Bland to Bold

in
BLAND TO BOLD
 
occasionally i give my cats canned food over bagged food.
and when i do this, i sit and watch them eat.
i imagine that for them, it's an unbelievable experience.

it must be like eating old, dry cereal everyday
and then suddenly being presented with a moist, roast turkey dinner
with grrraaaavvvvyyyyy.

 

those cats wolf down that chopped horse meat in complete desperation.
and they don't do that with the dry food.

 

when i was a kid, i used to play outside in the creek,
under the hot summer sun all day.
and when i'd run home to get a drink,
i used to pretend that i had been lost in an egyptian desert
and that the first touch of liquid to my skin was the first bit of moisture
my body had received in days.

 

i would close my eyes, and focus on the dry, coarseness of my throat
and then let that liquid roll softly passed my lips.
and i'd feel chills go down my limbs, and i'd shiver
at how grateful my body was to receive that life-giving sip.

it was bliss.
nothing tasted better than that tall, cold, glass of pure ice water.
and i don't think anything has tasted that good, since.
a fast reminder of how powerful a false but forced perspective can be
when you're young enough to believe
your own lies. 

Another Thing for Granted

in

another thing for granted

what if he said
"you'll never walk again" ? 

what would you miss the most?

i would miss
s t r e t c h i n g  my legs
after a terrible flight.

i would miss standing over the grill,
catching the heat of my floor furnace,
in the dead of winter.

or picking up a pencil off the floor
with my toes
like a monkey.

but most of all,
i think i would miss

walking.

just walking.

buy a small audio recorder

in

buy a small audio recorder

today, i thought a good while about how strange childhood is.
not necessarily how strange MY childhood was, but
how strange childhood is in general.
you know, how it comes and goes, and whatnot.

and how it can only be felt once,
from a first person view,
by the very child that's doing the hooding. 

and wasn't it strange?

childhood?

that this giant block of time,
the potent mold that forms our personalities and our values,
eventually just disappears.

and if you try and dig for it,
all you'll muster up are some artifacts and pictures
that hardly summarize a drop
let alone an entire waterfall. 

who was that small person?
was that me?
i can barely remember what his voice sounded like.

i want to.

i do.

but i can't.

sometimes i can hear it in the middle of the night,
passing on a dark train, with a pitch black, steel furnace
pouring ashes and soot,
and fueled by a fire as soft as candlelight.

and just as the voice comes to me,
that empty train screams by,
and vanishes into the rain and wind,
and takes all my voices with it. 

i want to remember my mother's voice, when i grow old.

i want it to be crystal clear in my mind.

and i want it to comfort me, when i die.

i must remember to record it
while i still can. 

CLIMBING

in

climbing

i have a consistent inconsistency
in my pattern of living.

when you climb a tree
you generally face the trunk
and look for anything you can grab onto.
you look for any nook and cranny to sink your foot
and slowly begin your ascension.

if you were to climb a tree
similar to the fashion in which i've lived my life,
you would climb with your back to the trunk,
eyes closed,
with a ripped shirt,
bloody cuts,
and a song in your head.

a chaotic, unusual, and equally frightening way to climb.

fingers crossed.

hoping not to fall. 

meant to be

in

meant to be

I love peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
Yes I do.
I love the explosion of flavor derived from such simple chemistry.
Peanut butter and jelly is effortless. It doesn't try to work together. It just does.
And though they can be quite delicious on their own,
combined they create a unique taste sensation that has become
a staple in American cuisine.
Peanut butter and jelly make up the harmony and the melody
and they were destined to be one.

I remember the day I killed my wife with a shovel.

We were not like peanut butter and jelly.

The Bush Dog

The Bush Dog is a nice fellow,
but if you get between him and his apples,
he'll cuss you out.

