Sometimes clouds are a disappointment.
It’s not their fault, really.
They’re just vaporing along.
(Notice, I didn’t call them vapid.)
But sometimes I am making
(think snow angels but less substantial)
or I’m trying to read,
And they sneak across the sky’s cheek
all giggly with mischief
or rumbly with thunder
or purple with envy because
the sun gets all the attention.
I love clouds, though. I just want to be clear.
Especially in July.
If we named the stars
as if they were kittens
we could have a Fluffy Nebula,
the Mr. Whiskerkins Galaxy,
or the Constellation Sheba Is A Good Girl.
The Milky Way would be just fine as it is.
I haven’t been feeling very inspired lately. I know it’s my brain’s way of saying:
I want a vacation.
Stop saying Yes!
(It’s Ok, you know, to say No.)
I’m at least not inspired by the writing of the sketch that’s due today.
It’s not ready.
It sounded so good when it was playing on the movie-screen of my Third Eye. Getting it to the page, on the other hand, has been like …
Remember when Bugs Bunny would try to make the turkey skinny to save him from Thanksgiving dinner by putting him in a sweatbox?
Like that. The sketch in question is a sweatbox, and I’m burned out on it.