Why does food always smell better when you don't make it yourself?

The pizza always smells better on the other side of the fence.

H Butt...

I am forever changed by knowing you.

My heart has grown.

I grow stronger everyday.

And hopefully, you'll want to hire a team of workers to transport what's inside of me now to wherever you may happen to be later in life.

If you'll still have me then.

I love you.

Even more now.

Sales Of A Deathman...

1 of 64

I felt it earlier

wanted to
and now that I'm here
I'm not feeling it

Like Hannibal sending the elephants back home
Like Hannibal telling crazy Murdock that he can bug B.A. incessantly
Like Emilia Earhart and Charles Lindbergh to turn back
Like telling moonlit Werewolves and hungry zombies to turn back
Like rewinding immaculate conception
Like Autobots ignoring deception
Like John Holmes sleeping off an erection

Not feeling it
I'm not

I

live
a
pretty
lonely
life

Bukowski?

I wish I had the words
to properly thank you

I love you and will

forever

BUT...we're done

DONE

And have been

For a long time now

Write me, still - please?

Stephen King Has Always Been My BFF...

For years I dreamed of having the sort of massive oak slab that would dominate a room . . . In 1981, I got the one I wanted and placed it in the middle of a spacious, skylighted study in the rear of the house. For six years, I sat behind that desk either drunk or wrecked out of my mind . . .

A year or two after I sobered up, I got rid of that monstrosity and put in a living room suite where it had been. . . . In the early nineties, before they moved on to their own lives, my kids sometimes came up in the evening to watch a baseball game or a movie and eat pizza. . . . I got another desk -- it's handmade, beautiful, and half the size of the T. rex desk. I put it at the far west end of the office, in a corner under the eave. . . . I'm sitting under it now, a fifty-three-year-old man with bad eyes, a gimp leg, and no hangover. I'm doing what I know how to do, and as well as I know how to do it. I came through all the stuff I told you about . . . and now I'm going to tell you as much as I can about the job. . . .

It starts with this: put your desk in the corner, and every time you sit down there to write, remind yourself why it isn't in the middle of the room. Life isn't a support-system for art. It's the other way around.

Kerouac? I loved you innocently...

Remember above all things, Kid, that to write is not difficult, not painful, that it comes out of you with ease, that you can whip up a little tale in no time, that when you are sincere about it, that when you want to impress a truth, it is not difficult, not painful, but easy, graceful, full of smooth power, as if you were a writing machine with a store of literature that is boundless, enormous, endless, and rich.

Still, it's a bit comical to think of Kerouac going through such rah-rah exercises before getting down to the actual act of writing. At some points, it begins to sound like one of Al Franken's Stuart Smalley sketches from Saturday Night Live: "I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and doggone it, people like me!"

In the years after he dropped out of Columbia, Kerouac was a merchant seaman, a brakeman on the Southern Pacific Railroad, a live-at-home dad, a runaway dad, and, through it all, a writer. As he dashed madly around the United States, hitching, driving, hopping on boxcars and into beds, and leaping up again to keep the toot going, he developed the writing method that mirrored his frenetic pace of life. In his "Essentials of Spontaneous Prose" (1957), Kerouac called on writers to "begin not from preconceived idea of what to say about image but from jewel center of interest in subject of image at moment of writing, and write outwards swimming in sea of language to peripheral release and exhaustion. . . . " Such verbal freedom, with its inherent lack of structure, was a mixed blessing. By exploring his acute sense of the American vernacular, Kerouac, like Walt Whitman and William Carlos Williams before him, loosened the collar of American prose. But by giving himself this latitude, he ensured that much of what came out of his typewriter and his pocket notebook was not real art. In the end, he would pay dearly for his attachment to this approach. From 1951 to 1956, Kerouac pounded out some 11 books of poetry and prose, all of which went unpublished.

But when his novel On the Road appeared at last in 1957, after years of haggling over changes with editor Malcolm Cowley, Kerouac became an overnight celebrity. Suddenly, everyone wanted a piece of the King of Beats. It is here that Jack Kerouac: Selected Letters 1957-1969 picks up. Kerouac was suddenly a one-man shopping stop for all things Beat. Travel articles, stories, jazz readings, plays -- you name it, and it was requisitioned from the eager author. Meanwhile, there was one party after the next, and Kerouac got progressively more inebriated at each event. A shy man, ordinarily generous and good-natured, Kerouac became combative when drunk, and he needed to be drunk in order to deal with his fame. Two years later, he wrote to his agent, Sterling Lord, almost asking for help: "I'm really now rapidly going to pot and on the verge of becoming a blob. . . . And what bothers me is the way I have to constantly drink to put up with nervous appointments . . . and vast nervous parties where everybody is staring at me and fulfilling their preconceptions of me as a drunken fool."

As fame used him, Kerouac tried frantically to use it, before the spell wore off. "I wanta get these masterpieces of mine published before everybody gets sick of me," he wrote to Lord during these heady years. And Lord responded valiantly, managing to place Kerouac's previously rejected manuscripts with domestic and foreign publishers everywhere. Kerouac published two books a year for several years, flooding the market with his work and raising the ire of critics who got the impression that he simply dashed off a book every few months. Some of their criticisms were indeed valid, but they were unnecessarily vicious. Kerouac's former mentor and champion, Kenneth Rexroth, began denouncing him in the New York Times Book Review, and Time magazine unleashed a persistent barrage of insults. One especially cruel critic wrote that "reading Mr. Kerouac's On the Road or The Subterraneans, I am reminded of nothing so much as an insistent and garrulous barroom drunk, drooling into your ear."

The more critics attacked him, the more unwilling Kerouac became to meet new people or see his old friends. He wrote to Gary Snyder of how disillusioned he had become: "I was in love with the world through blue purple curtains when I knew you and now I have to look at [the world] thru hard iron eyes." As his mother got older, Kerouac was forever cooking up schemes to bring all his family members together under one roof, and to keep away from the partying friends he had shared his life with. By the time of his death, he had cut himself off from all those former friends, becoming paranoid that he would be implicated in Allen Ginsberg's revolutionary politics. Instead, he stayed home and laid waste to himself with cases of liquor. "I only have one body and one soul and can't handle everything at the same time," he wrote in self-pity. Eventually, Kerouac got to the point where he couldn't handle anything at all, not even the thought of breaking the tape at the finish line. When held up to the bustling, bright, and wonderfully optimistic Kerouac of Atop an Underwood, these late letters tell a sad, cautionary tale.

Puppy.

Me likes to eat good stuffs. Likes the good stuffs wet and the good big, heavy hands on my top. Me pees and am hapy and likes the patpatthumpthump and realeez like the wets slopeez good stuffz, slippee good food. Yum. I like itz.

