Near The Oxygen

/\/\/\==All the animosity can be rolled up in a massive ball.

/\/\/\==Add in the ridicule and rage.

/\/\/\==The grudges and revenge.

/\/\/\==Roll it down the Rockies, from the very top, where the continent divides east from west, how the water runs.

/\/\/\==Let it go, down the slopes, it will splinter any tree in its path, it will crush anyone or anything as it gains speed.

/\/\/\==Nothing will stop its decent, gravity always works the same.

/\/\/\==The weight of the sphere cannot be calculated.

/\/\/\==No scale will work, it is the heaviest object on earth.


----Heavier than all the concrete buildings of all the cities in all the world.----Heavier than all the water of the oceans.----Heavier than all the steel, all the wood, all the plastic put together.----


/\/\/\==The air is chilly way up in the atmosphere.

/\/\/\==Light, floating, like feathers.

/\/\/\==Weightless.

/\/\/\==This is where love and forgiveness are suspended forever.

/\/\/\==Near the oxygen, where we can all breathe easy.

The Junkyard Court: Between Hippie And Preppie

     Somewhere between hippie and preppie.  No pastels, of course.  Ever.  Pastels have no pop.  They have no place in tennis.  Prints should be banned.  No prints.  Multiple logo placements, multiple logo sizes, multiple logo colors.  Androgynous bias, with functionality and styles.  Reasonable fits, slenders have no room.  Only tights should be tight.  Inhibiting the extention needed to play true tennis is a tennis apparel crime.  Minimize the cotton.  It is a fundamental fabric, but only appropriate as part of a blend.  100% cotten or the ridiculous combed cotten are also not appropriate.

     Inevitably, shoes will be developed.  Make them durable.  That's it, durable.  The rubber and the upper.  Leather has been rendered obsolete.  It is a nice development for the cows.  They would much rather their skins become couches or automobile bucket seats or motorcycle club jackets.  Either way, like racquet grips, leather is no longer needed for tennis shoes.  Shoe color is a matter of personal preference, which can and should, be varied.  Dark or light.  Bright or dull.  Narrow or wide.  No pastels.

      Thermal wear should be very smooth looking, appropriate for any occasion, versatile and effective in a number of conditions.  Chills, winds, mists, and rains.  High quality zippers and tie strings that never recoil.  Collars are cool and an opportunity for innovation and distinction.  Again, any design interfering with the technical or athletic requirements of the player is fatally flawed.  Functionality at the bottom of any pant is important, and go deep on the pockets.  Yes, the pockets must be deep.  Deep enough to hold many balls. On both sides.  Drills, efficiency, e tc.

     Marketing should be constant and focused, all channels coordinated, interconnected and similar, persuing multiple creative avenues of apparel opportunities.  Rowing teams, table tennis, sponsorships, customized event attire.  Deliberate and recurring re-evaluation/adjustment  process must be scheduled early on.  Incremental changes over time.  Nothing, nothing is sacred.  Disciplined and illuminated communications.  Candid.  An offensive strategy to maximize and diversify tennis league enjoyment should be deployed quickly.  Utilizing all methods of cultural influence to inspire the ovarall mission of the brand.  Music, literature, art, dance, and glowface.  Clean, easy, obsessed.

     Roger Federer, the best.  A true slammer.  20 slams so far.  Impossible backhand, easy easy easy.  The king of the down under.  Internal disgust of mistakes, they are never accepted, only endured.  So Vantaggio.

Clear The Landing Area

EmGEmAm

Theirs the whole time.
Nothing is different.
Just realized.
Known.

Clear the landing area.
We're coming down.
From space.
Slowly.

Call off the celebrations.
Until after recovery.
Soak awhile.
Float.

Clock all the participants.
Watch them hustle.
Young glory.
Glowing.

It's the outlandish truth.
And the ramifications.
No fear.
Ever.

Beatdown Haiku

Broken and dragging.
Mortality of it all.
The toll, the beatdown.

The Junkyard Court: This Potential Madness

     Clearly, the chronic perceived potential of American male tennis professionals will be smashed by the reality of their awful and pitiful collective outcomes in 2018.  Sure, millions of dollars will be won by them, and a few will earn their way into the top 50.  A few.  But no one will be a major, or even minor, threat for a grand slam title.  Not since Andy Roddick's 2003's U.S. Open glory has an American male won a grand slam singles title.  15 years, a wasted generation, a failure of the USTA micro-culture, a shame.  Watching the 2017 Laver Cup illuminated some of the problems.  Strikingly different from the American female players, the men are uninspired and, frankly, a bit goofy.  But, why?
   
