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if you have taken the time to browse through this eclectic collection of self-indulgent foolishness, I hope you’ve been entertained by the quirkiness of its content, or at the very least, annoyed by the pervasiveness of its eccentricities. It should be obvious to any perceptive reader that many of the lyrics credited herein to Goliath and Trench, were, in fact, authored solely by one or the other of us. But in a fashion similar to that of Lennon and McCartney, we have always made it a practice to not claim individual ownership of particular titles. Consequently, who wrote what, and which was whatnot, will remain undifferentiated. 

Whether we have worked together or apart, it has always been a collaborative effort. My partner might be an epicurean sophisticate with old world charm, but I'm the guy who ate at Jolo's, and bragged about it. I’m the Big Muckty-Muck Head Honcho Chief High Potentate Grand Poobah in charge of prurient metaphors and hedonistic excess. I am the orphaned heir to a quixotic throne who perished through naiveté only to be resurrected as a narrow-eyed, born-again heathen obsessed with visions of sugar plum sex kittens purring in the moonlight. I've got curiosity and like to turn things over in case I might find that for which I am looking. In spite of that, I can also at times be surprisingly romantic.

No, I haven't completely gone over to the dark side. It’s just that a lyric can be a stubborn doggie that doesn't always come the first time you whistle. Sometimes it’s like looking in your cereal bowl for survivors of the Titanic. Other times it’s like the filly who had just stepped out of the shower when the Jehovah's Witnesses knocked, but she thought it was her 8-year-old returning to fetch forgotten lunch money before getting on the school bus, the wheels of which go round and round...  she opens the door, her towel slips off and the encounter inevitably concludes with an enthusiastic gospel chorus harmonizing, "Oh my, what big titties you have. Do you want to be saved?"  That’s sometimes what happens. Humans were animals long before they became people. Civilization is a thin veneer. When it comes right down to it, desire is everything, and towels do sometimes slip off. Gravity will see to that.
  
Gravity has always mystified me. I can never quite get my mind around it. Einstein said gravity is a curvature in the fabric of space-time caused by the presence of matter. But what does it matter? One can't defy gravity, only argue with it. Time, however, is something else. Time is one of the four discernable dimensions of what we experience as “reality,” and it’s just as mysterious as gravity. Time is not carved in stone. Stones are cold and hard, though some were once molten, while others are merely sediment that sat around too long; and then there are those that are metamorphic, like really slow caterpillars. I do know that the only stones that can be rolled are rolling stones. It would be just like a rolling stone to have the kind of attitude that refuses to be rolled except when it wants to roll on its own. I’d call that rascal a rock; a hard rock.  A hard rock can do some painful damage.

Pain hurts. Discomfort is not pain, but sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference. The Book of Miracles is a periodical; no subscription is necessary, but delivery is unpredictable.  Better keep your eyes open. As my friend is fond of saying, eventually, everything changes. Save your prayers for when you need them. God gets plenty of attention. But why should God even care about getting attention? That's humanity’s egotism and hubris. God doesn't need anyone's attention, only people do. People need a lot of things; most often it seems to be the need to tell other people what God wants them to do. I don’t pay much attention to any of that nonsense. 

As with many experienced travelers, I've lost bits of my mind in various corners of this world. I’m not from Texas, and I never will be, but I have traversed the state hitchhiking. It taught me the meaning of ambivalence. My orbit around this dark star has swung a bit wide as of late. I’m on the periphery, like one of Saturn’s outer rings. I've been chasing after the good stuff. Now I'm far behind, looking for breadcrumbs and sniffing the air for a scent. But I know where I've been and what I've done, and haven't done. My conscience is limber; capable of feeling comfortable in tight places. I know all about tight places; heat and humidity too. I keep my hands clean and my affairs in order.  Whatever comes next I'll be ready. 

I can feel these thoughts shuffling through my mind in no particular order, but then I guess that's what shuffling is all about. The Queen of Hearts is no longer in the deck. She’s been discarded and a Joker does time in her place. That’s frontier justice. When the final hand is dealt and I find myself in possession of aces and eights, I’ll take comfort in the conviction that when Jack McCall walked into Tom Nutall’s No. 10 saloon on August 2nd, 1876, he did a merciful thing. Seems like the driver left his sulky in the carriage house again and I'm just running my mouth. 

As did Cincinnatus long before Caesar’s time, I’ll take my bow, exit the stage, and head back to the farm to set my hens to roost. As for you, dear reader, if you’ve gotten this far, you are now free to go to hell in your own way and by whatever means you find most expedient. And so I leave you all with my final message to everyone: Forgive and love each other; if you must err, always try to err on the side of kindness. Question is: Can you dig it?
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