Where'd it go, George, where'd it go?

I don't know why I like it, but I do.

i think Jim Benz may have plagiarised this in his "Ode to John Cage".

I have no problem with such editing as reduces the Himalayas down to their Nadir. I have no problem with blank space being left blank, the blankness of which humans have a problem not tampering with and inserting their own image. We tamperers just love to fill things in with idolatrous scratchings of human failings and railings, witnesses to our being here. And when we have finally arrived here who will decipher for us just where, where is? If I had to do it over, I would leave every canvas I've ever purchased, unpurchased and unstretched, and umprimed, the two or three coats of which is only preamble to my adulteration, my thinking I have something to say, or impress upon said blank space, which I don't, but its not up to me is it? whether I have a thing or two or twenty to say or don't? Ultimately time does not tell, or heal, but it spells our Dem eyes, the demise of them dare eyes. How dare they think to fill in a space that is perfectly content sans content? In this case the eyes don't have it but aye aye aye! aye, this ode gets my vote as something to stare into and admire the void. Oh, I so admire a thing not tampered with. Ah, Space, Blank Space, the final frontier. all that is left me in my remaining years is sculpting a tear, their phenomenal frequency does bug me. hell, may as well! what else am I to do with tears but adulterate, carve them into a self portrait. tears are sports about it, don't care what we do with them. anyway, sculpting tears beats sculpting grains of rice anyday. sculpted rice will ne'er suffice. this day nor any other. if you would but pardon my indulgence. Laura. but your odes get me going. a tad. which is the point. what else are we doing in this joint, if the things we post or read have us remain seated or stretched out, unaffected on our divans, reading ceilings?