The Bush Dog is considered to be the most mysterious animal in the zoo.
He eats, sleeps, works, and breathes... in a bush.
It has been this way for many centuries.
In fact, scientists believe that The Burning Bush, as described in the Old Testament,
was just a bush dog,
smoking a cigarette.

It is a well known fact that Bush Dogs love calazones.
Calazones and leaves.
And if the Bush Dog possesses one crippling addicition,
it is this:

PLEASURE.

Pleasure
is considered the Bush Dog's soul weakness.

LEISURE
follows as a close second.

The Bush Dog loves to relax and soak it all in.
It is not unusual for a bush dog to spend hours just sitting in a bush,
SMILING.

Smiling like a princess.

Many bush dogs want to learn how to play the piano,
speak Gaelic,
or become Marine Biologists.

But unfortunately, for the Bush Dog,
the act of sitting in a bush and smiling,
feels better and is frankly,
soooooo much easier.

whisper in the air conditioning

in

the past two years,
it's been difficult to gather my thoughts, let alone organize them.

i used to be much more opinionated.

i used to fight, tooth and nail, over ridiculous subjects that mattered little.
i used to cross lines, rigid and defined,
and risk everything as if there was nothing left in the world.

i used to want to turn people over and
twist their perspectives to my will.

but as i grow older, i find that my false sense of destiny,
and my invisible grip on the world,
has let up a great deal.

because all the things i once held so dire,
just don't seem as pressing anymore.

and so my intense, fiery passion has settled
into a quiet reflection.

a whisper in the air conditioning.

i'm not sure what it all means.
perhaps it's maturity?

or maybe it's just another callus
from the impacts of a wrecking ball that has yet to stop swinging?

whatever it is,
i can't wait until i can sing about it all,
with the solid force of age and experience behind every word,
and a shimmer of death in the eye.

Abandon WheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeL

in

"You ought not to think about those things," she said.

"Why? So what if I want to jump? The vision came to me. Everyday, it emerges. Everyday it rides up my spine and nips at the hairs on the back of my neck, like rusty clippers. It pinches and pulls at the very fiber of my being. And ideas such as that should never be ignored."

"I agree, but is this one of those ideas?"

"I don't know yet.  But I tell you, I have had a veridical hallucination. And as it stands, the only thing I am sure of in life... is where I don't want to be, and that is on this God damned ferris wheel."

"Oh, shut it! Don't you be misrememberin' who you be accounting to, Mister! And you best be stayin' put if you know what's good for you. You wait until the ride stops."

"Why? Who placed you on your pedestal? And why must you drag me down into your den of iniquity? Damn it woman, you may not get it, but I do. I grind it in my mind, just fine. I am self destructive by choice, not by fate, and unless you can give me one good reason to refrain from thrusting myself off this ferris wheel, then consider me a wingless bird."

"Wait! I have a reason! In fact... it's the only reason I can think of. At least wait a couple minutes before you do it."

"Why?  Spit it out, woman."

"Because I'm standing under you
and I don't want to get guts on my dress."

 

the day i was hit by a moving vehicle

in

i remember,
stepping outside,
and tipping my glass to the evening fog.

and i remember that the fog didn't acknowledge me at all.
in fact, it swept over me like warm, dry laundry
and just kept on hovering around
like a punk ass kid...

in a 7-11 parking lot...

begging for cigarettes.

i remember thinking about
my chipped tooth,
which in turn made me
think about wounds and injuries,
the crusty grit of an old scab,
and all the times you sliced me
with the ribbon in your hair.

and i vaguely remember bursting into laughter
at all the seconds i'd spent
doing "important" things.

and that's when
the bottle flew from my hand.

and i saw
the streetlight,
an old, faded fence,
and a thousand bits of glass bouncing off
the asphault like quartz teeth.

and then everything became dim.

and i fell asleep forever
right then and there,
reading the label on my shattered bottle
over and over and over again,
until i could no longer see.

through the standard eyes

in

he drank through hours working
she wore cream on her face

he sawed through paychecks calling
she ribboned all their waste

so every day,
they could ignore,
the finger in their thoughts.

pointing to,
the simple truth,
more often than not.
-
the only way to bear the engine is to turn the head
and hide it in the couch cushions when the engine's dead

the only way to steer the car is to turn the head
and let it go, to coast along, when the engine's dead
-
she drank her whiskey fluids
she cleaned her rabbit coat

he sawed through steak and lemons
he shoved them in his throat

so everyday,
they could ignore,
what older children taunt.

the problem with,
the simple fact,

we
see
what
we
want.

