dream." His voice is expressive and unique. In fact, he disliked others covering his songs so much that he began making them more complex and hard to copy. The closest voice I can think of to Hardin's might be Ron Sexsmith's, but that's like saying a Focus and a Ferrari are both cars.

Tim Hardin's story is a sad one. Picking up a heroin habit while in the Marines in the early 60's, it eventually ruined his life. He had a rebellious and contrary nature, often claiming a relation to the outlaw John Wesley Harding, but there's no facts backing that up. Like Harry Nilsson, Hardin disliked performing live, even though he did release a live album. 

In the end, we are left with his hauntingly beautiful songs, voice and music. As a result of factors noted in the preceding paragraph, his album Painted Head did not contain any self-penned songs, but did include the funky, fun "Do The Do", presented here with all due flourishes and fanfare. Dig it!

the mildly sexist and beside-the-point lyrics, by Willie Dixon:

 Well I know
I've got a babe
And I know her
Love is true
But you ain't seen nothing
'Til you see her, see her
Do the do
Do the do
Shake her shoulder
Take her time
Mover her body
Like I move mine
When she's dancing
You'll love her too
When you see her
Do the do
Do the do
34 bust
22 waist
Right in place
Cool disposition
Love her too
When you see her
Do the do
Do the do
Well, well there
Ain't nothing like
When you see her
Do the do
Do the do
Well I know
I've got a babe
And I know her
Love is true
But you ain't seen nothing
'Til you see her, see her
Do the do
Do the do

Saturday, November 16, 2019


Thanks for the invitation, but last time you wouldn't let Molly past the front door. She hasn't forgotten and neither have I. 

What was the big thing with making me take my boots off?
Ooooh, imported rugs,
and everybody making a big deal out of your barfy tea.
Bitch, please.
Next thing you'll build a she-shed with paper walls.

Nope, me and Molls will be nine miles from here,
Molls with her ear buds in.
(She likes western swing.)
We stop and doze any time we want,
Molly dreaming of a bag of warm oats
and me dreaming that I'm dreaming, which will be true.

So go step in a gopher hole, girl.
You can post it on social media and call it a wine grotto.

for Sunday Muse #82 where I am hostessing. Bring your pony.

Friday, November 15, 2019

First, There's A Dead Guy

First, there's a dead guy.
(There always is.)
Who cares? 
They'll figure it out in an hour.

The actress has red hair. She's quiet, but
simmering, like Emily Dickinson stirring chili in the afternoon
with wavy-glass windows steaming up
and a clock ticking in the hall behind her.

It's her hair, you know.
And her face.
I can feel it, that shift inside, sliding me into a time-fall.

I had forgotten the sensation on the sides of my fingers
as they curled around your green Henley at your hips.
They had never been born before that.
I had never been hungry before that.
My desire for you created me entire, on the spot. 

You had red hair. It was quiet in your dorm room,
like the air before a rare fall funnel.
I lifted your shirt up over your head,
lifted out of any life I ever lazed through up until then.
I never knew I could kiss someone
and carry that kiss like true north under my skin.

All day, I'll be thinking about
your scent,
your easy smile,
a time, place, and two girls
who stopped existing years ago, 
but who drop by unannounced and find me out.

For Bjorn's flashback prompt at Toads. Last night I had the most intense dream about someone I knew when I was at college the first time (I went back later). But though I knew who it was, she had morphed into actress Julianne Nicholson, who played Detective Wheeler on Law & Order: Criminal Intent. I probably need years of therapy.

