Woody Thomas

I approached the end-of-August deadline for this issue with trepidation. So much to heal, I mused, so little time to write about it all. So much pain, both of ego and of spirit, so little to gain from laying it all out on the table for others to knock onto the floor. In the end, it's my own shame, in the rain, down the drain, it is plain, that is lame, in the main, for my name.

But I decided to write something anyway. Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose, and that is what I have, being everything and nothing at once, in this land, in this being, of the free, if we can only recognize, in the eyes, in the skies, past the lies, which are masked fear, just to hear, but they're nothing, and we are here. That's the kind of spirit that cannot be stopped, that walks and talks, that makes no sense and nonsense and every sense, that says more than I can, that means it all at once, that unclogs my brain, in the rain, down the drain, to where the water flows and the grass grows and the crickets sing and the ding-a-ling means howdy, neighbor, I love you, like I love the soul of everything that has not been delifed and deliced and desighted and befrighted and defriended and upended and spun around every which way with words that say buy, buy, get this, get that, you are not complete unless you wear this hat, you have got no grit until you learn to hit. That's bullshit, which is an insult to bulls, so I take it back.