My head iz tired alotz and I like the warm thing from the sky and fun and play.

I like tha big man with the sleep eyez and the beteer smellingz womanz whoz tall and pretty eyes with the sparkle thing in herz eyes too and the smile like dreamz things when I kick my legs when sleeping.

I like themz so much makes hapy deep in my belleez.

Heaven iz combiningz nice food stuffz and themz peoplz that are good.

Puppy Iz happy most happy when always sleepy taller and shorter sparkle eye hapy making me hapy also mean more tummy and food tummy for me

I like sun hapy warm no worms

Water okay boring water

Dogs mean big dog scared sometimes why?

Wet hapy

Ears pet good belly love big hands tickle

Love puppy iz tired

You love me feed food happyz me eyez

In dreamz always pleez?



Luv yo alweezyowr puppeez

Shut Up Because I've Stopped Shutting Down. Shut Down Because I've Stopped Shutting Up...

I Can Hear You Talking About Me...

I care more about the next election stolen from me
children of mine that don't exist
broken hearts
and
unspoken conversations

the October wind tonight
curls up the corners of my mouth
and I'm hopeful
I know this
because
I know that
I'm not standing on my head

I can hear you talking about me
and please shut the fuck up
I say the same to myself
when I really dont know
what I'm talking about
which is often I've learned
shutupshutupthinkmorespeakless

there's nothing wrong with staying in your room
and being afraid to go out
you know where it comes from
you know what little moments in hours produce
1
or
2
moments of clarity
that help you get to step
3
or
4

there's nothing wrong with throwing yourself outside your house/heart
and not giving a fuck
you know where it comes from
but you know that Einstein's most famous formula had a lot of previous scribbled incarnations and that his crowning achievement equaled DESTRUCTION.

SO.

There's nothing wrong except what you'll make right.

Anti-
bomb

psalms

I am Einstein's mind
and my mistakes
reverse in.

VOTEVOTEVOTE

Why Is There Spit On The Computer Screen?

And why haven't I noticed this?

I'm lying. I write these posts on a typewriter.

Also?

Hearing a hawk screech in my backyard from a neighbors television is a bit funny.

Now hyenas.

Now Puerto Rican children.

Time Warp...

Maybe I'm more like the reclusive J.D. Salinger, but without the talent and the one good book. Am I'm totally not comparing myself to HST. Well, I do have access to arrows. I can't wait for the day that I get arrested for shooting drunk kids in the park with my bow. And no, I don't have a quiver or go to Renaissance Faires (sp?), but I am as pretty as Legolas if not prettier, that sissy-boy.

I'm thinking that I've got to keep up the blogging-things because I'm developing some serious gaps in my chronological documentation for my future sperm-spawn. I mean, I sure as hell am not going to talk to them, so how will they know what I was doing back in the day when we talked on cell phones and had polar ice caps?

Not that they'd be able to gleam anything useful from Fat Free Milk because unless they were looking for bad poetry and fart jokes, then they'd be better off asking one of the many Tijuana whores that I've traded comic books with.

This is why I don't write as much anymore.

Because I am even more distracted than I used to be, more of a drunk, super-sexy, totally Greg Louganis, getting paid for writing on a regular basis for an awesome company and pecking away at things, but not consuming them wholly as I should.

My brain gets so synaptically overloaded, I think that it just goes into Cherynobel-status. Meaning - whatever.

What? Huh? I can't concentrate. Air conditioning and planes and the setting sun and to-do-lists and have to drive to pick up my car

bzzt

Similar questions with creating, reality, TV, show, premise...

Trying hard to concentrate and trying hard to dredge up a small glimmer of fiery ferocity in my fetid and failing mind to write on a reality TV-related proposal, synopsis thingy-ma-bob for a guy that used to run one of the companies that I worked for a while ago.

Hard enough to re-invent yourself and to try to use a mind that's not really focused on words but focused a little bit more on love, loneliness and the last year.

What's funny is that I used to tell myself how strong I was, how unique I was and used to define myself in catch phrases and terms and didn't realize what defines a person is action, consistency and letting both of these be the conduit for what your heart feels. This creates everything. This keeps the wheels turning. This conducts the symphony of the uphill and downhill heart, man.

I just can't concentrate, because of you - because of me.

Underwood...

I miss my old typewriter.

We never understand how little we need in this world until we know the loss of it.

Masters Of The Universe....

You know, I've wanted to get rid of this for a long time. I barely write anymore. Blogging's...what? A little bit of exercise and a lot of self-indulgence - or at least that's what it seems like I've been doing for the last six years or so. I've lost focus and have limited amounts of energy. It's hard to be witty and clever and to invite new people to read your smatterings when you're trying to regain or cultivate some of your vanishing spirit. I think that I should use the internet strictly as a tool and not as a vessel that's supposed to define me as a person. I'm really tired, man. What little energy I have needs to be saved and not spent on self destruction or stupid writing that goes nowhere.

I don't know. I know that I need to continue to work on my soul and work less at wasting my time - which this seems to be.

The enlightened buddhist would say to cast off my attachments and personal possessions.

Isn't this one?

One less thing to think about or to be a slave to?

Now that sounds like peace to me.

Yes, I Can.

Dear Camping, No Ones Gonna Love You Like I Do.

The Funeral...

Not really... I'm just tired And Full Of Poo...

"I want to live a real life... I don't want to dream any longer."
Now. Now. Now.
Everything that you always imagined
Everything that you've always dreamed
Every night and daymare
every mistake
every beautiful moment
everything you've ingested
needs to come out, kid
wake up wake up wake up
no more dreams
Now. Now. Now.

Abre Los ojos, Puto...

I am the nightmare of stagnancy and the god of imagination.

A river always flowing.

Bukowski, scribbling away in rooming houses...

Sisyphus, sweating uphill.

I am Theseus, unspooling golden yarn.

Now that I'm a complete whore and have to bartend for 30 hours a week, I can start writing my will. It's all over folks. Stick a city's-worth of drunks in me - I'm done.or now. It forces me to not go downtown and talk to drunken idiots because I'm bored of being at home. I barely have patience with myself.

I just decided that I AM going to go camping this weekend because I need to.

My hope is a sporadic rainfall - yet a torrential downpour in all creative environments.

i hate bartending

My fingers are Santa's little helpers.

I'm writing in a backyard while everybody else is asleep. My, how things have changed. Oh, I forgot to mention writing absolute crap is all still my norm, right?

I am Jane Goodall's Tanzanian monkeys typing about bananas.

