The thought police need not patrol. The masses want to be under control

Understanding taxes.
Acceptance pays off.
Why dare grasp
what you can cast off?
No logic can birth conception
in the deliberately barren mind.
Thought, a felony,
comprehension a crime.
Build no scaffolds on your own
from the facts that you might glean.
Accept teachings by the numbers,
add nothing to the mean.
Flow with the mainstream
to rancid pools of status-quo.
Incite no-one to insights
lest you bring them to woe.
The masses masticate
on what’s been processed at the mill.
There’s no market left for reason
but stagnant custom makes me ill.

Farewell Danger Room? Nah...

I never did create my Danger Room at the apartment, but perhaps I can do that in the basement of the house once I get moved in. No, I won't have tangible holograms and I don't think I'll be building any fighting robots, although dad says robotics are easy and fun. I'll settle for a heavy bag, speed bag, and a poster of a robot (plus maybe making the door look metal with a big "danger" sign on it).
Still haven't closed on the house yet. Soon, I hope. Then, maybe I can get the internet at home and start some serious writing. Not that literary fiction stuff (though I'm not knocking it), but the action/spy/sci-fi stuff that comes so much more naturally. What can I say...
My mom loved romance (yack), but I loved watching Alien with dad. V was the big mini-series when I was young and impressionable. Dad's nose was always in an action novel or something, and he taught me to dissasemble, clean, and reassemble a gun while I was in gradeschool. I was born to write action and sci-fi genres.
I can't wait. I'm 30, and just now beginning the things I was made to do.
Hold back the gut-cord of a 50-lb recurve Bear bow for a while and just see how fast the arrow takes off when you let go. I'm gonna bust through reason and standard time-frames and do what I should have done long ago. I've seen too much crap in my time to be easily discouraged. :)
Farewell apartment; transition limbo-land where I wallowed in dispair over an old life lost. Hello house in my own name that no man can take from me.
After I get my first novel published, I'm going to do a graphic novel. That should be an exciting challenge. I'll do it before my young South-end friends, too. You hear me guys? Better get off your behinds if you don't want to be shown up by, not only a comic novice, but a CHICK comic novice.
:)
Good will to everybody. Don't let suburban apathy and social haze paralyze your arms when what you want to do is there for the reachin'.

The party I went to Sunday was fun... dancing with Kate and Amy was a blast, the food was scrumptious, and all the company was spifferific (to steal a dannyism), but I must say... Shannon's car wins coolest photo-subject of the day. 

Doughboy... the action figure.  

A car-scape to twist even my noggin. gotta love it 

If you see this line-up in your rear-view mirror, you are probably in New Albany, and definately in front of Shannon. 

Forget He-man... It's that scary nun that would keep me off his tail. 

Real Poetry (Don't you hate such vague terms?)

As you can hopefully tell by my poems, I like real poetry, anything that feels real to me.
Whether that means imagery with all the dust and coffee-mug rings (not everything pristine and pretty), just a sense of verisimilitude, or something very honest - I just want it to feel "real". I also enjoy creative, stylized phrasing and such. There are plenty of sites that will list the "Great Poets", but I can get that from a literature text-book. I've read very little poetry, altough I've been writing it by the metric ton lately. Can anyone suggest poets I might enjoy?
Thanks :)

Hammock View

Leaned back in a mingle of ease and poise
in a dollar-store plastic patio chair,
he stares down the afternoon sun
from behind sharpie-black sunglasses.
From the waist-gap of his loose shorts,
his boxers chant “Gap” around the band.
I smile, amused,
and wedge a blue-glitter painted toe
against his white plastic throne.
I set the view in a steady rock,
sway in this cozy web beside him,
and watch the world pitch and roll
around my hammock.

Goals set Jan 2004

After a decade of no writing and even less drawing, I decided (Jan 2004) that it was time to do both again and get serious about it. I started immediately

Done    Enroll in School, start drawing/writing again
Done    Publish poems and fiction in college journal
Done    Get drawings into IUS Student show 
Done    Win award at said show
doing   Submit poems to professional journals 
_       Get published in some of said journals
_       Spend more time on fiction (as soon as I move, ie next month)
_       Submit short story to genre journals
_       Finish writing first genre novel
_       Spend more time on drawing, take life-drawing class
_       Exhibit locally (not just College)

Considering the fact that I went through two surgeries and a divorce in 2004, and I work full time in real estate law, I'd say that's decent accomplishment so far.

