The Animeaux

The amazing, iridescent

Animeaux

never to be caged

ever free he does go

He soars like a gull

and will never be dull

He's precocious

creates a fuss

when he catches the bus

He springs like a cat

and never gets fat

He listens like a dog

stays out of the bog

Where the willie wiley

creatures gather

He really would rather

Skate on the beach

remain out of reach

Quite a creature

he is

definitely a whiz

He moos like a cow

then takes a brisk bow

He arrives too late

but never misses a date

Being quiet

but misplacing his things

he moves about

as if made of springs

He howls like a jackal

and dreams like a bird

and of cupcakes three,

he's on the third

He does always put on

a super show

the incredible

but not edible...

Animeaux!

Happy Seussical Wednesday!

Insomniac

PowerPoint Ted

In light of all the things

there are to dread

meet PowerPoint Ted

He's a Power Talker,

a real Word Rocker

Who likes turning

his back on folks

And clicking that

small remote

We watch him like an

Army of the Dead

Charts, graphs, symbols

and the sales stats of Ted

To say it mildly,

he's more than a bore

And surely doesn't understand

that less is more

Can you spell repetitious

Ted the Obnoxious Officious?

We attempt to connect

take away then dissect

Ted's bullet points

are rambling

Our next career

may be in gambling

Information overload,

Ted's in way too deep

PowerPoint goes on and on

making us hostages weep

Then there's a SNAP

and Beth's on her feet

Grabs Ted by the throat

and he's white as a sheet!

We rebound from our coma

and try to reach Beth

As PowerPoint Ted

comes so close to death

Old Dogs

And farewell.../

He was big and white, a lover of a soft bed

With my fingers tight, I stroked his large head

White as snow and kind as a dove

Taught us about life and unconditional love

Running amok in a bed of snow flowers

Clamoring to come inside during May showers

His clumsy feet became slow

And there were fewer places he wished to go

With soft brown eyes, his head turned to me

Going to navigate a path I could not see

Through that valley we walked

And for the last time, I talked

To calm the unknown, his fear of the end

Calling on special ones to wait there for my friend

In the midst of that sad, shady summer time

Head bowed in sorrow for that upward climb

“That night I dreamed

in peaceful sleep

of shady summer time

of old dogs and children

and watermelon wine”

--Tom T. Hall

Racing with the Emus

 It's almost August, that particularly heated, dreaded time of the year when this little town invites everybody to come and share our misery dealing with said heat and the wind. We do this in the form of a bike race...100 miles...in the unforgiving Texas sun. And it's fun, gosh darn it! All these earnest, sweating bicyclists challenging themselves, attaining a personal best and overcoming obstacles. One obstacle to this mighty race that I have just discovered is, of all things, emus. Yes those big birds with brown feathers who can't fly, but boy can they run. Apparently those cyclists, outfitted in their colorful second skin, brightly attired, attract these large, curious but bored birds who are navigating the outskirts of town, maybe hold up on a ranch somewhere and tired of the run of the mill cows, coyotes and people running around with those water sticks vainly searching for underground streams. Yes apparently the cyclists have piqued their interest. Maybe the emus want a chance to outdo them.

I can only imagine the fear when these vibrant cyclists, suffering from heat stroke look up to see Big Bird barreling down upon them, giant sprawling feet, little head with beady eyes, and that piercing beak agape... and then “Oh Snap!” and a loud scream. If the cyclists are lucky, then there is just one emu, okay maybe unlucky if that particular emu likes the color red they happen to be wearing. Hopefully the sweltering bikers haven't encountered a whole flock on the road, then they might suffer from worse than a little nip.

Some interesting emu facts include:

• Females are in charge, they make the males hatch and care for the babies.
• Did I mention they are curious?
• They have “strongly clawed” feed that can rip metal wire fences (how fast can you pedal?)
• They can go 50 km/h which is described otherwise as a “fast, economical trot.

Does anybody happen to know why we have this little bit of Australia in Texas?..oh well, happy racing folks!

Welcome to the Jungle, Baby! Chronicles of Greg

“You know, you go in that room

and turn up that Lord Zeppelin and when you come out, you're crazy, can't even talk to you!”

- – Doris Floyd 1978

It was 1986 when Greg Taylor decided life was limited in small town. After all, he had thoroughly blasted it with the great rock 'n roll back in the 70s, and there just wasn’t much more to do, at least there. He had the hair – check, mastered the guitar – check, saved some money….well ok, not saved any real money, but he had $350 and that would at least get him there. Jobs should be plentiful, right? So with a feeling of both exuberance and a tinge of sadness – he went down to finally announce to his grandmother, Doris, his intentions.