I don't have much to say because of how much I want to. Time is limited, crucial and tick-tocking at an alarming rate and I don't know how to handle it. I know that I shouldn't let the hard-caked and sun-baked soil affect how much I whip my beasts of burden when I have potential gardens growing. I know that I feel more like a Pollack painting than a Rockwell. I know that I feel more Communist Manifesto than Catcher And The Rye. I feel like a dark-knighted Batman, without the vigilance and with the obligatory dead parents, I feel like an invincible Tony Stark without the armor, I feel like Bruce Banner in a desolate desert without the anger and infused Gamma radiation...yes, wanting to be left alone, wanting to be an incredulous Hulk of focal strength.

True believers, what do you do?

Marvel at your universe and let Galactus-level, cosmic events make you feel infinitesimal?

Do you let the Gods govern your Earth-154?

I am an amalgamous Perry White and J. Jonah Jameson.

Reporting imaginary news.

Print.

Lawn-chair balloonist drifts from Oregon to Idaho

BEND, Oregon (AP) -- Using his trusty BB gun to help him return to Earth, a 48-year-old gas station owner flew a lawn chair rigged with helium-filled balloons more than 200 miles across the Oregon desert Saturday, landing in a field in Idaho.

Kent Couch created a sensation in this tiny farming community, where he touched down safely in a pasture after lifting off from Bend, Ore., and was soon greeted by dozens of people who gave him drinks of water, local plumber Mark Hetz said.

"My wife works at the City Market," Hetz said. "She called and said, 'The balloon guy in the lawn chair just flew by the market, and if you look out the door you can see him.

"We go outside to look, and lo and behold, there he is. He's flying by probably 100 to 200 feet off the ground.

"He takes his BB gun and shoots some balloons to lower himself to the ground. When he hit the ground he released all the little tiny balloons. People were racing down the road with cameras. They were all talking and laughing."

Couch covered about 235 miles (about 370 kilometers) in about nine hours after lifting off at dawn from his gas station riding in a green lawn chair rigged with an array of more than 150 giant party balloons.

Sandi Barton, 58, who has lived her whole life in this town of about 300, said she and her brother-in-law were the first ones to reach Couch and shook his hand.

"Not much happens in Cambridge," she said, adding that about half the town turned out.

"He came right over our pea field," she said. "He was coming down pretty fast."

She said Couch gave some of his balloons to local children.

It was not clear where Couch went after he landed.

It began after Couch, clutching a big mug of coffee, kissed his wife and kids goodbye, then patted their shivering Chihuahua, Isabella, on the head.

After spilling off some cherry-flavored Kool-Aid that served as ballast, Couch got a push from the ground crew so he could clear light poles and soared over a coffee cart and across U.S. Highway 20 into a bright blue sky.

"If I had the time and money and people, I'd do this every weekend," Couch said before getting into the chair. "Things just look different from up there. You've moving so slowly. The best thing is the peace, the serenity. VideoWatch Couch explain why balloon flying is "a beautiful thing" »

"Originally, I wanted to do it because of boyhood dreams. I don't know about girls, but I think most guys look up in the sky and wish they could ride on a cloud."

Couch's wife, Susan, called him crazy: "It's never been a dull moment since I married him."

This was Couch's third balloon flight. He realized it would be possible after watching a TV show about the 1982 lawn chair flight over Los Angeles of truck driver Larry Walters, who gained folk hero fame but was fined $1,500 for violating air traffic rules.

In 2006, Couch had to parachute out after popping too many balloons. And last year he flew 193 miles to the sagebrush of northeastern Oregon, short of his goal.

"I'm not stopping till I get out of state," he said.

To that end, he ordered more balloons. Dozens of volunteers wearing fluorescent green T-shirts that said "Dream Big" filled latex balloons 5 feet in diameter, attached them to strings and tied clusters of six balloons each to a tiny carabiner clip.

Each balloon gives four pounds of lift. The chair was about 400 pounds, and Couch and his parachute 200 more.

"I'd go to 30,000 feet if I didn't shoot a balloon down periodically," Couch said.

For that job, he carried a Red Ryder BB gun and a blow gun equipped with steel darts. He also had a pole with a hook for pulling in balloons, a parachute in case anything went wrong, a handheld Global Positioning System device with altimeter, a satellite phone, and two GPS tracking devices. One was one for him, the other for the chair, which got away in the wind as he landed last year.

For food he carried some boiled eggs, jerky and chocolate.

Couch flew hang gliders and skydived before taking up lawn-chair flights. He estimated the rig cost about $6,000, mostly for helium. Costs were defrayed by corporate sponsors.

BLIP

Easiest way to get her out of the room is to show her your embededded MySpace clip of little children crashing on Big Wheels and Tricycles. This means that I can write more because now I'm a dick. BUT. I wrote this, didn't I? And that, in some sick way is a lot better in the long run than me having to watch "So You Think You Can Dance".

Twins?

Nobody grows old merely by living a number of years. We grow old by deserting our ideals. Years may wrinkle the skin, but to give up enthusiasm wrinkles the soul.

~Samuel Ullman

Bonk!