Thursday, November 14, 2019

Thirteen Things

1. Snow, everywhere, heavy as old boots, bright as a policeman's flashlight.

2. Night. Then day. Then night again. Dizziness. The carpet's range of aspects.

3. Birds bringing messages. Their particular songs. The feeder swaying.

4. An ambulance. Someone on the floor, then not. 

5. Day, then night, then day again. A shifting array of shadows on the roof of an empty house. 

6. White, everywhere. Sheets laundered a thousand times. An intrusive light, concentrated to a pinpoint.

7. Birds on the sill. Their particular coloring. The feeder still, on its pole.

8. Snow, everywhere. A new ramp, smelling of sawn pine.

9. Lights in the windows of a house. Lights like the golden skin of french fries on a plate.

10. Birds on bare branches in the yard. Silver wheels. The feeder taken down and filled.

11. All day, television interview programs. Dr. Phil right back after this break.

12. Snow, disappearing like memories. Afternoon sun, bright and harsh as temps from the agency.

13. Birds in flight over a house. Someone's photograph in a frame. An orange cat sunning itself, then nothing.

for Thursday 13 and Midweek Motif--"winter."

Wednesday, November 13, 2019

Autobiography In Miniature

It was in Oregon at the sliding icing end of the 70's.
A bus had brought me there,
barfing me up a block from a cafe where my boots dried out and so did I, more or less.

"Danny's" it was called. The goth chick looking out-of-it in the back corner claimed to be a succubus.
Whatever, honey.
We all suck at something.
It might as well be souls.

I scammed a tampon off of her and swore
that if I were still here by Wednesday I'd be a different woman,
open a kissing booth at the county fair or
marry a soccer star from Brazil and crank out kids.
I was certain it could be easily done, here on Highway 61.

So, how did I ever get from there to here, you ask,
spinning at my keyboard loom, all these poems and whatnot?
It was when I winged a napkin holder at my imaginary friend
there in Danny's Coffee Shop, Anytown, USA,
bruising her imaginary eye and changing the look of myself,
that I found The Way.

Blurring the edges is all I've done,
but the gray in my hair elicits assumptions
that I'm basically good,
can bake,
and have fifteen cats at home destroying the sofa.

You know what, Bo Peep? Two of those things are true--
Three guesses which.

From a word list kindly provided by *. I used most of them and gave the rest to The American Haiku Foundation.

kissing booth
blurring the edges 
bruising her eye 
candles in the rain 
soccer shirt 

Tuesday, November 12, 2019

Single Parent Adventures

A man gives birth to a pair of pliers.
The first thing that happens is his friends punching him in the arm and calling him "mommy", followed by snorts and guffaws.

Doctors repair his dignity and hand the pliers child to it.
The man's dignity gets its own apartment.
The man's friends deride his singleness, call him "Lonesome."

One night while fending off bro punches, the man's doorbell rings.
His pliers child is at the door, remarking that it never asked to be born.
The man phones his dignity, and is advised to deal with the situation himself--it is his dignity's kickboxing night.

Fleeing his friends, the man carries his pliers offspring out to the garage and hangs it on a pegboard with the other tools.
"Goodnight," he says, and closes the automatic door.

His dignity calls, as if it had eyes all the way across town.
"What kind of father are you?"
"I've tried to be both mother and father to the pliers," he begins,
but his drunken friends start swinging golf clubs inside the house. 
There is arguing, shouting, police involvement.
He hopes the pliers won't wake up, hear, and speak badly of him later to his dignity. 

for "Let Us Labor" at dverse

Monday, November 11, 2019

Book Review : "The Tormented Mirror"

The Tormented MirrorThe Tormented Mirror by Russell Edson
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

MANY years ago, I found Edson's "The Wounded Breakfast" in a used book store and loved it. His crazy-quilt surrealist poems really influenced me in my own writing. He and Donald Bartheleme were my early off-the-rails mentors, though I never met either one.

And so, now I come--belatedly--to "The Tormented Mirror", expecting more of the same delight. Well, life is full of disappointments, isn't it? I'm not sure if it's him that's different, or if it's me, but while this collection had its moments, it dealt too repeatedly with the themes of old men and women, babies, and bodies and bodily functions. Was he getting soft in the head?

To be sure, there are some wonderful lines, like this opener from "The Stuff of Dreams":

"There was a man who had distilled a tiny woman from several dreams."

With disheartening frequency, though, Edson keeps wandering off into stuff about breasts, rectums, "deltas" and so on. It had me picturing some fogey in the rest home, writing this stuff down, contemplating his regular-or-irregularity, and waiting for 4 o'clock so he could eat Salisbury steak in front of "Matlock" in the day room.

