The Ballad of the Mountain Oysters.

Thighs scrunching the table leg, as a student swimmer relents to take towards the vista of the waters.

I had put things together thusly, in the interim, as it was and such. It was the edge of the future: I stood on the literal edge of the thing, having flailed and flittered my way through the inscrutable blankness of it.

Conducive psyche put it to me that I could retain only one of each in the same allotment of thought: the feelings, or the memories.

Choose one from this pile, discard the other.

"I watched them rise.

Amphibalence, maybe they call it, see, another linguistic invention, lacking both correctness, provenance--

bereft of time, insufficient in space--

a bonked thumb in the infinitude of one’s peripheral workspace, the indefinence between dreams and reality, the Buddha sitting in the shade mind disconnected from all reality--

The entirety of nature came to life, spanning the SEC, ACC, and partial Sun Belt, and I did not as much sit and watch, but walked “among the rows”, so to speak, between the rows, with that soft sucking sound of flora and fauna aborbing, feeding on the teets of Mother Nature. Watering can in my hand, a Whistler, one does not bespokingly see these things, but attenuation by nature is innate: we feel them from the outer gelatin to the inner pocket of water that pillows the mind. Seasonal Effective Disorder, they call it when one’s natural wiggle is inconvenient for contrived schedules of production, entertainments, love-making in our frisson moderne.

The weather was fine, rising to its pitch more naturally, in gradients that prove aesthetically after-sex-brain-chemistry-stir-illusion, regular, along the southeast seaboard spit.

Plants grew.

The land-locked snapping oysters which we so commonly spot clinging so to our grapevines began to unshell, like snakes shedding skin, and it was not the whim of nature, but instead the turning of the great cog of time, not in its usual fits and starts, tantrums, but in vulgar regularity."

At once, its a sex-stirred happiness of a prosperous season. An oddball glimpse of a world from its tedium to without, and from without to the distorted swirl of tedium. Sagacious flummox that initials its love letter to itself.