*
ABC Saturday Morning Preview
*
The Adventures of the Galaxy Rangers
*
The Adventures of the Little Koala
*
ALF
*
The All-New Scooby and Scrappy-Doo Show
*
ALF Tales
*
Alvin and the Chipmunks
*
Bananaman
*
Barbie and the Rockers
*
The Batman/Tarzan/Lone Ranger Adventure Hour
*
Battle of the Planets
*
Beanie and Cecil
*
Beetlejuice (1989)
*
Belle and Sebastian
*
Bernstein Bears
*
Beverly Hills Teens
*
Bionic Six
*
The Biskitts
*
Blackstar
*
Bluffers
*
Bravestarr
*
Bucky O'Hare
*
The Caboose Kids
*
California Raisins
*
Camp Candy
*
Captain N: The Game Master
*
Care Bears
*
Centurions
*
Chuck Norris: Karate Kommandos (1987)
*
Comic Strip (included Karate Kat, Mini Monsters, Street Frogs, and Tigersharks)
*
The Completely Mental Misadventures of Ed Grimley
*
C.O.P.S.
*
Count Duckula
*
Dangermouse
*
David the Gnome
*
Defenders of the Earth (1986)
*
Dennis the Menace
*
Denver the Last Dinosaur
*
Dinoriders
*
Dinosaucers
*
Disney's Adventures of the Gummi Bears
*
Donkey Kong
*
Dr. Snuggles
*
Dragon's Lair
*
Drak Pack
*
Droids
*
Duck Tales
*
Dune Buggy
*
Dungeons & Dragons
*
Ewoks
*
Fanastic Max
*
Felix the Cat
*
Flintstone Kids
*
Fonz & the Happy Days Gang
*
Foofur
*
Force Five
*
Fraggle Rock
*
Galaxy High School
*
Galtar
*
Garfield and Friends
*
The Gary Coleman Show
*
Get Along Gang
*
Ghostbusters
*
G.I. Joe
*
Gilligan's Planet
*
Glo-Friends
*
Go Bots
*
Grimm's Fairy Tales and Storybook Series
*
Heathcliff
*
Hello Kitty
*
He-Man and the Masters of the Universe
*
Herself the Elf
*
The Hug-A-Bunch Kids
*
Hulk Hogan's Rock 'N' Wrestling
*
The Incredible Hulk
*
Inhumanoids
*
Inspector Gadget
*
Jason of Star Command
*
Jayce and the Wheeled Warriors
*
Jem!
*
Kangaroo
*
The Karate Kid
*
Kidd Video
*
Kissyfur
*
The Kids' Super Power Hour
*
Lazer Tag Academy
*
Leo The Lion
*
The Little Prince
*
The Little Wizards
*
The Littles
*
Madballs
*
Mario Bros.
*
M.A.S.K.
*
Maxie's World
*
Maya The Bee
*
Meatball and Spaghetti
*
Mighty Mouse, the New Adventures
*
Mighty Orbots
*
Mr. T
*
Moncchichis
*
The Mork & Mindy/Laverne & Shirley/Fonz Hour
*
Muppet Babies
*
My Little Pony
*
My Pet Monster
*
The Mysterious Cities of Gold
*
The New Fat Albert Show
*
The New Scooby-Doo Mysteries
*
The Noozles
*
Pac-Man
*
Pandamonium
*
Paw Paw Bears
*
Photon
*
Plastic Man
*
Pole Position
*
Poochie
*
Popples
*
The Potato Head Kids
*
Pound Puppies
*
Punky Brewster
*
A Pup Named Scooby Doo
*
The Puppy's Further Adventures
*
The Raccoons
*
Rainbow Brite
*
The Real Ghostbusters
*
The Richie Rich/Scooby-Doo Hour
*
Robocop
*
Robotech
*
Robotix
*
Rubik the Amazing Cube
*
Saban's Adventures of the Little Mermaid
*
Saber Rider & The Star Sheriffs
*
Saturday Morning Supercade (bunch of cartoons based on arcade games like Donkey Kong, Q*Bert, Frogger, Pitfall!)
*
Scooby's Mystery Funhouse
*
Sectaurs
*
She-Ra: Princess of Power
*
Shirt Tales
*
Sky Commanders
*
Silverhawks
*
Slimer! And the Real Ghostbusters
*
Smurfs
*
Snorks
*
Spartakus and the Sun Beneath the Sea
*
Spector Man
*
Spiderman and His Amazing Friends
*
Sport Billy
*
Star Blazers
*
Starcom: The U.S. Space Force (1987)
*
Strawberry Shortcake
*
The Super Mario Bros. Super Show!
*
Superhero High
*
The Tarzan/Lone Ranger Adventure Hour
*
The Tarzan/Lone Ranger/Zorro Adventure Hour
*
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles
*
Teen Wolf
*
The Thirteen Ghosts of Scooby-Doo
*
Thundarr the Barbarian
*
Thunderbirds 2086
*
Thundercats
*
Tigersharks
*
Transformers
*
Tranzor Z
*
Turbo Teen
*
Trollkins
*
Ulysses 31
*
USA Cartoon Express
*
Visionaries
*
Voltron: Defender of the Universe (both the vehicle and the lion versions)
*
Wheeled Warriors
*
Wildfire
*
Wolf Rock TV (1982)
*
Wuzzles

Breet?

* Arf
* Arnie
* BXET-R2
* CB-3D
* Choco
* Chunky
* Clink
* Dancer
* Deefour
* Fiver
* G8-R3
* Gadget
* Jawaswag (aka, Toughcatch)
* KT-10
* Mod-3
* Neufie
* Nine
* P2-D19
* Pip
* PR6-3
* Q9-X2
* R-0
* R1-G4
* R1-T4
* R2-4B
* R2-A5
* R2-A6
* R2-B1
* R2-B3 (aka, Cappie)
* R2-B4
* R2-C3 (aka, Seecubed)
* R2-C4
* R2-C9
* R2-D0
* R2-D2 (aka, Artoo)
* R2-D5
* R2-D6
* R2-D609 (aka, Thirteen)
* R2-D7
* R2-D9
* R2-KT
* R2-K7
* R2-L1
* R2-M3
* R2-M5
* R2-O
* R2-PU
* R2-Q2
* R2-Q5
* R2-Q8
* R2-QU
* R2-R9
* R2-RC
* R2-RD
* R2-S4
* R2-V0
* R2-V6
* R2-X0 (aka, Patchwork)
* R2-X2
* R2-X9
* R2-Z1 (aka, Fweep)
* R2-Z13 (aka, Plug)
* R2-Z4
* R2Z-DL (aka, Toozy)
* R3-A2
* R3-D3
* R3-K8
* R3-O1
* R3-T2
* R3-T6
* R3-T7
* R3-Y2
* R4-A22
* R4-B11
* R4-D1
* R4-D2
* R4-E1
* R4-G9
* R4-I9
* R4-J1
* R4-J9
* R4-M17
* R4-M9
* R4-M9
* R4-P17
* R4-P44
* R4-S2
* R5-A1
* R5-A2
* R5-D2 (aka, Mynock, aka, R5-G8, aka, Gate)
* R5-D2
* R5-D4 (aka, Red, aka, Skippy)
* R5-D8
* R5-H6
* R5-K6
* R5-L4
* R5-M1
* R5-M2
* R5-R5
* R5-X2
* R6-A1 (aka, R6-S1, aka, Shootfirst)
* R7-T1
* RD-RR
* Shiner
* Shorty
* Sneaky
* Sparky
* Tenfour
* Tonin
* UV-002
* Vape
* Watto's astromech
* Whistler (aka, Xeno)
* Zero-1

Working for years around noisy machinery can make you feel uneasy even in the most beautiful and quiet of moments.

You have to block out images of towering piles of pots, pans, crates of M-80's and stacks of free tickets to Slayer concerts.

Run
2
Buddha, kid
Run
w
your
hands
clamped
firmly over your ears

r u n

Stuff saved as drafts in my Blogger dashboard...

