There's No Such Thing As A Straight Line (oR) Straight Lines Don't Exist (Whatever tickles your fancy)

2two (notebook version edited and reformatted)

I think i had a pansexual dream last night,

it wasn’t wet,

it could’ve been, but the cut

off for breakfast in the Portree Hotel is a quarter past Nine, so

my alarm had to kick the dick

inside my mind before i could

see the thing through. oh well,

at least the Wifi’s free here.

There’s no need for GPS in small towns,

you can’t get lost,

you can only stumble upon

detours, discover alternate routes and

unintended destinations- some

being more preferable than others.

Ultimately we get to where we

Need to go- sometimes

overlapping with what we wanted all along.

I’m wearing Converse low tops

in the Highlands,

i wonder what the fishermen think of my painted nails.

i sought the Scorrybreac this morning

to introduce me to the Loch,

and the mountains that caress it’s

stone-spread seaweed-strewn

coasts.

Alas, the marriage of iced pavement and virgin muck

guided me towards a hooded figure

i first mistook for a hallucination,

but an exchange of waves

reaffirmed my not being Mad

(at least not totally).

“it’s slippy!” he yelled first, as

i approached, probably sensing the

Adolescence emanating from my

Converse.

“What are you looking for?”

i asked him and his bucket as

i approached their domain unknown.

“Whelks, the poor man’s snail,

we ship ‘em off to Spain and France-”

the irony was even greater than my shoes’ journey North- he chuckled,

“this is what you do when you’re retired.”

“Not half bad,” i replied.

“Aye,” said he, “wanted

to go fishing today

but weather’s

shite.”

The storm clouds that had been looming earlier

this morning made their presence unavoidable

following that remark,

marching inland like samurai obeying their shogun.

Despite their ominous gray haze,

the clouds complimented the panoramic scape

in a way

only possible

in myths, and

fairytales, and

prophecies.

“I’ll only go a little further,” i told him,

oddly reminiscent

of asking a parent for permission.

“Aye,” he

probably said- unsure as i drink

this Skye Red.

“Thanks for your time.”

“Ay,” i like to imagine him

replying.

Maybe there are straight lines,

maybe

it’s wrong of me to attempt to refute

their potential

existence.

I just, i just think

*oversimplicating

is a result of less, potential

imagination

in a beautiful, mysterious

conundrum

*Whiskey and i invented a new word in pursuit of solace. do with thought what thou wilt