     Certainly Isner epitomizes the era, no evolution, so golly gee, so beatable.  And, seemingly, fine with it.  It is true that the meek shall inherit the earth, but they will have no grand slam titles.  These days, when an American male makes it deep into a grand slam bracket, it is always a surprise.  The names are familiar, and somewhat accomplished.  Stevie Johnson, perhaps the grittiest American male player, is easily the most decorated college player ever.  Sam Querry, the first American male to play in a grand slam semifinal in over a decade in last year's Wimbledon tournament, holds the all-time record for consecutive aces with 10.  Of course, Isner's 2010 Wimbledon first round match with Nicolas Mahut is legendary.  A match that took 3 days, over 11 hours of court time, and featured 223 total aces.  Isner won 6-4, 3-6, 6-7, 7-6, 70-68.  He lost in the 2nd round to Dutchman Thiemo de Bakker 0-6, 3-6, 2-6 in 74 minutes.  Quietly, Isner was forced to withdraw from the doubles bracket that year due to a blister on his toe.  Surely, his partner Querry was supportive and felt bad for "Big John".  Jack Sock, the current top ranked American at #9 in the world, is the current yankee king, but he's never made a grand slam Quarterfinal and his elbow likely wont have a long career considering his extreme whiplash forehand motion.  Ryan Harrison's 93-129 decade career match record indicates no real potential.  Donald Young peaked in 2012 with a world ranking of 38 before going on a 17 match losing streak that he's never completely recovered from.  In his 14 year career, he has never won a ATP singles title of any kind.

     The perpetual next generation, who knows?  Jared Donaldson, who I personally watched get destroyed by Argentine Maximo Gonzalez just last year in Houston, once beat Belgian David Goffin in 2016.  Frances Tiafoe, the third highest ranked teenager in the top 100, has lost 29 of his first 38 professional matches.  Taylor Fritz, already married with a family at 20, could develop quickly.  He's got good bloodlines, his mother Kathy May was a world top 10 player in the late 70s.  Perhaps some of her American female mojo will help destroy whatever virus has infected the men and Taylor will break through.  However, speculation just feeds into the chronic perceived potential narrative of American professional men's singles.  Do something!  As the U.S. tennis public, we should be able to reflect back with pride, remember the highlights, revel in the victories.  But there are none.  And it will be no different in 2018.  Thankfully, the always sobering Australian Open ends this 'potential' madness every year.  They are what they are.  And I don't know why.

**If either would agree to do it, Serena or Venus Williams should be the next Davis Cup Coach.  Something must change.
  

Nothing Is News

DD7x2
GEmx2

Wish we had a place we could forget it all.
Plastered all over TV's on walls.

Now we see the snakes slither up the hills.
Money's dried up, no more bribery deals.

Like that trash magazine says trashy things.
About all the people that we trying to be.

All the sanctimony and hypocrites.
Hard not to feel like we've lost our wits.

(Chorus)

AmGx3
AmGAm

Oh, they said that, it offends me.
Oh, I demand an apology.
Oh, the world treats me unfairly.
And I cry like a baby.

Create a place where nothing is news.
Only daily bread and nothing to lose.

Let the young take over as soon as now.
Maybe the old can get along somehow.

Keep my mind on word and word on my mind.
Love all my loves with the rest of my time.

And if I die before I wake.
Know that I died with a smile on my face.

(Chorus)

Jutting Jaws

     Funky gyrations and closed eyes.  Marvelous band culture, encouraging, interacting, laughing.  Heads, spinning on the necks, side to side, swirling.  Jutting jaws.  Attired in yellow and lit up, like an angel of song.  To the point, singing in the high zones about no worries, bad babies, and sweet clementine.  Voice like a masterpiece.  Gone and away, but always with herself.
     Fell in love with tunes, obviously.  To sing, to tell, to whisper, to yell.  An expression making an impression, allowing the space for another expression to emerge as an impression.  Creative art inspires performance art, inspiring other creations.  It's a circle in a way, but more like a long string that twists around to form a cylindar.  Nothing is the same.  Requires constant motion or the entire structure collapses.  Observe constantly, consider everything, wonder loudly.  Take note, jot down, tuck away.  Lines, words, hums.  Somehow.
     Still young, now she is seasoned.  Open to everything and intentional in her explorations.  More curiosity than advice, more love than hate, more light than dark.  Relational blues, wavering melencholy, and independance.

This Pasture

Sure, the sky's not falling.
But it's cold for sure.
Like a normal chill, no wind or nothing.
Sanctimony is hard to watch.
The righteous are so sure of themselves.
This pasture looks good.
Roam around the fence line.
Away from the bullshit.
Catch a glimpse.
It is a sin not to hope.
As Hemingway wrote.
And tragic too.
Sad, almost.
Snap out of your trance!
Cynicism is a type of poison.
Laughter, hysterical laughter, instead.
Thankful for the true comics.
Knowing hypocrisy and the obvious.
The funny parts, anyway.
The streets of voices.
Protesting the protest of the protest.
Never stop protesting, it is a responsibility.
Mobs are different, they must be disbanded.
They are after blood.
They have no humor.

Corporate Maxed

E
AEx3

Not gonna take that call.
Not gonna care at all.
Not gonna lick no boots nor beg nor crawl.
Not gonna care at all.

DAx3
EDA

So corporate maxed.
Need to relax.
So corporate maxed.
Need to relax.

Feeling unattached.
Feeling kinda trapped.
Feel like I might need to take a long nap.
Feeling kinda trapped.

Just corporate maxed.
Need to relax.
Just corporate maxed.
Need to relax.

Realized the game.
Always ends the same.
Slick and on point, no need for any blame.
Always ends the same.