One page stories

Time travel when you sleep and you get to correct the days mistakes

Csgucscsugcs
I think I'm done.
Thank you for playing.
Where do I go to return this?
Lament...
Anthony Stark
Colleen
Kevynn
Chico
Dawne
T
China
Jane
Trinitee
Maria
Bella
Rosa
Judi
Reynaldo
Dad
Denny
Milo
Harry Cash
George
Jack
Jerry
Dennis
Joe
Sindy
Brandy
Patti
Yellow Sabbath..
I am Iron Man
without the armor
or the technological affinity
My Best Christmas Ever...

Might of written about this before. I know that I have, but I think that it was in one of my notebooks. Maybe I wrote about it in a magazine or school paper. Somewhere.

Back in the day. When I was young. When the top of my head probably came to my fathers hip - my father and I went down the street to the Xmas tree lot. This was a REAL lot. One of the ones where you actually picked a tree and a bundled up gnarly neanderthalic man sawed it off for you and lugged it to your car. Not one of the drugstore parking lot lots. Something that you didn't do in combination with grocery shopping.

It was cold. But Southern California cold. So that means, like...60 degrees. My father and I had trudged deeper and deeper into this mini-forest looking for a nice, full tree to take home. I don't know where my older brother was. Probably playing Atari or watching football. Definitely not dating girls. My brother was a very late bloomer.

We found one. Not a girl or a late bloomer, but a great-looking tree off in the distance. Looked huge to me. Gigantic. As we approached it, I realized that my father wasn't around anymore. He was behind me, crouched down on one knee and had his hand placed on something by the ground. I crunched back to where my father was and heard him speaking in a strange voice. A tiny, soft voice. My father's eyes were misty. He had stepped on a baby rabbit. It was probably no bigger than my hand and was jerking spasmodiacally on a blanket of pine needles. My father was softly saying that he was sorry. I'm so sorry, so, so sorry...

I kept on looking back from the dying baby rabbit and to my father's now alien face. I couldn't figure out what was more of a shock to me - the little thing dying before me or the glimpse of actual emotion on my father's face.

My father eventually barked an order at me to KEEP ON GOING. I did, because he was my father. My father told me to not stop looking back. I did, because he was my father. I didn't ask any questions. I did, because he was my father.

We got our tree.

Do I remember how it looked that year in the livingroom?

No.

Do I still remember that tiny, twitching rabbit?

Yes. Perfectly.

Best Christmas ever?

Yes.

Why?

Because I'll remember that one for the rest of my life.

I want so much and I want the world to go away
In what way, I don'y know
my world?
the world I had?
the world that I have?
You can't start from scratch if you've alway been starting from scratch
or
you can't start from scratch when you never had an itch to fiddle with?
Like a declawed cat in front of a scratching post or a eunuch at an orgy.
Jimi Hendrix with webbed hands
me with a brain
Would Chewbacca without H Solo be co-pilot Jesus?
Would Goblin exist without with Jane Goodall?
I'm sorry.
I've never known anything and was sorry I pretended that I did. I hope that I didn't harm you to a poi

See? This is shit. Complete shit. I'll be back later. even with all of the mistakes. Seriously - I'll be back.

My lifedseddsedrfrefrgtyhfrdaswfghnkjlhgftdx nvmbjhg vdxcbnm/,l;kjhg fbvdcvbnm,./;Lb fzcnm.lj vckmjlh zvcbmkja dsbvnm,.fxz

Sorry - cleaned the keyboard with my sleeve.

I was going to write something about how my life somehow mirrored the Bush administration's handling of everything involving planet Neptune and especially their political stance on Jem and The Holograms.



Today was old bruschetta tough. The rain cost me money. I couldn't work because of it. You rained TODAY, rain? Seriously, give me a break, Lucy Gods. Do you have to pull that football back ALL of the time? Amputate my legs. That's the only way I'll stop trying to kick field goals. WAAAGGGGHHHH!!!

LAST YEAR AT THIS TIME, I WROTE THIS......



Friday, May 25, 2007
Found the post - difference is that now I fully admit to a lifelong's worth of depression, addiction and Restless Leg Syndrome...and Quadsexuality...

(so this is a repost or a repost of a post...)



Tuesday, September 27, 2005

I Don't Know If This Was Written For Fat Free Milk - But I Found It In An Old File...

John Constantine…

Waking up can be a mistake. Some days, I feel like I’ve made a bad choice. People who die in their sleep may be geniuses. Maybe they found out something in dreams that I never will. Maybe they had a divine moment of REM clarity and said holyshitfucknowigetitwhatthehellwasithinking? Then they’re done. Pop goes the cork. Bright burns the light. Sink the ship. Fries are done. Game Over, Ms. Pac Man. Fireworks. Smoke in the air. The crowd leaves. Holiday over. Laughing all the way to Narnia, Hogwarts, Orange County, Krynn, Hoth, Middle Earth, Oz, Hollywood, and to that place where The Brothers Lionheart went.

I’m quiet now. Maybe I cashed in all my emotional stocks way back in the 80’s and 90’s. I’ve made some bad investments. Now, I just seem to float around, all gossamer-like. Kind of like the one, thin spider web that seems to stick to your face no matter how much you claw at it when you go out in the back to water your lawn late at night. I won’t go away – but I’m not as big as I could’ve been. Just a bit annoying. Making my presence known. Not doing any real damage. Somebody once compared Jimi Hendrix to the thin wire filament of a burning light bulb. The light that burns twice as bright, burns half as long. That’s how I feel. Like the slow parts of a good movie. Radioactive waste. I know I’m still young, but you really should’ve known me before. I was crazier. I fucking either wanted to be left alone to scribble away in the darkness, to think, to break things,or wanted to question and tear the world apart. Now, I wish that everything was quiet. Silencio, por favor. I don’t think. And when I do. It passes through my brain like caffeine. All energy dissipates as soon as it’s fleetingly conjured. I smile a little, but always look like I’d be happier somewhere else. I wish I knew where that place was. It’s definitely not in front of a computer screen anymore. It’s definitely not outside. Definitely not inside my head, or out of it. What makes me feel happy now? I’m not depressed or anything. I’m just talking. I know that a lot of my biggest changes have happened in small amounts of time and sometimes the smallest change can happen in a long time. I know that if love and life played by our rules, that we’d all have that pretty, little picture in our head be a reality.

Slow, progressive, Earth-shaking change was cool back in the day. Spending a couple years here or there, doing the same ass things - but making adventures in the meantime...was cool – but, we were a lot younger then. What happens when the amount of time starts stacking? What happens when the amount of decay overpowers the fresh growth?

You get the fuck out of town. Okay. Where, and for how long? Guess you have to find out along the way, eh? Change yourself? Duh. Whatever. Instant change is like ramen noodles. Unsatisfying and shitty.

