Folded Thought of the Day:

The bulldozers have all gone.  Dozing in some peaceful field.  
And, as the sun sinks far to the west, leaving America in 
darkness, the street lamps come to life, illuminating the 
secret grid, obvious from a certain elevation.  

Housing developments.  Fenced in.  Looking like the circuit 
diagrams you remember printed on the inside of those transistor 
radios you used to tear open -- trying to figure out what was 
really going on.  Currents of information flowing through 
the veins of a nation, mainlining our hopes and fears, to 
the core.  What's being communicated?  Hidden.  Kept safe 
in these Twin-Pines compounds?  With that sign out front, 
adorned with the lovely drawing of the 2 pine trees, mirror 
reflections of each other, and of all their brothers who 
once so proudly stood their ground... gone now to make 
way -- knotting our nightmares.  Rings of survival stolen 
for the moment.  Yeah, if you look close enough at that 
illustration, you can almost make out a frightened face in 
the treeside, fleshed out by some freelance tattoo artist.  
Making his statement.  Making up for lost causes.  Just 
another principle player in our little drama.  Playing out 
against the velvet backdrop.  

Hush a bye little baby...

The faces lined up.  One on top of another.  A little 
trinket to liven up the ol' neighborhood, lawn ornaments 
paying homage to our collective unconsciousness.  Unaware 
of the significance, the poisoned power, weaving its 
spell.. tapping into the lines, spreading this new virus, 
infecting all those sleeping souls, wrapped snugly in 
their warm blankets... a little of that poetic justice.  

Giving us all a little reservation. 

Finding yourself on some deserted highway in the dead 
center of night, switching over to AM, searching for 
a significant collection of call letters, all the way 
down the line, turning that dial, a signal kicking in, 
a wave of nostalgia flowing, with Burma Shave signs 
flying by.  Remaining to be seen.  

Stopping off at a roadside bar.  Neon glowing, directing 
your attention.. an arrow pointing the way through the 
darkness.  Stumble in and feel the immediate declaration.  
Everybody waiting here for the hero to walk through the 
door.. some mythic figure to rise above.  The traveling 
hands of time taking their toll.  The lines on the faces, 
the trails of tears.  Watch how you throw that order 
out there.  You could find yourself in a whole heap 
of trouble.  

How many moons have you borne witness to?  Cradling 
your beer.  Delivering word from the front...


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