You'll keep what you hold on to

To others, he cried
for fear he was loosing her.
To her, he shoved
leaving her no room to stay.
A man was loved
beyond what most ever know.
A man now alone,
swaddled in prophecy self-fulfilled.
A woman’s throat is left worn
from professing love unheard;
From holding on,
in sympathy and threadbare hope
as he abandoned her
every day, a year, to cling instead
   to his distrust.

I did at 3
I do at 30
Stare directly into the sun
now and then

Truth stings,
and is radiantly beautiful.

Passion's Egress Sieve (emotions contained will seep unchecked)

Reason like smoke,
rolling, churning, dissipating;
in reach,
beyond grasp.

I feel your shadow’s bite.
face your gentle eyes.

Aggressive demands,
swathed in passive sighs;
withdraw to draw in,
lash out to win love,
pull, twist, turn, shove…

Making sport of trust,
turning tango to tangle,
treaty to riddle.

Tenderness aimed
to tenderize,
words well geared
to hypnotize,

caresses
that knead my heart to pulp.
_________

This poem is not about one man. It's about a trait I've seen in many, to varrying degrees.

Emotional processes have been temporarily deactivated. Autopilot is engaged and functioning.
Medeski Martin Wood CD is playing without disturbance.
You may resume occupational processes.

Woman mode: off line
Paralegal systems: operating
Typing fingers: active
General Status: You are now a moderately productive employee in a law office.

Mortgage

Left the Pathfinder in the driveway,
It was the Spider’s day for a spin.
I remember when you drove a citation.
You laughed a lot back then...

not to kiss up to bankers and golfers,
but when good friends shared the joke.
Had a smart, devoted wife and a life
filled with friends, family, and honest folk.

You played a Franken-Strat once.
Built it from second-hand parts.
You didn’t have a Gretsch or a Les Paul
But, back then you played with heart.

A new girlfriend to fit in with new contacts,
buys her lovely tan from a bottle del sol.
Just make sure there’s enough left over
to pay the mortgage on your soul.

______________
No bitterness left, it's been too long. Just sympathy.
It's a rare thing to see a man grow up, not break down. Few men have the backbone to stay who they are and not sell themselves for an easy peg-hole in the combine. I feel sorry for those who break under the wires of social pressures because they always become such sad shells of people.
It makes me proud to be with someone, now, who doesn't obsess over idiotic status symbols.

There's a new Post on http://nerdculturehub.blogspot.com/

Nerds es fervens!

Libatious Ignatius

From behind the taps, he conducts his court,
over the bar, his podium, he caws his social report.
Deposing from the creaking perch of a rusted stool,
by threat of 30 lashes of the tongue, he rules.
Daily, he takes his image out for a strut,
flaunting his ego to conceal the rut.
Effusive curmudgeon, razing humanity to the ground
in hopes to slow the fall of a self-worth unsound.


Note: This character sketch, of sorts, is only mildly inspired by a real individual. I almost didn't post it for fear it read too cruel, but it isn't meant to sum up the actual person, just a character he hits upon now and then.

Wrong Turn at Narrow Street

The devil’s made a project
of toying with my soul.
I left religion at the altar
a long time ago.
Guess I derailed my own life,
stopping on a rhyme.
I’ve been to 1st and Main street,
but I signed no dotted line.
Never would have sold my soul
for money, love, or lust.
It was taken by foreclosure
when all my dreams went bust.

All in the Attitude

I'm an odd brand of pessimist. I expect life to slap me around regularly, and it does.
And yet, you'll still find me laughing and making fun of life for hitting like a girl.
"Come on, ya sissy. That all you got?"