Not really recommended.

View all my reviews

New Baby

Our new baby,
a darling of the Universe,
grows tusks and unionizes.
Now, feedings are disastrous, injuries frequent.
Now, everything must be negotiated, from emotional forays to bottle temperature.

An intermediary is sent in,
but gets into the baseboards
and turns the TV into a homing beacon for her bitchy friends.

All we wanted was a child,
a sentient bit of fluff to dandle and imbue with various undemonstrated virtues and qualities.
Not tusks that send dentists howling into madness.
Not wildcat strikes with their attendant rancor and bloodshed.

Please baby, we say.
Please be normal.
A telegram arrives, from our baby.
We are terrified to read what it says.

for "Different Perspectives" at Real Toads.

Saturday, November 9, 2019

Big Bucks

The woods being full of hunters,
some deer escape to a televised quiz show.
Who wrote the swing classic "Sing, Sing, Sing"?
The deer do not know.
(It was Louis Prima.)

The deer prefer Glenn Miller, 
though they cannot afford to ride the Chattanooga Choo Choo
unless they win big in the next round.

Who composed "The Song of the Volga Boatmen"?
The deer look at each other.
One of them dips his antlered head and buzzes in.
"Unknown," says the deer. "It's a traditional Russian piece,
popularized in the U.S. by Glenn Miller."
Correct! Bonus round!
In what year did his version hit #1 on the charts?
"1941," responds the deer. Too easy.

Later on, a herd of deer board a train.
They read a magazine and then they're in Baltimore.
The bucks clatter their racks on the Phoenix Shot Tower.
One doe asks another, who wrote "In The Mood"?
Joe Garland and Andy Razlaf,
but she is not smirking for knowing the answer.

for Sunday Muse #81

Friday, November 8, 2019

Problem Solver Hat

Let me put on my Problem Solver Hat;
you, the Leotard of Cosmic Awareness.
At the Millinery of Magnified Presence
I purchase the Fez of Authentic Living,
the Tam O' Shanter of Burnished Truth,
and the Toque of Conscious Benevolence.

At the Holy Haberdashery,
you shed the Muumuu of Self-Doubt
and don the Necktie of Numberless Eternity.
To this you add the Cummerbund of Creative Existence,
the Skorts of Peaceful Intention,
and the Jeggings of American Luminescence.

Exhausted, we tumble to the Divan of Divine Passion
but find ourselves encased in cocoons of unending cloth.
I murmur to you from under heavy layers of gauze
and you reach for me through geologic strata of material.
How can this be?
The frustration is maddening!
What to do?
Let me put on my Problem Solver Hat...

for Just One Word at Toads.

Wednesday, November 6, 2019


image by jason limberg
When elk look into their future,
they see their partners, the wolves.
Under gray cotton skies, they find the custodian lost in the woods,
pushing his bucket and mop with difficulty over roots and divots.
When elk speak, they can see their breath,
but the custodian hears nothing, like new dust arranging itself.

When wolves look into their future, 
they see a wounded custodian lagging behind.
The desperate, unsteady sway of keys on his hip
energizes their legs like an artist giddy over the right model.
On their tongues the wolves carry a palette
and with it they paint hunger, satisfied.

When custodians look into their future,
they see rocking chairs secreting themselves among the elk herds.
When wolves circle, the elk stamp their hooves nervously,
their eyes spy-hopping above the horizon like prayer flags.
When wolves kill, custodians return amazed to their mothers
as the huge heads of the elk swivel on the scent of evening.

for both Wordy Monday and Art Flash at Real Toads.

Athena and the Air's Machinations

My lungs speak, one to the other,
all night while owls tap at the window
sending Morse love poems to Athena.

They know I don't trust the air--not since Athena left.
I wear this bulky space suit everywhere, even into my dreams.

