Andrei: (shaking his head) The guy iz twisted. No question about it.
Elijah: Or maybe yer twisted & he'z straight. Jes 'kuz someding 'z uncomfortable, doesn't mean it'z twisted.
Jules: I could fancy a few twists, moi-même. What kind of cheese did you say?
Andrei: Damn! You aren't listening.
Jules: Sorry. . . I prefer bleu cheese meself. And perhaps a bit of gruyère or comté now & then . . .


as sunlight shimmered
upon silver waters
cascading on granite rocks
i stood by a stream
intoxicated by the whirl of rushing water
gurgling past redwood logs . . .

this is where salmon spawn each summer
and deer quench their thirst at dawn
this is where trout hunt for survival
and bear snap their powerful claws.

this is where fireflies dance in frenzy
and where the next dam will be -
so much of what we call progress
is destruction to living things.

Ellesha: (playfully, in a soft voice) I don't think we have blue cheese in this poem.
Philyra: Yeah, it seems like a green cheddar.
Soo: De world's whole global economy is cheesy. An guess a-who gets de besta slicsa?