Momoooo is dead with from bad tea leaves and an epitaph reading Five Days is Five too many. The mortician agreed. Reptilian skin and a gash the size of a gash, red sashes and a face to go with it. Bumptious wind and a terrible caw from a white raven bone. Home leaned sideways and housed more mice than a mouse house. Wind worn wood, a family pedigree that read like a stream lacking inlets or occasional oxbows, straighter than arrows flung from arrow flingers. It’s in the fingers and the nock, the feathers always fly true, but shoot in water and it bends like common reed, uncommon reed is not yet proven to bend. Water to deep to prove, but if you want to shoot a fish you better account for the bend. MooMoo is dead and the people eat chicken, the bone catching in the throat, switch to goat, or take the mote from the eye and give up the sagebrush and the junipers and the cheat grass to Aldo’s theory, and walk Occam’s razor while shaving with a Fusion saying give me a Holstein with cheese.. The cleverness of this world of this word is robbed by the multiplicity of writers and deciphering is left in baby smooth hands. We need not meddle over semantics, or philosophy, let the evil of the day win out, let the sun rise on the good and the bad, let the fish drink vodka and weeds bleed red. What do you get? What did you ever get besides a headache and an answer that resembled the very question from which it resonates?