A fixer with a burlap bag gathered the owls and brought them back,
along with window glass, some putty, and a frame.
Now my lungs discuss the view, plan pilgrimages, and pointedly exclude me.

Athena loved the poems I could breathe out at will,
but wearied of my ladder collection and habit of communicating only by hieroglyph. 
Now everything is lungs, owls,
night, space suits,
and the stilling of the back door still redolent 
with Athena's scent and the trackless void of my own exhalations.

(belatedly cos my I was off the grid) for Sunday Muse #79.

Friday, October 18, 2019

Six Penny Poem

"The Architect by Erik Johansson
"Six Penny Poem"

I have written you this poem
made of lavender,
various weathers,
and six penny nails.
I've forgotten how to love, that's true
and never could accept the stuff.

Still, if your body were paper milled from butter and birch,
I would be flocked there and on the vines and boards
of a slant-lit garden.

This is a poem for absurd things, sweet things
last bloom and first frost
a poem for things I could not otherwise say,
a poem for you.

for Sunday Muse #78.

Thursday, October 17, 2019

Book Review : "The Tale Of Halcyon Crane"

The Tale of Halcyon CraneThe Tale of Halcyon Crane by Wendy Webb

My rating: 2 of 5 stars

One of the pleasures that propels me through to the end of a book like this is the anticipation of the joy I'll feel when I savage it in a review. Having arrived at the end of this turkey, here I go.

Hallie James's father passes away at just about the same time as a letter arrives informing her that her long-lost mother is alive and wants to reconnect with her except that unfortunately she has also just died. I hate when that happens. Nonetheless, our intrepid Hallie ups and treks from her home in Seattle to Grand Manitou Island in Lake Superior so that she can meet with the lawyer who sent her the letter.

Naturally, this lawyer turns out, much to her surprise (but not ours), to have blue jeans and blue eyes. Of course he does. Quick, raise your hand if you've ever heard of this storyline before: fresh from a bad patch in her life, Our Heroine returns to Ye Olde Home Town where ruggedly handsome so-and-so still lives, and sparks fly. Will Our Heroine give in to old fears or will she find love and a new life with Fabio? Oh my, so many hands went up!

Having had time for a latte and to learn she has inherited her late mother's fab house and considerable fortune, Hallie tries to settle in, but it seems that islanders blame her father for staging her death and his own in order to escape to a new life after having apparently murdered her little playfriend. And so, they regard her with suspicion. Oh, and there's ghosts and stuff.

I will admit right here that I quite enjoyed the first half of the book. This is pretty good, I said. The second half should really be fun, I said. Unfortunately, that's when the whole thing started getting laughably silly.

Let's start with Fabio. He's buff, he's nice, he digs her, he's perfect. Of course. After knowing Our Heroine for just three measly days, going to dinner twice, and being rebuffed from so much as a kiss after both dates, Fab finally gets to first base and starts blathering out the L Word like he has electrodes up his butt. But wait, there's more. He's supportive, sweet, present, he really listens and gosh he WORRIES when she's out in the rain for a few minutes. And so I rechristened him Woman-Man because no man acts like this guy. He's more like a best girlfriend with parts. Whee!

Then there's an ancient crone called Iris (get it? she sees all tells all, so IRIS like your in your eye.) She's about a hundred, does windows and floors, cooks a mean stew (really often, and without ever being seen doing it! Wee-oo!) and tells Hallie everything about her family line in a series of daily sessions, but only AFTER she polishes the brass fixtures and stuff. No really. Hallie found her lurking in an upstairs bedroom with the door shut, but she explained that she was Hallie's mom's housekeeper. Hallie just goes, oh, okay, and never inquires about this Iris, never discusses pay or anything, just takes her on without blinking. Moreover, this Iris skipped the chapter on Deportment & Boundaries in the Domestic's Handbook. She's bossy, abrupt and creepy. Jellyfish Hallie just lets herself be bossed and moved around like an old hat rack, with nary a qualm about leaving a total stranger alone in her house with her treasures. In fact, Hallie is a pushover in every scene but one, where she suddenly goes way off character and tells some snippy dopes in a coffee shop where to get off. Apart from that one scene, she accepts anything anyone says and repeatedly ignores her own gut reactions. Wonder Woman she is not.

