Every day on my way into work I pass by a sign that encourages me to “Adopt A Highway.”

I consider it.

My children are grown, my dog is well-behaved; maybe I need a neglected stretch of macadam to make my life complete.

But then I think of the hours of selfless nurturing:  the nights of wondering who’s driving the curving paved stretches, will there be an accident, are the double yellow lines neat and legible, not to mention the constant nagging about litter and roadkill.

In this society, appearance is everything.

It would be fun, though, to speculate on a bit of thoroughfare that belongs totally to me. 

Would it one day become an impressive interstate or maybe a tollway that could then, in turn, take care of me in my old age?

I glance at the void metal backside of the sign in my rearview mirror.

No.  I am now too irresponsible and tired to adopt a highway.

Copyright 2009

What if Romeo hadn’t crashed the Capulet ball, hadn’t crossed stars with ingenue Juliet, hadn’t tossed his heart up to a balcony in Capua?

And what if Juliet had smacked down that tentative tender heart, had capitulated to the withered logic of parents, politics, and polite society, had covered her ears to the sweet sound of angels singing:  “This is the one, this is the one”?

The world would still have spun on its axis.  The tragedy of a romance would still have occurred.

The Capulets and Montagues would still have spit out each other’s family name and stomped on its heritage.

But the major question still remains:  what would have become of the celebrated young lovers themselves, this being a tragedy even greater than the Bard could tell.

Romeo would have eventually married a much younger woman from a most proper family.

His tights would have grown snug from good food and drink, while his spirit would have settled comfortably into the blue armchair of aristocracy.

He would have grown bald, apathetic, and unaware.  No lightning bolt of love would ever have struck his spine and electrified his soul until the hairs stood up on the back of his neck.

He would have slipped through life unconscious of his own power and magic.

The same for Juliet.

She would have pleased her family, negated herself, and agreed to marry an older man of wealth and power.

Her beauty would have coalesced into a mask while the light of possibility dimmed slowly from her eyes until the vacant stare made her even more alluring.

The sweet breath of her children would become the only tether holding her to earth, preventing her spirit from drying to dust and disappearing on a kiss.

Oh how the choices of one or the other could have turned this romantic tragedy into a tragic romance.

Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou, Romeo?

Leave thy wife and return to sweet Juliet.

Copyright 2009

Why didn’t the turtle feel the need to evolve?

Was it lazy?  Maybe bored?  Did it believe it had a good thing going and didn’t need to improve?

I don’t think so.

I have a theory that the turtle understands the concept of the circle the way Buddha gets down on zen.

Everything in life marches around back to where it started.  It’s the first law of nonsense.

So when the hands of the evolutionary clock hit high Cretaceous, the turtle merely tucked tail, content to ride out the storm of adaptation within the safety of its shell.

Let the rest of life run amock – growing hair, warming blood, filling up nature’s vacuum with mammalian lint.

The turtle would maintain its spot on the bargain shelf of life.

Simplicity can sometimes be the key to survival.

Copyright 2009

She was as frail and unnoticed as a whisper on the wind, floating beneath her cotton sail of memory, content to ride out the tempest of one last adventure.

A generic Ulysses, she sought out home with the same epic passion.

Only there was no Homer to immortalize her saga, to witness her quest for life’s answers.

Her voyage, her search, her story was destined to fade on the breath of the wind.

Ah, but once…

Copyright 2009

Attending an art reception where a piece of your work is on display and you are so not an artist is a bit like being pushed onstage when you were just wandering around looking for a hot dog.

The only thing going through your mind is “ketchup?” while everyone else is expecting Shakespeare or Fosse.

This is not the time to switch gears and pretend you are Othello with jazz hands.

It’s best to do an about face, grab a skewered chicken oer’doevre, and head on over to the bathroom.

Someone will come to get you when it’s time to go home.

Copyright 2009

Brave larva, be yourself.

Dare to shuck the shackles of binomial nomenclature and evolve into a subspecies rare and unexpected.

I only encourage this metamorphosis because you have chosen a chrysalis shaped like the resplendent letter “y” while the rest of your order goosesteps down the branch and slumps into the conventional “j”.

Dance, eccentric larva.

Wiggle and jiggle to some distant disco beat while the rest of your comrade cocoons deafen themselves to the music.

And when the moment for caterpillar self-actualization occurs, as indeed it eternally does, spring forth in your transvestite showgirl splendor and take center stage.

You are magnificent, you larva coming out to the world as a butterfly.

I literally hold my breath as you burst from your cocoon, arms extended in victorious triumph.

You are bedecked in ultimate drag queen regalia:  silvery-antennaed tacky tiara, sequined Halloween-colored gown, over-the-top-under-the bustier fishnet stockings, and makeup makeup makeup.

I am riveted as you flitter and flutter in your catwalk across the sky, the regina of queens, the mother of monarchs.

But alas!  You are viewed by others as an ant in drag.

I sigh as a bird of prey swoops down from the heavens and swallows you whole.

I should have known the world would not tolerate one so flashy and unique.

Copyright 2009