A friend once said that if Death came after me I'd kick him in the balls.
Not true! I'd buy him a beer and by nightfall I'd be posting pics of him online wearing a Leah wig and dancing to Parliament.
"Give up the funk, Reap. Shake that boney booty!"
By morning he would have started his own blog.
What would death's blog be like? If I had the time, I'd make a fake blog written from his point of view. That'd be a blast.

Woah... dude!

Forgive my total lack of eloquence in that title, but this CD has me dumbfounded. So, if I am not at my most verbally astute (which is never much to boast about), please take it as emphatic praise; as evidence to the effect this music can elicit.
It's just two guys, drummer and guitarist (whom also sings), jamming their brains out. Sound like half a band? Like a piano with only the black keys? Trust me, they got all they need right there in that freaky duo, ya'll.
They just get this powerful, driving groove going on. I love it. Check 'em out.
Go and see their website. You can hear bits of the CD I'm listening to here. Just scroll down and listen to the samples. They may have some you can hear on their website too. They are also on the Anti label website, along with Tom Waits (whom I adore, of course).
I've added the website for The Black Keys in my link list at the right as well, so if you remember this post after it's buried in a dozen other ramblings, you can just find the link there.
Check them out. I mean it!

Time's Sculpture

Every present is a product of the past.
We are all forms under the chisel, figures shaped by time.

To adore the terrain,
each open ravine and safe sheltering cavern,
is to love the torrents
that left each gash and wound, each gorge and gully.
To grasp what is,
first know what was and how it came to be.
To love me,
this awkward landscape of earth, growth, and gapes,
embrace the histories
that sculpted me, both the brutal and benign.

Nee who?

According to the radio yesterday, this is how you come up with your Star Wars name: Take the last three letters of your first name, and spell them backwards. Add the model of your first car and you have your name. The planet you come from is whatever the last medicine you took was.

Hi, I’m Nee Skyhawk from the planet L-Carnatine. The force is with me.

Of course, there’s also the stripper-name rule… your first pet name and first street name. That makes my stripper name Kitty Kelly and my sister’s Rebels something…. What was the name of that road? Who knows. We were military brats so our family moved a lot.

So… what would your Star Wars name be? Answer quickly or I will say NEE! at you!

Steam-man

Your momma’s a mystery, left just a shadow and a shout.
Daddy’s a porpoise gone swimming down south.
The rest of the litter I never have met
It’s been 10 years and I haven’t seen ‘em yet
In my mind you were made of smoke, steam, and sparks,
Come to be out of the paper-thin breeze and the dark.
Your years spread out like mis-matched piles
of miniatures, broken nic-nacs of various styles;
no complete sets, rambling rows with little reason or rhyme;
a misguided search for all the beauty you could find.
Can’t trace you back to a place where you begin.
Maybe no one place or time was enough to let you in.
My dreams must have called so hard, they drew up a mist
out of every churning steam-spring, with a moan and a hiss,
to roam in sighing winds until collected in one mass wealth
that couldn’t settle down, till you settled up with yourself.
Vapor, spell or birth, however you came to be...
By whatever means, you’re here. Have you come for me?

Going, going... sold

Guy Smiley Grins ooze with confidence and cowboy swagger. Paunch bellies clad in their golf-club friendly attire come shaking hands and talking big, spreading their disease on rotting shallow breaths. The boys with their souls on sale for the low low price of approval follow the bellowing blow-hards. The boys without daddies follow like rats to the pipe.

Your soul is in the sewer, boy, your mind is out to lunch.
They came to find some lackeys and you beat them to the punch.
Ready to sell your loved ones short for 30 pieces of pride,
you leapt into the mire and put “priorities” aside.
Used to wear the pants in your castle, but now only dockers'll do,
so you live in a shallow cave, nibbling scraps as they feed on you.
How’s it gonna wind up, boy? What does it amount to in the end,
when you come to the last of your days, your life yet to begin?
Ask the bright-toothed boasters, then, for the reason you're alive,
after you’ve traded in all your living for fancier means to survive.

