and once again, the hills go back to brown
and the dry brush piles up in the corner

this place is arid most of the time
and any vagaries in the weather
feel like a broken promise
or a delusion
like a man with $3 left to his name
ordering a brandy and a steak dinner in a brasserie.
with every bite he is reminded of where he is.
he can only close his eyes and savor this hour,
his final dinner of intemperance before the bill
unseats his fantasy. 

i am like the grass on these hills.

i do not belong

in this desert.




someday i'll be gone and some poor soul
will have to deal with all the crap i leave behind
and they'll have to go through a ton of boxes and drawers
and they'll hold up some dingus and say, "what the hell is this thing?"
or "how's this even work?" or "does it even turn on anymore?"
and then some of my stuff will go to Goodwill
and some will be sold
and some stuff will get tossed
and my email acccount will just sit there
and this blog will disappear
and all the letters in all the words i've ever written
will be recycled and used somewhere else like
in contracts or on checks or in some strange lady's terrible
romance letter to a French jet ski model who 
doesn't care about anyone but himself and just
breaks hearts left and right.
this whole death and affairs thing will be a damned shame
and a real hassle for everyone involved
because everything i've ever said, done, been, made or ruined,
will have to be recycled, destroyed, buried, dispersed and sold
and it is precisely for that reason that i'm just going to sit down
right here on this spot
and drink this here delicious root beer
and not give a shit about how many calories are in it
or what happens next when it's done
or where i'm supposed to go later or
what i'm supposed to be today.


hung by the bed

though it is as familiar as my autumn coat,
like a sandbag on a weakened hook,
pulling screws out of the wall,
hung by the bed or by the door
ignored but always breathing there
in the coldest corner of the room
like a burned out bulb I never change
dark and present with every switch
always waiting for a break
i know it better than my hands
or the family photos on my phone
deceptive comfort lying there
forced to cede another day
and take the space where clothes should lay
if misery is not a coat
nor a scarf or winter sleigh
why do I hang it on this rack
and leave it there to stay?


recipe for apathy

the quest for stability, consistency and security
often results in an attained level of comfort
that chips away at ambitions and dreams
until there is nothing left
but apathy and

where once stood solid brick,
now lies mortar crumbs.
where once stood wooden beams,
now lies sawdust and splinters.

what can I do anymore,
but pile up these crumbs
and light this dust
and watch



Chex Mix

Sit down for a second, and let me tell you something real quick...

If I had to pick one ingredient, I'd say my favorite part of the Chex Mix is the Rice Chex. I really don't like pretzels in my Chex Mix, but I tolerate them. Because without the occasional pretzel I don't think the toasted Rice Chex would be as exciting. My favorite part of Gardetto's Snack Mix are the little rye chips. Due to their popularity, eventually Gardetto's came out with a bag of nothing but rye chips. Sure enough, after about 3 bites I started to grow really tired of rye chips. They just didn't taste as good. It was too much rye. I missed the other stuff, even the stuff I didn't like. A couple years ago I bought a bag of pistachios without the shells. Yeah, I got tired of those really quick, too. There's something satisfying about the minute amount of labor involved with every crack of a pistachio shell. Having the pistachios handed to me on a silver platter, well... frankly... it sucked. They just weren't as good. So remember to be thankful for all the pretzels and the pistachio shells, and all the things that give us gauges for which to measure the good stuff.  A world full of nothing but RYE is as boring as it sounds, monochromatic, monoaromatic and monosyllabic.