Can you Yodel When you Gargle?

In the land of the setting sun, where the gazelles and high mountains loom, there is a place stuck right in your heart, a small little tiny place that can grow into a know, a sober certainty, that all is well, where you can dance upon the land, you can rest placidly in the sands, you, and only you, can guide your mind to a place that is filled with imagination, glee, a first grader’s first day, a slice of peach pie.

Gargoyles gargle too on the eaves of Notre Dame, somewhere in the vicinity of the Louvre, along the Seine.  There are yodelers visiting from Switzerland, tap dancing along the cobbled streets drinking up the scenery and Carlsberg beer.

Where is your mind today?  Are you rolling in the hay?  Are you about to break through to the perplexity of undulating realizations? Are you in the groove, grazing in the grass, alas, a fat and sassy dude playing your way to a new tune, boogie woogie, do dah, and latte dah.

Take a stream of ideas and images, old photos in a dream, and soft shoe it down Route 66, where you’ll find that the Navajos who don’t look you in the eye in Gallop, New Mexico.

Today is your day to yodel in the shower, cower at the magnificence’s, and stroll along the estuaries of your decided choices.

Have you ever stood on the edge of this Brazilian river, near mouth of the Amazon…try, oh try as you might, you cannot, let me repeat this, you cannot see to the other side…perty wide river hey, Joe?

Today is the first day of the last day of your negativity and you have now put it all asleep with the crying babies that litter the once quiet cul de sacs in a neighborhood near you.

Who are you, to let your mind go wild on you, to let it take you down the dark roads in the middle of night where the werewolves jump from backyard to backyard, swallowing up all the Chihuahuas in the inner city limits.

Today is the perfect day to use your imagination, to add creation to your list of things to accomplish to have fun tonight, Wang Jung tonight. Use your secret sauce and formulas and pathways and handshakes to climb to the top of the tree house memories that were lost somewhere between third grade and the zoot suits made to wear in the army of corporate earth.

You are the creator, the yodeler, the gargoyle gargling, on the scene of a trapeze act lost in the ancient days of Barnum and Bailey, Hailey Mills and the chills that accompany a phosphorescent and the eerie, but seared memory, of St. Elmo’s fire along the masts and masks of a sailor’s bad language dream.

Take a picture of this? You are finally living on the verge of your most prized dream. You eat cheesecake in Katmandu, and get a t-shirt made with a green ohm symbol on it and chew some kind of red tobacco leaves that stain your teeth all the way back to LA.

Yodel your way to the top.  Gargle in the streams of consciousness of tomorrow’s race to the top of Kilimanjaro.