Out to Play

I stomp my boots,
strut and soar;
tread my rebellion
out upon the floor.
Some dance to flaunt,
some to ensnare,
some of pure joy,
but of my kind beware.
My fury burns deep
in dark its twisted cage,
drunk on its own power
a smug, laughing rage.
The grimmest of killers
gets time out in the sun,
a moment to stroll free-
evil must have its fun.
I seduce the sounds,
let rhythm move me,
stomp my boots on the floor,
let my darker side free.

dark side of the loon (and random thoughts)

At his own mother’s funeral “Z” walked up to his friends, and with the concerned expression of a caring host, he said “Everyone looks so awkward” -such a loving gesture, to be concerned for the other attendees in the wake of his own loss, and he adds “Do you think it’s the dead body?”
_________________

My family is much like the MASH tv show that used to appear on our TV every night at 11:30 pm (without the bombs and cross-dressing). There’s been a lot of death in our years, and a lot of laughter. The worse it gets, the more we laugh.

When my mother was sick, people treated her like she was already dead and they were just paying their respects. She hated that. Nobody would tease and joke anymore. (except the family, like me, of course. I was wearing her post-chemo wig doing mom-impressions and making fun of her, which made her smile).

The day she died, as my uncle was pulling up the drive, my father, sister and I were at the dining table. The thin, withered shell of what was once my mother was still in her room, waiting for the funeral home to pick her up. Should we have cried? We had cried off and on for months already. Should we have been somber? We’d been watching death take her in installments every moment of every day for months, how much “somber” can one take? What possible level of “somber” could really match that moment, anyway?

As my uncle approached the house, we were loudly laughing at our mom impersonations. Dad again told the story of mom at the Doctor’s. Her ears weren’t clearing right so he told her to “hold your nose and blow”. She pinched her nose and blew out her lips, right in his face. He was terribly offended. She heard everything so literally, she had no idea what she had done wrong. To this day, when any of us take something too literally, we say “hold your nose and blow” and laugh.

After mom had died, my sister moved out with the child I loved as my own, my only friend moved away to be in the care of her mother, as my friend was bed-fast with what they thought was MS, and my boyfriend vanished refusing to so much as return a call, I lost it at one point. I had no one left to take care of and was hit suddenly with all those griefs at once. After a bit of a breakdown I don’t like to admit to, I was taken to the hospital and they called my dad. He showed up and waited with his youngest baby daughter for the ambulance that was to take me from the hospital to the loony hospital. That is not likely a moment every dad dreams of.

We stood in somber, awkward silence for a few minutes until I started to sing the Doctor Dimento song “They’re coming to take me away, ha ha!” and he joined in for a verse or two. When the ambulance arrived, we were laughing and singing. They probably wondered if they should have brought father-daughter matching strait jackets, but I am eternally grateful to my dad for his good humor at a stressful time.
___________________

There are fair-weather friends who are there only when you are fun. Don’t invest too much in people like that. They like you if you are bubbly, and they share only their bubbles, not their substance. Maybe that’s part of why I prefer a dry wit and dark humor to a bubbly smile – it just feels more real and solid. Dark soil is the richest, and the most fertile, just like the fertile minds of most of the dark-humored people who’s company I enjoy, although I know they are just like that because they’re full of $#!t. :P

When life knocks you down, takes your lunch money, and kicks you in the ribs, you’ll know the nice people by who is there to give you a hand and let you cry on their shoulder. But, don’t mistake these for true friends. Some folks just like a few tears on their shoulders – it makes them feel big. A real friend points, laughs, helps you up, and then laughs with you every day after that about who knows what else. A real friend rolls with the dunces and is there with you through shtick and thin - giving you a hard time about it all the while and laughing with you, at you, and all around you.

I hope that, when my life is over, the people at my funeral will be people who stuck with me for years, if I ever find people like that. I hope they will put those springy giant-eye glasses on my posed and painted shell and spend hours around the beer and root-beer taps sharing stories of all the silly things I’ve done, and all the times I took things too literally, like the time someone asked me “what sort of shape is your house?” (meaning what shape is it IN, as in what CONDITION) and I said “Square-ish”. I wasn’t trying to be witty, just honestly trying to answer the question. I can be such a dunce. If my sister had been there, she would have laughed at me, pointed, and said “Hold your nose and blow”.

By the way...

