Kicking the rusty cogs...

I've been writing in my journal again. It's been a while but it feels sort of good to get it out...

Here's one, no title, stream-of-consciousness style:

Height and size sometimes don't line up to the even break if you see through clouds.
Bring me to the lake, where the sky runs clear and fish mirror life.
Questions like little ants bug you.
Slapping freedom's face is the way of the coward.
Duck and cover, tuck and roll the fat cheeks of an Elvis baby.
Dog on the road, toad, choad.
Say it like you mean it, sad and lazy in your diversion.
Stuffed like pig's feet into your S.U.V. excursion.
Deep Fried America.
Her burnt hillside and bedrock belly shines like shinola.
The new kid in town seeks comfort in the shadows.
Bring me to the rock that sits on time, monitoring the ocean in slow motion.
Stand still if you can help it.
You look younger when you sleep.