Al E. Wei

An attempt to capture the moon behind some lingering rain cloud sans tripod.

I finally had to take these away from the two pups after a four hour chew marathon.  They were not pleased and are plotting to overthrow me.

There was nothing we could do.  We were too far gone from where we’d come and Milton was still a hand-length’s away on the map.  The road was the only way, the only solution; a cure-all for the ailments of life’s miseries.  I can still see her if I close my eyes tight enough – barefeet on the dashboard, fumbling a cigarette she never meant to light, asking me how much further.

It occurs to me that I am America, I’m talking to myself again.

The light sat down, let out a sigh, and asked for a glass of water.  It’s been a long journey.  Sun to moon, moon to Earth, from Earth’s atmosphere in through the window onto the shelf.  Some ninety-four million miles of photon powered light speed.  Relax, have a drink; the sun just went down.  Enjoy the night.

Up for a little hobo-in’?  Not sure if you can turn the process of being a hobo and all that it is entitled to into a verb.  Hobo-ing?  Wouldn’t pass in scrabble.

That time of year again.  Fried _____ on a stick.  Farm animals paraded around, judged, and sent off to procreate, become food, work, or remain as some 4H kid’s pet (I guess this all depends on the judges?).  Riots on the mean streets of West Allis.  Gotta love the Wisconsin State Fair.

Couldn’t pass this one up.

Why can’t corn hear me?  It’s got ears.  Maybe it just chooses not to listen.  Maybe it’s mad its being harvested for ethanol production rather than food.  Or, perhaps its jealous of its sweet cousin dunked in creamy, melted butter everyone fawns over at county fairs throughout the country.  Could it be living the life of quiet desperation just waiting for the day it’s brought to a lab to become some odd chemical you find in junk food?