This might not make sense – but like I care. Keep your snide, little comments to yourself, or go visit a clever BLOG. Say what you want. Just don’t be funny because I’m doing all of the fake, unreal cleverness here.

You know why I liked Bukowski so much? Because he was honest. He was ugly. He was fake. He was the poetic John Merrick. He was sad. Depressed. Brilliant. A pig. He wanted to be left alone, but needed love on his own terms. He went postal before postal was postal – but he went postal on paper. That last sentence makes sense if you slow the fuck down.

Jumanji’s in my heart, but the Hellraiser Cube’s in my pocket. I don’t know what to do.

I really do wish that I could meet Han Solo and have a drink with him. He’d understand and just say a coupla gruff sentences that WOULD MAKE SENSE AND SUM UP THE WHOLE DEAL. Then we’d have more blue drinks served in Tupperware glasses.

After work today, I was at a stoplight and saw the mayor of my city walking across the crosswalk. I said hello to him and he said, Hi Kevynn! That’s nice, even if he is a politician.

I like my cats, my friends, toys, comic books. I also like porn, threatening mean people with violence, and fucked up music. I’m writing about absolutely nothing.

I need to live on a ranch and just make all of this stuff go away. Trust me – I’m not trying to be all complicated and deep. I’m far from that and I don’t want your sympathy. Your condolences are like cheap crack. It strings you out in the end. No caloric value to it. Ample amounts of empathy does not make a healthy diet. I need direction. Something other then TAKE A LEFT AFTER THE STOP SIGN or GET A NEW JOB. I need something…I need it like Dracula does. I’ll know it when I taste it. I used to watch my mother suck the marrow out of chicken bones when I was young. I tried it a couple of times. I remember her chasing around a couple of geese that I thought were pets. I remember her chopping their heads off with a cleaver, Wally. Feathers floating in the air and headless bodies flapping.

People talk too much. They need to just stop for a bit. Most of my days are just one, sticky, continuous conversation ball thrown at my head. Too tired to dodge em’. I just let it roll down my face. Nodnodnod yesyesyes. Bump on the head. Everybody just calm down, shut up, and leave everybody else alone. Walk around, play with your kids, walk the dogs – but, still…shut up. You’re about as original as…ME. Which isn’t much. I’m an ungrateful bastard. I’m the ugliest beautiful person you’ve ever met – but we all deserve to be hunted down like Frankenstein.

He’ll tell you…

Waking up can be a mistake.


eye

got
an offer
2
buy
this
blogspot

hmmmmmmmmmmm..........

y?

It is sad not to love, but it is much sadder not to be able to love.

I'm living Pinocchio's life before he knew that humanity was possible.
I'm living the life that the story books never told us listeners -
About how hard it is to be a boy and what being a man really means.

lielielie to yourself
time passes
along with your nose

Gepeto's dead?

Now what?

What changes?

time passing
along with your nose
along with your nose
along with your nose
along with your nose
along with your nose
along with your nose
along with your nose

along with your long nose

Don't Make Me Boo You In The Atticus, Finch...

Wake up and get out of bed.

Whatever you're doing now, don't make a habit of it.
Take more walks.
Skate.
Read outside of your room.
Offer to walk a friend's dog.
Restring your bow.
Mani/Pedi.
Soup Plantation and The Los Angeles Times.

Only you can get yourself out of this pickle, Dill.

So...wake up and get out of bed.

We'll take it step by step.

Sloooooowwwwwwww-like because you're not too bright and usually scream when the sunlight hits your fragile, pasty head.

Fat Free Milk

If books were spontaneously created and based on our morning's forgotten and previously-dreamed ideas, than librarians would...QUIT.

God, what I wrote last night was GREAT. I had it in my head for an hour or so and it was so good that when I woke up I DIDN'T rush to put it down because...it was GOLDEN.

THIS WAS NOT IT.
...
....
.....
......
.......
.......
........
...........
.............

.
..

Writing is difficult sometimes

A lot more difficult when your current life is more drama-filled than you would like and the heart and soul slowly grinds like tectonic plates.
One of these days, many years from now when I’m wheezing away on my deathbed and watching my life flash before my eyes for the last time – I’ll soak in the life that I saw and say…
God damn, I’m glad that’s over.
And die.

Aranoid Pandroid...

My energy?
Mount Vesuvius.
Outcome?
Pompeii.

When I Trip The Wire...

You get a picture of where I've been
I'm disappointed
and distracted
I hate
where this day ended up
It's best to be drunk
than to be with drunks
But I'm sober
Which is always good
But not tonight

Sometimes everybody else

fucks you up

NEVER FORGET...

Choo Choo
says my train of thought
I've never followed it but
please give me time 2 slow down

when Zeus
visits mortals
when Osiris paddles
when R2 BOOPS
when Betty does too

Choo Choo
says my heart
I never paid for this trip
I can't pay 4 it

when spiritual leaders
play peek-a-boo
when Roy finds Roger
when words become sentences
when 1 does 2

Choo CHOO
blares my heart
and it hurts
but I paid for this
it's late
i need 2 sleep
and the cat is killing moths while i write

2day was hard
i'm making 2day soft

choooooo choooo

i have no idea what i'm writing about or saying
but
I DO know WHAT
i'm feeling

please
give
me

















time.

Logan
Is
Four Years Old...

What’s your name again?

Kevynn.

I thought your name was “Sexy.”

Ummm…what? Nooooo…

Sexy people always have bad hair.

...Sometimes that’s true, yes.

Tom Waits - Take it with me

Phone's off the hook
No one knows where we are
It's a long time since I
Drank champagne
The ocean is blue
As blue as your eyes
I'm gonna take it with me
When I go

Old long since gone
Now way back when
We lived in Coney Island
Ain't no good thing
Ever dies
I'm gonna take it with me
When I go

Far far away a train
Whistle blows
Wherever you're goin
Wherever you've been
Waving good bye at the end
Of the day
You're up and you're over
And you're far away

Always for you, and
Forever yours
It felt just like the old days
We fell asleep on Beaula's porch
I'm gonna take it with me
When I go

All broken down by
The side of the road
I was never more alive or
Alone
I've worn the faces off
All the cards
I'm gonna take it with me
When I go

Children are playing
At the end of the day
Strangers are singing
On our lawn
It's got to be more
Than flesh and bone
All that you're loved
Is all you own

In a land there's a town
And in that town there's
A house
And in that house
There's a woman
And in that woman
There's a heart I love
I'm gonna take it
With me when I go
I'm gonna take it
With me when I go

Snails, brittle stars, sea spiders and some marine worms...

dont care about work
dont care about dental plans
or taxes
or presidents
or Oprah
or Dennis Quaid's children
or Darfur
or The Panchen Lama

Snails, brittle stars, sea spiders and some marine worms

wear the same shirt everyday
and know that being on the computer often is a a waste of time
and that iphones, pods, tunes and pee freelys are nothing but jokes
in the grand scheme of things

Snails, brittle stars, sea spiders and some marine worms

sometimes cry when Sigur Ros plays
when memories flood parched circumstances and realities
when clothes don't fit anymore
and what you knew versus what you do now
don't do anything but blow doubt into the ventricles of your tired heart

Snails, brittle stars, sea spiders and some marine worms

sometimes play ferociously
think floating thoughts
wish earnestly
dream the impossible
hope for the best
and cry salty tears

if every silent
worldly thing
had a voice
about everything
then nothing would be said
about anything because
the majority of God's children
would rather talk about
Snails, brittle stars, sea spiders and some marine worms

and

nothing else

Where The Yellow Fern Grows...