This book is a mystery, especially to Hallie. About two chapters and 20-50 pages after the reader catches on to a thing, the penny drops for our Miss H. The Big Reveals are no surprise to anyone but her. Honestly, between her and Fabio I found myself laughing out loud at them both. Now, I would be remiss if I didn't take one teensy weensy moment to be petty before I wrap up this paean. Our Heroine hops. A lot. She hops in the shower, hops on her bike, hops hops hops like Peter Cottontail hopping down the haunted cheesy bunny trail. In fact, she and Woman-Man often talk in phrases one expects from toddlers and their stay at home moms. Near the end, she calls off her search for 1oo-year-old Iris lost in the blizzard because lunch is ready.

Do not read this book. I have read it for you, so you don't have to. You're welcome.

View all my reviews

Sunday, October 13, 2019

Rumors Of Wars

image by Rebecca Sygnus
We were foreigners bloomed in exotic soil,
a kind of invasive pet.

Wherever we went, we had nothing,
and so performed and begged and stole,
spreading our arms in sheepish apology as our bellies growled.

We wore the emblems and baubles of our homeland,
as meaningless as gum wrappers here.
We were restless,
thrilled to be free of all that constrained us at home.

None of us were ever going to wear
those conical hats
or our men grow those little goatees threaded gray with eastern wisdom.

Someone called my name, in accusation or greeting
and I looked up to see only my familiar ceiling.
There was no "we", no scraping sharp-edged survival,
and so I rose, fetched the morning paper from the step,

And searched through every page, as if for crumbs
to feed the thing I had felt
in the life I never lived at all
with the imagined companions upon whom there was no reporting

Though I missed them with a ferocity that held on for hours
like a dying foxhole brother.

For Sunday Muse #77, from a wild and intense dream I had before waking this morning. Why I should dream of being part of a lost military expedition in Indochina is beyond me, but there it is. 

Friday, October 4, 2019

Robed Figures

image by mc__monster
Robed figures contemplate light and shadow,
involving themselves in the night's business.

Luminous bird, floating crescent moon
contain an offered curriculum
as momentary as new love.

It is in this milieu that I come seeking you,
long after any chance of discovery.

I call, I offer songs on silver plates
while disembodied watchmen persuade ashes to assume form
and name themselves, becoming hosts

For all that cannot touch, cannot hope
nor do anything but write night poems on water-paper
and eat stars to stun themselves beyond all curiosity.

for Toads Art FLASH.

Saturday, September 21, 2019

Itinerary On The Fly

Do not place
your piano on the tracks.
Do not bind to a base

A bird of any kind.
Still, facts are facts
and the unforeseen may occur

Without warning--without a word.
"I knew a tune," says the man.
"I knew the sky," says the bird.

And so they sit with what they know.
Man and bird at peace in place
with one stop left to go.

for The Sunday Muse #74.

Monday, September 16, 2019

civil defense

concussions rain dust
on flowers in a fruit jar
steady in my palm

a fauxku for Out Of Standard "Gimme (Fallout) Shelter"

the image is from the movie "10 Cloverfield Lane"

Sunday, September 15, 2019


Hey, it's crowded in here. 
I've got one's scaly dry elbow in my ribs
and another's Manolo Blahniks on my toes.

What? What? Speak up.
Tell me which one you want and I'll try to find her. 
Goddess knows if she'll be available, presto, just like that, though.

Whoa, back way the hell up.
Is that any way to talk to a child?
Okay, now you're patronizing me. I'm not twelve anymore.

Come and get it, sugar.
No wait, don't. I'm to old for this.
My parents are always telling me what to do, and now you.

Wait...what? I'm having trouble concentrating.
Talk to one, another might grab the mic and riff. Check it out:
the 754 ages of woman all talking at once behind my calm smile.

for Sunday Muse #73.