Ghost, AndyNonymous, and a few others already know, but I thought I'd tell my other blog-buddies...
I have a boyfriend now. The term "boyfriend" sounds kinda silly at my age, but "significant other" sounds like a job title, too clinical.
Just thought I'd let the world know.
He's very good to me, but he's crazy. -He has a thing for manic-depressive nerds, apparently.
He isn't a nerd himself, but he is willing to sit through a sci-fi movie while I watch.

Hey, I sincerely tried to warn him off, but he wouldn't give up. So, don't feel too sorry for him. It's his own fault he's stuck with me.

:P

He reels from a blow
That chance inflicted
But I was the brass knuckles
Wrapped around life’s fist.
To me, it is an old story
I’ve seen replay a thousand times
But my experience has taught me
Not one helpful thing to say
Except “hang out if you want,
Disappear if it helps”,
And to snap at him jealously
When he doesn’t sing in joy
About his blessings I covet.

Have a good life, friend.

More whine than poem... I may delete it later today

The soothing blank,
the gentle abyss,
swallowing thought
and burying me deep
in cool earth.
If only life would allow
such easy drift
into silent sanctuaries,
I would never
part my lips for speech.
I would open my eyes
only to read,
never shutting them to cry.
I struggle to work,
to behave rationally,
while my heart draws back
deeper into hiding.
Please let me
forget to feel.
Let me go still
and think no more.
Let me float unfettered
into a catatonic haze
and cut all ties
with this bitter bitch, Reality.
______________
But then, I have to keep moving.
Gotta keep my job and pay the bills,
Lest my family be forced
To pick up the tab for a vegetable that
They had no interest in even while human.

I'm better at being one of the guys than I am at being the girl you'd want to date. I laugh, burp, tease, poke, etc.... I laugh at many "romantic" gestures and such, but love renting a flick or eating pizza with the gang.

So.... why is it that I'm only wanted around when someone wants me romanticly? Is that all I'm good for?

---This serious line of thought will lead to more depressive whining.
press play on the cd player STAT!

"What time is it?
four-thirty
is that late?
Nah... nah....
it's just earlaaay earlaay..." (Spin doctors)

when your brain reminds you of the serious thoughts that suck, just hop, dance, laugh, sing....
There is something to that "facial feedback hypothesis"

Worker or Companion? …or both? (I hate family feud)

“What a man wants to come home to... Survey SAYS!”
*ding*
Clean home
Home cooked meal
Quiet children
etc...
(Then way down at the bottom of the list)… "loving wife".

I don’t get it…
See, I can take care of myself if need be. I can manage the dishes and laundry and I can bring home the bacon, though admittedly I sometimes struggle, but I would never put up with mediocre company just to have help doing those things that I can do on my own.
Yet, most people seem to value a mate for their work-perfomance, not companionship.

If an annoying/boring man came along, offered to pay all my bills, shower me with gifts, and keep the house spotless while I read books, wrote comics, and ate bon-bons, I’d give him the # of a nice single chick who needed spoiling, and politely tell him never to call me again.

I can’t tolerate sharing a home with anyone unless I like their company. Isn’t that what it should be about, first and foremost? If you can’t laugh and play together, lean on eachother, and all that great stuff, then what is the point?

I’ll never understand it. That “survey” reminded me how odd I am. I am an oddity who thinks relationships should be based on something personal first. If you laugh well together, you can probably work well together. If he snores, is always broke, or always leaves his shoes in the doorway, I can handle that if the man is worth it. Men seem to think the opposite. House-keeping is what matters in a woman. Her companionship is irrelavent.

I’m no-one’s maid. I can be a friend, lover, team-mate, etc… but if a man I was with answered that survey with “clean home” above “loving wife”, I’d tell him to cuddle up at night with his precious clean pots and pans and see how warm they keep him.

Marketers these days....

I ordered some pants from Delias recently. Yeah, they're geared towards pre-teen girls, but they have tall-size pants and their clearance prices rock. I've also been told that these pants make my rear look hot. (I may be a nerd, but insecurity still fuels some vanity)

So, they sent me this free book sampler. They are pushing this line of books made especially for young girls. The intro was saying how they had this cool new line of books just for you! They were all about these totally awesome girls that you wish would be your best friends, but you'd settle for reading about them. I laughed, and figured I'd pass it on to my 11-yr old neice.