I made friends with a dog that I thought was homeless tonight. I took care of her for a bit and was concerned/freaked out, thinking that I now had to do some investigative work or take in a dog that my landlord would never let me have. Ends up that that her owner doesn't keep an eye on her too well AND it ends up that you should never give a dog chicken when you have no dog food around.

Because now she won't leave. She's been outside my kitchen door, bedroom door, back gate and front door. I've been in this type of situation before but usually it's not a dog but a person that smells of cheap perfume or a friend that needs a place to stay for a month but ends up eating all of your food for the following six months. I'm doomed to these type of situations eternally.

In my past life I must have been Mother Teresa or....ummm...Doctor Doom.

The New World...

In sunshine
I squint and seek shadows

In darkness
I wish for illumination

When I write
I write like an asshole

Ummm...that's it.

To My Own Private China...

I dig all day and get very tired.

I know that I can work harder but I'm lazy, wistfully nostalgic and have a hard time focusing. When I finally put myself to sleep for a bit and wake up the next morning, the first thing that I do is go into the backyard to see how much progress I made the day before.

The hole is always filled back up AND has mounds of dirt on top. Who keeps on doing this? It happens everyday. I don't know whom or what does it but it's frustrating. Give me a hole. Just one day - all I want is a tiny ditch, a grave, a concave mark of progress. Maybe I need to be patient, maybe I need to take my vitamins with regularity, maybe I need a partner or to hire some cheap labor, maybe I need a better shovel, maybe I can transform myself into a Constructicon?

One day though, I'll walk into the backyard and a perfect grave will await me...and suddenly my eyes will flutter, my Coke can will drop on the grass, my legs will give, the world will fade to black and then......

Cocoon...

I can't recall the last time that I got out of this sprawling, ghost-infested, sad, sad little place.

Time to go.

Try Harder...

MINE...

(used with no permission)

ELVIRA
No--I’ll grant you, that’s foul: well played lad. But, no, this rank bouquet is far more pungent. Smells like sweat, tears, blood and longing, accented by strangled desperation and stunted ambition laced with a sticky film of broken, useless dreams.

SGANARELLE
Oh, that! That’s poetry!

POET MODERATOR
Ok, Roger, thank’s for kicking off our monthly drunken poet symposium with that wonderfully concise, reading. I want to welcome everyone tonight to our monthly poetry clambake where we all have the opportunity to share, through words, the joy and tribulations of what, our dear late founder Kevynn Malone, once described as our lifelong relationship...with alcohol. Though friends hurt you, lovers betray you, leaders lie to you and your pets die, there’s always one relationship we can count on in this world.

Snapping of fingers.

The Don Juan Project

The People On The Bus part one...

Me.

I was eighteen. That was a long time ago, I think. Maybe not that long. 365 days pass and then we allocate another point to the internal and external atrophy system. I was on a bus. The rest of my high school class that I recently graduated with was slinging down tequila shots in Mexican resorts while I was trying to not take poops on The Greyhound. My graduation present was getting kicked out of my house. My father and I had actually been getting along pretty well for the last couple of weeks. For us, at least. I was eating leftover chicken when he came out of his dark bedroom and into the dark living room and then walked into the dark kitchen that I was eating at. He plopped down an envelope with my name on it. Inside was a card with his signature scrawled on it, along with a check for three hundred dollars. Three hundred dollars? Wow! He didn't get me anything for graduation, not that I expected anything, and for birthdays, I might get twenty-five or fifty bucks if I was lucky. I expressed my gratitude, thinking that maybe this was a combo-graduation-birthday-present-thingy. He told me that it was for moving expenses. I asked him when was I moving? I had twenty-four hours to leave, he said. Oh. He walked back into his dark room, and I sat in the dark kitchen, not really feeling particularly hungry anymore. I threw the rest of my food away and went into my dark room. Looking over a lifetime's-worth of accumulative teenage crap. Where the hell was I supposed to go? What the hell was I going to do? Did I really have to leave?

I did. By noon the next day, I'd thrown away mountains of stuff that really didn't seem as important to me as they did the day before when I had a place to keep it, and the rest that I deemed essential enough to keep got stored in a friend's parent's attic. I floated around the next couple of weeks at a couple of buddy's houses. Tried to stay out of everybody's hair. I didn't try to figure out what to do, because I had absolutely nothing to do. Where the hell would I go? I'd always told my father that I was going to get the hell out as soon as I possibly could but never really thought about what that meant. It meant money. A place to stay. A steady income. I ended up homeless and would sleep in parks or stay up at the only twenty-four hour donut shop in town. I'd smoke, write, and wait until dawn. Wander around maybe, until a buddy got home.

After a couple months of this crap, I finally decided to get the hell out of Dodge. I was losing sanity points. I bought a round trip ticket that was good for one year from Montclair, California to New York City. This was great because this meant that even though I didn't know what the hell I was doing, I could stay in one place for a short time if it suited me, go back to a bus station and get a new series of tickets printed out, and everything would be cool. My father, of all people, dropped me off. He was really the only one who could take me. He seemed sad, and this perplexed me. If he was so sad, why didn't he just let me stay for a few months, stop being the ass that he was, I would stop being the ass that I was - and then I'd get out as soon as I could when I was better prepared. I waved to him as the bus pulled away. He had his hands in his pocket and looked very old. I didn't know what feeling old was yet. I just felt scared. Confused. Unreal. Like a character in a movie or some cardboard cutout in a poorly written story. We were heading to Arizona, it would take all night, so I tried to make myself comfortable and quiet all of the hard voices in my soft head. I turned to my left and smiled timidly at the man next to me. We eventually introduced ourselves…

Oh, Kundun...