I been corporate maxed.
Need to relax.
I been corporate maxed.
Need to relax.

Silver Leaf

Waiting in Denton.
The days of idle.
More dejection than direction.
More anonomous.
The solitude is not lonely.
All the people of this place.
From everywhere!
Serving Hoochie shrimps.
Big and fishy.
Dollar Lone Stars.
Tunes on the back streets.
Turning a Silver Leaf this year.
That Jaffe gal got the sway.
Hope her voice is pure as it seems.
Eyes of creation.
Never close.

Minds Burn (Revolutionary)

These changes coming.
Like the last time it all went down.
Revolutionary.
Only the cowards are running.

And we awake after the dreams.
If we are lucky.
Dreams not finished, and worse, ones not remembered, are the true tragedies.
But they are not real, only hopes gone wild.
Even when dreams are dark, we search for light.
Always seeing our way through.
If only we could know each other fully.
Not all silence.
Not all wondering.
Just enough, though, to stay on our minds.
Because minds are curious.
Minds burn.

No ridicule, it is utterly pointless, diminishing everything.
Understand, instead.
If important.
If meaningless, ignore.

Free To Be

     To be or not to be?  That is the question of our age!

(contemplating for an extended moment)

     Be is the only choice for the attached and sane.  Not to be is avoidance of reality.  We are beings.  Even in choosing not to be, we are participating.  We are being.
     Silence, maybe, but that's its own kind of delusion.  Words are real, and should be spoken selectively, read deliberately, written obsessively, sang manically, and prayed graciously.

*We are lucky to be here.
*Being here is miraculous.
*Let us be for a moment.
*Human beings are being crazy all over the world.
*Be what it may.

     To have been or not to have been seems a better meditation.  Of memory and evidence.  We either been, or not, but we always be.
      To not be is not any kind of question anyway.  That's just a choice.  Usually, we are on automatic, we choose to make our choices by habits, boundaries, prevailing thoughts, algorithms, and conventional wisdoms.  We are free, but we don't always act it.
     Free to be free or not.
     Be Free.
     Be.

Pardon Me

Teleprompt it, no yielding either. 

Shot of paint never hurt anything.  See right through it, think about not thinking if you must think. 

Dark night for this soul, wondering how to finish.  Losing must never be mentioned.  Shake it like you mean it, rub your eyes.  It is one nation under wood.

A legacy of nothing, it's only an act.  We're fixing it.  

Conquest is all, justice is for the birds.  Reading your face, back at work.  Mortal tongues awake and enjoy the rest of the party.  

Hard to know who to trust.  The Madame Secretary has fallen.  The sea at night, and stupid love.  The power behind the power.  The dust will settle.  

Pardon me.  

The situation room.  

Cigarettes burn.  

My turn.

The Short List

There is no mystery now.
Assured of the reality.
It is what it seems like.
Hope is for others.
Only existence from here.
Keep life on the short list.
It is worth the trouble.

Beyond Navigation

A.  The other way around, certainly not through the front door.  Wait for the room to clear, we'll meet in the Jefferson Study.  Please, do have some lunch.  And a bit of warm tea with a spot of lemon.  The chill is to the bone today.

B.  Not a beggar, she can do without.  It is all merely information.  One step closer, towards destiny, towards fulfilment.  No dancing, it is too crowded near the stage.  Only groovey head nods and hand gestures, yelling is not communicating, enjoy the noise quietly.   

C.  Understood by only a few, those who think common sense is just common, conventional advice just conventional, and thoughtful approaches just thoughtful.  Measured, deliberate, and predictable.  Robots have no imagination.  

D.  Which lie to expose, go home and give it a good thinking.  A fraudulent pretender you are no longer.  You can get everything you want in this life, and you can want what you really want.  God is a giver. 

E.  We use time creating nothing.  We don't follow our hearts and seek the normal path, the worn path, the mindless path, the easy path.  Wheels are turning, but there is no road.  We must liftoff and fly, the terrain is beyond navigation, the air is our only chance.

Thaw Out

Impossible to be the same, taking things for granted, praying for provisions and protections, instincts left stranded, doomed and tombed.  Habitual affections are no longer, like a march toward nothing, the decline accepted, even anticipated in a way.

Unsanity.

More noise rock is needed, more head banging, more rough riffs, more stomping.  We can take space rides later.

Love slowly and quietly, they say.  Let it simmer and saute.  Let it work up to the right heat, never have to turn it down.  It will not burn, it will be perfect, delicious on the plate.  Even the last bite will be warm.

Orderly disorder, escaping for a time, confined by outer boundries.  Freedom, only an illusion, practical and common, a mere sense of serenity and comfort.  Our dreams were realized, they came true.  The stars will stay where they are, far away, glittering.

It is calm, but a cold snap is arriving.  Wake early and write.  Thaw out.  Get a fire going, put your hands up close.

No worries, no worries.

Others will be thinking of themselves.  Our intentions only curious, our observations only considered, our opinions only formed.  It doesn't matter.  Very few are listening, even fewer are caring, and none are saving.  The saving's been done, we can spend it now.