Friday, September 6, 2019

Shell Game

Water is not the glass that holds it.
Words are not the lips that speak them.
A body is a shadow of one shape, then another, then none.

No one holds an apple and says, "Here is a peel, nothing more."
We eat the fruit and leave the ants the core.
"Simple insects," says the man.
Simple human, beneath the tree.
And on the ground when both have gone,
those humble and forgotten gods--the seeds.

A meditation on physicality for Art FLASH at Real Toads.

"You are what you believe you are." --The Prophet Omega

Saturday, August 31, 2019

In Age

In age, I dreamt myself a child again--
a blown leaf, my parents the wind.

Alone, I dreamt of family again--
my son a child, I rose and fell from the west.

Adored by a dog, I dreamt of dogs--
alive again, and my heart was calm.

In sleep, I dreamt of youth--
desire and sweetness came down from the hills.

In morning, leaves tap the sill--
dog and I raise our heads to the early breeze.

for Micro Poetry at Toads. "Fill the empty parts."

Saturday, August 24, 2019


image by Ali Falik
She is the painter with the borrowed style,
squinting as if every thing and person were the sun.
On canvas, her stars struggle.
Here is her garret, on stilts, shifting in the wind.

She is the painter with a surgeon's skill.
Her models go home with acquired malaise.
In space, she paints solar flairs as ruined starlets,
already seen, grasping, scorn in every stroke of her brush.

She is the painter with one set of supplies,
mail ordering locks from ghosts with discontinued accounts.
Galleries are cruel, declining her work before she creates it,
claiming they know as well as she does the grays of cats in the dark.

for Sunday Muse #70


The sea offered a knife for ceremony
carried on the tide to my feet.

At first, I refused. 
At first, I sheathed my face and pretended spiritual palsy.

The sea spoke, insistent, saying, "The world is empty.
Your body is dark earth, a mother for every seed."

In those days, electrical storms were continuous.
The beach was strewn, as all beaches were, with fragmented glass.

"Must every edge open a new mouth
before any creature can sing?" I asked.

Wearily, I took up the knife for ceremony.
My blood became cities. I became the sea as it became me.

Find fools, we urged ourselves.
Offer ceremony.
Insist, until the sky calms, 
and if the world then writhes, 

Blame the doppelganger god who sent us in the first place.

for Play It Again at Real Toads. I used grapeling's Pablo Neruda word list.

When There Were No Connections

When there were no connections
between us, our senses, our skin
and the world we were living in,
the white smear erasure of our minds made us birds in an atmosphere of anvils.

Survival left rippling cracks in the plate glass
of our temporal back-beat;
People mistook us for Dada tickets but we were 
just a wedge in a bar of a song in our heads

To be remembered each Fourth Of July
as we concuss, diffuse, and catch each other's eye
even in gravity boots,
even in the dark.

for Kenia's guest post at Real Toads. I chose the following song:

Saturday, August 17, 2019

In Case Of Typhoon

"Lion Afternoon" by Jacek Yerka
In the event of typhoon, 
or other natural upheaval,

the gathering of certain objects and creatures is advised.
Clocks, for their numerical appeal and sense of order;
flowers in vases whose delicacy illustrates contrast;
and lions, generally useful in all situations.

When traveling by public transport, always be sure
that you have fed your lion beforehand. 
Consult with drivers before installing fountains, saplings,
or other decorative additions.

When hosting relatives, serve ham w/ pineapple;
if a lover, light cakes or honey tea.
When arriving as a guest, be sure to bring your own seating and lion,
as your hosts may lack these essentials.

Finally, treat typhoons, tornadoes, landslides and such as equals--
talking down to them or shouting does no good.
Invite lions into your home.
Serve hors d'oeuvres made from antelope or cape buffalo.

Follow these simple instructions and avoid high winds,
use bus and train systems without worry,
and assure yourself of being welcome in the best venues
in tandem with a lion who neither owns you nor is owned.

for Sunday Muse #69. Carrie kindly stepped in for me with this fantastic image, because, like a blithering fool, I simply forgot I was supposed to do the post today!