Then, I read some of the book exerps in the add. I flipped through, and the phrase "He's so fucking hot!" caught my eye. The F-bomb? They're dropping the F-bomb on pre-teen eyeballs? :O
As if that weren't enough, there was a section where this young girl was deciding to loose her virginity with this boy becuase he was popular. She said that, of course, most girls wont even remember who they lost their virginity too once they get older, but she figured if it was this popular boy, then she'd remember.
:O
?
Ok, if you can't remember who you lost your virginity too, you have some SERIOUS problems, including probably every STD in the book, but mainly I'm thinking of a TOTAL lack of any moral sense whatsoever.

Oh, but of course, who remembers who they lost their virginity too, right? After all... it doesn't really matter as long as he's "fucking hot".
-eeee I'm disgusted and offended. I need to write Delias and see if they know what trash they are slipping young girls in the mail.
I'm not into censorship, but this stuff is being delivered unsolicited to young girls all over the US, without their parent's consent. That is just wrong.

"Heavy Fingers"

(a poem sparked, in part, by the title of an instrumental piece by PowellProject)

Your fingers amble heavily
over smoky ridges of memory
fogged by time,
damp with steam,
and steeped in weighted breaths.

Your touch is gentle to the skin
but heavy upon my recollection,
reaching through
the walls I’ve built,
tilting all the scales of reason.

Though still unfettered and unchained,
I am already taken to the mat,
pinned beneath
hefty sighs and gazes,
while suspended upon future’s grey mist.

Don’t take your hands too lightly,
based on mere physical composition.
Your fingers tread heavy
upon my open heart.
Move softly.

over the Seas of all I Saw

My abdomen tensed,
I keep rigid, reaching ahead,
while my body precariously teeters
on regrets, anxiety, and self-doubt -
over a void; this absence
of faith in mankind.

Stretched out taut like superman,
Arms ahead of me, indomitable,
I do not give up on the future.

My feet kick against air,
floundering in uncertainty
and a hindsight still 20/100.

The muscles of my stomach
Stay hardened against doubt
as I balance my worn wire frame,
with tongue in teeth and belly tight.
I pivot on the set stone of my past,
sharpened by years of regret, doubt, fear
as it grinds against my navel.

Memories stick to my mouth
like static charged cling-wrap;
muffling my words, stopping my breath.

What an awkward sculpture I must make;
some giant, clumsy desk doodad,
like dipping dolphins and pecking birds.

I dare not leave my strained stance.
I will not fold over this unforgiving axle.
I cannot lose sight of future, of destination,
and drown lost in seas of fruitless lament.

blah blah blah blah
...
..
......
.
ROAD TRIP!!!!!!!!!!!

Yeah, s'what I said. Who's goin? Where we headed?
ROAD TRIP!!!!

It's hittin me like a hyperactive welfare child with a sugar-craving, like the shakes on an alcaholic...
ROAD TRIP!!!

Bare feet, junk food, a crazy hodgepodge of cd's, all that jazz. Pack a bag, grab your yoohoo's and bugles, and PLEASE: NO WHITE CASTLES OR TACO BELL FOR 24 HOURS PRECEDING DEPARTURE.

Listenin for the sound
Of voices now long gone…
Buried deep in the ground,
are all my families songs

Listenin at the breeze
For someone to call my name
But my friends have all blown on
Seems it always goes the same

People flow in
Like the tide, they roll on out
I know that’s how it goes
Aint no hope where there’s no doubt.

I sing at the sunrise
The songs my momma sang so well
I laugh into the winds
At jokes friends used to tell

I sow plants into the soil
Many lonely feet have tread
I wonder who will remember
All the things I’ve said.