“You know Buba, I think I’m ready now,” said Greg.

“Oh are you sure?” she asked staring at his walnut-stained hands. He had been earning money by sanding and refinishing her furniture when she decided that painted furniture was so 1950s, and it was time to get real again in the 1980s with Walnut Stain #253.

“What?” asked Greg, looking at his fingers. “It’s like, all over me and a few shirts too.”

Doris smiled. She never intended to make this easy for him. Really, he had no business in California. She knew what went on there; she had spent some time examining that Robert Plant poster in his room, the one with the shirt open. She knew that lifestyle was no way to live.

“I have some oil that might take it off,” she said. “It’s made by Nivea.”

“I don’t want to smell funny,” said Greg thinking he sure didn’t want to spend his last few days in town smelling nice and fragrant like Buba.

“Now what will you do out there?” asked his grandmother for the umpteenth time.

Greg took a deep breath and smiled. “I’ll go out and get a job, I bet they have people who are building out there. It’ll be fine,” he said.

“But you don’t know anyone, not a soul,” she said.

“It’s ok, other people have done it, it works out,” said Greg.

“That music…it’s so….so loud,” said Doris.

Greg laughed. Buba was no Motley Crue fan, more like Elvis, early Elvis, throw in some Bobby Darin.

“It’s supposed to be,” he said.

Grandparents vs. Greg. First the hair: cut it…cut it…cut it.

His grandfather, cowboy hat and all,summed it up standing in his white shirt in the hot sun:

“When in Rome, do like the Romans!”

Ha Ha, who cared, it was only a small simile. How could he possibly explain to Buba that he hadn’t been the same since Eddie played the Cotton Bowl?

“Don’t worry Buba,” he smiled and touched her shoulder....

This is an excerpt from my Greg Taylor Chronicles. If you like rock music in the style of Aerosmith, Motley Crue, Led Zeppelin, you can find out more about James Craig Paylor at the links below. One fan/YouTube reviewer said, “The best guitarist I've seen outside Van Halen.” Those are certainly some big words, but I have to say, I agree. Original rock music at its finest...emphasis on original!

https://vimeo.com/133394449

Find James Craig Paylor/Hell On Wheels at:

https://www.facebook.com/HellOnWheelsSF

https://www.reverbnation.com/hellonwheels

And welcome to the jungle, baby!!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YHe1XPTioIk

The Anonymous

Walter J. Rogers walked out of Human Resources carrying a plastic street sign with ROGERS printed on it. He had spent 35 years working for the streets department, and he had been given the “opportunity” to retire although doing so had not crossed his mind. He caught me in my normal hustle off to lunch, errands, wrestling with text, emails, my jewelry display ideas at the shop and reprimanding a snippy teenager. All these things were vying like warring soldiers for my attention.

“You know,” Walter says to me as I'm walking faster, trying to outpace him. “They don't do parties anymore. It's not in the budget.”

He had me at no party. I stopped and turned toward him.

“They don't? That's really a shame. Hey your sign there, its a killer!”

He smiled. So proud of a plastic sign in exchange for 35 years. Thirty-five years of getting up, going out in all kinds of weather in all parts of the city, day, night and at way less than anybody should have to work for.

“So....now you have the time for some fishing?” I sounded like a lame brain.

His face clouded over for a moment, and he said, “You know, I was never much of a fisherman myself.”

Oh well, there are lots of neat activities to do. The Senior Citizens Center here is great, I hear.”

“Yeah, I reckon I'll find something to stay out of trouble....” his voice trailed off.

I didn't know what else to say. What do you say to someone who is “let go” because all of a sudden they have X amount of years, are too maxed out on the pay scale, expensive to insure, and aren't as quick as they were?

Walter turned to go.

“Thank you,” I said. He looked back at me. “Thank you for your hard work everyday for people who don't even know who they should thank. Thank you for being someone who cares about this city and for making those roads a little better to get down.”

Walter nodded and tipped his plastic sign at me.

Then I too was off and running, racing against the clock, making my own mark on anonymity.

No one knows who cleans the floors

wipes the counter, and shuts the doors

No one knows who clips the rose,

cuts the grass and moves the hose

No one knows who does the dishes

and stands idly by with empty wishes

No one knows who makes silk flowers

slowly winding away the hours

Where then lies the silver key

leading from anonymity?