One cent for every hour of my working minimum wage is yours.

god(s)bewithye

I am messy
Disorganized
Moody
Distracted easily
A five year old
An idiot savant
Nerdy
Remorseful
Hopeful
Hopeless
And remorseless
Stuck
And marching forward
I am
Spirited
And vicious
Everything
And nothing
When
My heart
Keeps pumping
Maybe this tells me something
Or maybe
Nothing at all

Enders Game...

I had a joke about low gravity, dropping things on your foot and The International Space Station - but I lost it. I think it was lame anyway.

Shiver Me Timbers...

My legs have been shaky all day
I think they know something that the rest of my body doesn't
I'm nervous for the future

Oops, did I say nervous?

I meant...scared.

Five Dollar Boom Boom...again and again and again.

My mom's from Vietnam.

I'm first-generation-born-somewhere-other-than-that-place-guy. My older brother was born there too. Why don't we have the obligatory X-Men-Cyclops eyes? Don't know. Don't care. I always look tired anyways, so it doesn't make much of a difference in the long run. I had a bad mother. She's nice and all, but sucks in a lot of departments when it comes down to the final inventory. No big deal. No bad feelings. No skin off of the Irish-Vietnamese back. Tonight at the bar, I was engaging in some type of conversation that I thought was important, when I heard my name being called...There was a small, smiling lady selling something. With my bad vision, I thought that it was roses. But it wasn't. She was lugging around a wooden display case full of bracelets. That was probably why the lady was brought to my attention. I'm one of the only guys left with a girlfriend. So everybody was directing the lady towards me. Nobody wanted anything. The bracelets were okay. Nothing special. What was special was that I bought one. That she was smiling, even though that she had to try to sell cheap trinkets of homemade beauty to a bunch or worthless kids. What was special was that she always had a smile on her face. What was special was that I could hear people making racist comments behind her back, even though two of them were black. What was special was that she danced to the live band that was playing as she left the bar. The only money that she had was what I gave her. She danced away with a smile on her face as people made fun of her. These are the same people who probably made fun of my mother years ago when she came to this country. The only reason that she was here, and the only reason that I exist is because she met a handsome white guy. A guy that gave up the job that he loved, to shack up and do the nasty with a beautiful girl. Nothing mattered. All that my father wanted was what was best for the both of them. The friends asked why I bought the cheap bracelet. I half-joked that I was watching out for my own. I told them that that was my mother who just left. They said, why, because she was Vietnamese?

I said no...because she was a person, you fucking idiots.

Roberta was angry because Liam kept on stealing her hairbrush.

She knew where it was. It was in the backyard, by the little storage house. Liam always used it to brush the next door neighbor’s pony’s hair. He was five, but that was no excuse. This was the second brush that she had to replace. The last one Liam couldn’t find. He said the ponies must’ve stoled it. But the horses didn’t steal it cuz’ Roberta found it by the play set a long time after. She tried to tell Dad about it, but he usually got mad if you tattle-tailed, so Roberta stopped and just made sure to punch Liam hard before dinner, but then Liam told dad that Roberta punched him for no reason and when Roberta was trying to explain, she got in trouble for being a “brat”, and that she was older so why did she always have to be so “violent” and then she had to go to her room and miss supper. Not that she minded because it was the same old, stupid fried rice that made the whole house smell like fish, anyway. The only good parts were the egg and the shrimp. Dad only made it because he made the same things anyway. He always made spaghetti too, which was good if you put a lot of sauce, cheese, and black olives on it. If they had it. But than dad would get mad if he saw that you put too much stuff on it. He’d tell you not to be “greedy”. Roberta thought that she wasn’t greedy. She was just trying to make it taste good and not like the noodles. The noodles were gross-tasting and why didn’t they make more of the other stuff? Why not just have it with the sauce and the cheese and olives, then? The only good time that they had spaghetti was when Liam was carrying his plate with the spaghetti and his milk and saw the Spiderman movie commercial on TV and dropped the plate of spaghetti on the carpet and then dad got mad. That was funny because Liam cried and had to rub the carpet good with a rag while everybody ate. That was the only time that the spaghetti tasted good. Roberta even had seconds.

And They Should...

carry our bodies down by the river after we die. There, they will bathe us, wrap us in fine silk and then let the slow currents whisk us away. They'll watch until we're out of sight - we might get snagged by a jutting rock or a stray bush branch - then, they'll wade into the cold water and free us from the tangles. They'll hope for unimpeded progress down the river...either that or a peaceful descent down to the river bottom. Either way...out of sight, out of mind, out of their hands - into someone else's. Straight down the middle or a slow descent to the bottom. Either way is fine.

Godspeed.

no matter what you think
the day is going to be like
no matter what your plans are
no matter what lyrics
you compose for yourself the night before

time passes
no matter what you think or hear
today is a symphony
that sounds far away from yesterday

talktalktalk
thinkthinkthink
bebetterbebetterbebetter
begoodbegoodbegood
belikewater
learn
live
breathe
focus
shooosh
so pretty, so pretty as she strokes your head
calm down, calm down
don'ttalkdon'ttalk
don'tthinkdon'tthink
bebetterbebetterbebetter
what'sgood?what'sgood?
belikevapor
rise to the top
realize that falling down
is natural
dripdripdrip
goes tears
dripdripdrip
thank you, says
everything beneath you

Sweating in orchestra pits

upside down

thank you, says
everything above you

no matter what you think
the day is going to be like
no matter what your plans are
no matter what lyrics
you compose for yourself the night before

time passes

I'm Not Going To...

Write just because I have a computer in front of me.

Last night was crap and I wanted to get out of there as fast as I could. Too many memories. When I got home I was exhausted but found my roommate and his band rehearsing in the living room. I sat cross-legged on the table and listened while having a couple million drinks. It was probably one of the best things you could walk into...besides a porn convention, of course.

Yes...

Scrabble belongs in your bar.

So, shut it.

The Spaces Available In My Heart Are More Important Than My MySpace...

I'm packing on new days like a fine layer of moth wing dust.
Please treat me gently.
I may seem ugly.
But.
Regardless.
I might be beautiful in your hands?
Maybe a delicacy to some in other parts of the world.
Or a pest.
I can fly when I want to.
I can bite you when you sleep.
You can easily squash me, smoosh me or preserve me in a jar.

I'm attracted to your glow, though.

Be gentle, fucker.

Leaves Of house...

Get up, get up
says your trainer

I feel tired
you say
please
just let me
lay down

Oh, no, no, no, you big pussy
you're much stronger than that
why do you think you're here
in the first place?

Because I never knew what else to do?

Exactly, asshole
now let me stop that bleeding
keep your guard up
and punch, jab, punch, jab

He must be tired
you say
please
just let him
lay down

That's it, that's it
says your trainer