A poem in Binary

01101111011100100110011101100001011011100
1101001011000110010000001100010011100100
1100101011000010111010001101000011010010
1101110011001110010000001101000011001010
11000010111011001101001011011100110011100
10000001101100011011110111011001100101000
0110100001010000011010000101001110011011
1000001101001011100100110100101110100011
1010101100001011011000010000001100001011
0111001100100001000000110010101100001011
1001001110100011010000110110001111001000
0110100001010000011010000101001100010011
10010011010010110111001100111001000000110
11010110010100100000011101000110111100100
00001101100011010010110011001100101

Do not pass go

What would you do if you had a get out of jail free card?

I could probably think of a lot of things, but this one just came to me.
See, the house I'm buying is right up against this very busy street. So, I was thinking how funny it'd be to till up a strip across the front yard and plant a thick row of baby pot plants. No, I don't smoke pot. I never have smoked pot. I have no desire to. I do, however, desire to get up each morning watching little seedlings become more and more obviously pottish. I want to watch police drive by my house all day long as I snicker, wondering when they'll notice. I want to wonder if they see it and just say... "Nah, surely not in the front yard?". I want to watch the highschool kids, walking home in droves, stop and stare blankly at the promise-land of my front yard as they wonder if it is a mirage, a test, or if they are on candid camera.

Then, one day I would simply set fire to the entire patch right there in the yard, while wearing some sort of mask, and I would set up a cheetos and yoohoo stand to cash in on my neighbors.

a good time for all involved, eh?

"No, Mr officer. I'm just burning weed - I mean weeds. No bon fires inside city limits? I didn't know. Here... Have a yoohoo, on me." :)

I placed a bid on this house, ya'll. It has one HUGE bedroom and two tiny ones, two bathrooms, a basement, a great big attic, a HUGE livingroom, a nice sized eat-in kitchen, tall ceilings and I spied hardwood floors under the carpet (by checking the vents). The payments (if I go 30-yr) should be considerably less than my current rent. I'm so excited! (and scared out of my noggin) 

Thinking too much at Jerry's

Doodles scrawled on Jerry’s paper placemats,
Random outbursts of ink testifying to lively minds…

Always the first to draw silly pictures
on my legal files at work,
I find myself the last to wield my pen at these outings.
I’d rather absorb this time,
too good to be real,
among friends too lucky to know how blessed they are.
In a world where paper mats
are created, set out by the hordes, used, discarded,
and rarely even noticed, rarer still keeping purpose
after the meal is done,
these individuals have life enough inside them
to shine it in ink drippings on scraps of pulp.
Life is short.
We are spilled upon and then disintegrate.
Be alive in every little way
While you have your stint upon the table.

Not really a poem - just uneditted rambling. Sorry for the slop, but I have a paper to write.

I see her stubborn mind
chomp down on anger, hurt,
on distrust and confusion.
I see her forming her own answers.
Who knows what story
she has envisioned
to explain the uncle
who vanished last year
without a single goodbye.
Who knows what evil
she imagines of me.
But if I tried to dispel
her illusions of the perfect uncle,
then I would be evil.
And how can I defame the man
I'd have given anything to keep?
So, I just told her two truths:
He’s a good man.
I miss him too.
And she cried on my lap.
I silently cursed
every influence in her life
that taught her not to tell me
how she felt about it all.
I wanted to undo
those destructive lessons
that would so lock her sorrows
inside her tiny 10 year old frame.
I see her simmering
the bitter broth
of her private thoughts
and can do nothing
but smile, hug,
and pray she never
has the experiences
that would help her understand.

Archiving

Since I am quite busy, and not particularly elloquent lately, I pasted a bunch of oldies into my 2004 archive. Being from 2004, they are mostly rather grim, but doing a cut-and-paste of old poetry was all I could manage today. ...very busy

Eeks!

I scrolled down and saw how badly my blog sucks anymore. My apologies to the loyal readers. I've forced a few crappy poems out, but they all suck. And what's with the shopping crap? I don't even like shopping, but then... brandi got me looking online at jewelry and I am SO easy to sidetrack. I don't even wear jewelry most of the time. Too much trouble.

Well, sorry y'all, but I have a ton of work to do and need to do some work for that fiction class. Hopefully I'll write you something decent before too terribly long. In the mean time, re-read Guinness or something.

I'm so freakin hungry right now.