Wart Cream

How open are you to what is out there, like snake penis delicacies from China, like sipping tea from a saucer in Iran and throwing a piece of rock sugar under your tongue rather than stirring in a spoonful of the granulated stuff?   Keep an open eye for the scent of wart cream that fills the entire room of seven year old, who has a fat one right on the palm of her hand, got if from witch stories.

            Crawl out of your hole, your timed existence and take a chance on a new idea, a vacation to the Amazon.  “Retire 5 years after you are dead.” said Warren.  Get married in Manaus and watch the Amazon run slow as a dream in chaste states of mind before the founding of Duluth.

            Who are you to play it safe, to sip black coffee at 6a, as the clouds cling to yesterday… as tomorrow is a race between what was and what can be?

            Reach into your soul and pull out a new habit, a stalwart look at impropriety, a glance in the direction of a new destiny that is forming because you had the balls to tack in the wind, to change places with a twin, to regard life as precious and fleeting, or sublime and leaking into eternity.

            Who are you to stay like a still-life in a Woody Woodpecker storyline, in a play between avarice and piqued desires that wind up in a pole dance contest, where the women are long and lanky, the men are fat and bald and the proprietor is always headed to the bank in the morning as the cleaning crews genuflect at the stage of lost dollar bills and spilt rye whiskey.

            Where is your wart cream, your next dream, your off rhyme words that slur with the late night hours wasted on wonder and contemplation, raw elation on the road to getting there?

            Who are you to recoil in the challenges that beget wisdom, detailing a treasure map, pointing in the direction of Atlantis, spinning around near the Bermuda triangle that is an isoslese, is on the fringe of an idea that’s time has finally come—found its stretch.

            Look out for the poetry that listlessly expires at midnight, that takes a pumpkin and turns it back into a sweet ride to the palace, where fairytales are born, where you are willing to shoot for the moon, get a bead on a new target, a shooting star, a bean stock, a rabbit hole, a push toward and out of fear and loathing in Marrakesh.

            Become a seeker of wart cream, of interesting moments, of huckleberry pie somewhere near the outskirts of Kalispell, Montana, where the grizzlies fight over fat people on vacation, where the skies are big, where you finally give yourself permission to sequence the saline nights and the drawn out days of lobster and coconut shrimp that litter the roadside attractions.

            You can and will be the interesting parts of your own life“Live it, don’t be livid.”  Gather up your most enchanted ideals and squeal out of town and find yourself in pursuit of a forgotten dream.

            Do this and that and life will take on a shimmering glowworm sheen as you speed into your most prized and self-created destiny.

            Just bring along the wart cream, the bewitching hours and placards condoning your “audacity, audacity, audacity”…George S. Patton’s favorite word.  Now that guy had some warts.