 

george washington's secret letters

in

"So what are you doing?"

"I don't know."

"I think I know what I'm doing."

"Are you sure?"

"Umm... I think."

"But you're not sure."

"No. I don't think anyone is."

"What about George Washington? I bet he knew what he was doing."

"I never met him."

"Me neither."

"Do you think he had a big ego?"

"I never met him."

"How did he die?"

"He died of laryngitis."

"That's a silly way to die."

"It was different back then."

"Was his wife there?"

"Yes, she was by his side."

"Did he love his wife?"

"Deeply."

"How do you know? You never met him."

"Well, after his death, Martha Washington burned every letter George wrote to her, except two. Of these two letters, only one has ever been found."

"What did that letter say?"

"As Life is always uncertain, and common prudence dictates to every Man the necessity of settling his temporal Concerns— and whilst my Mind is calm and undisturbed, I carry your image with me. For it is your kindess and beauty that inspire my faith in humanity."

Plastic Surgery for Weeds - How to Make Weeds LOOK ÜBER HOT

in

Though I have given these instructions many times over, the Grandmas of the world consistently refuse to adopt my new cosmetic discovery:

PLASTIC SURGERY FOR WEEDS 

STEP ONE:

Buy a batch of plastic or silk flowers from your local craft store or just steal them from someone's gravesite. I chose the classic SUNFLOWER pictured here.

STEP TWO:

Pull the tops off the flowers.  They should pop right off.

STEP THREE:

Find an unsightly weed, approximately the same width as the stems on your plastic flowers. I chose one that was sprouting from the pavement for dramatic effect.

STEP FOUR:

Break the top off the weed and simply slide the flower onto the tip.
Be careful. If you don't do it exactly as pictured you might get a bad case of typhoid.

STEP FIVE:

Sit back and watch as people inquire about your new beautiful weed.

STEP SIX:

Watch your mailman FREAK OUT about how quickly your beautiful weed appeared.  If he keeps asking questions, just throw some boiling water on him.
THAT SHOULD SHUT HIM UP.

STEP SEVEN - THE BONUS STEP!

If you really want to go the extra mile, just add an
OVERFED, GINORMOUS CAT LOUNGING IN A WICKER BASKET.


 

AND VOILA!   PLASTIC SURGERY FOR WEEDS!
THAT WEED IS NOW A SUPERMODEL ON A BEACH OF PURE, UNADULTERATED BEAUTY. 

(Oh.. and add some trophies near the weed if you like shiny things)

 

 

Bring Me Some Cake

in

Just give me some cake already.

Seriously.

What do I have to do?

Please... tell me.

Tell me what I have to do... to TRICK YOU into bringing me some cake.

Do you know,
that if you walk to the market and buy me some cake
you'll get some healthy exxxerrrrccccisssse. And that's good for you.

Bringing me cake is good for you. 

BUT ONLY...

if you WALK and
BRING ME SOME CAKE.

That's the only way to get exercise these days.

And that's the only way I'm going to like you.

So let's make this easy on both of us:
Bring me some cake.

Just bring me some cake...
set it down in front of me...
and walk away.

And don't look at me.

Don't you dare look at me.

Keep your hands where I can see them and slowly back away.

And if you even THINK about calling the cops...

I'll shoot everyone in the room.

And I mean it. 

How to Find the Best Canyon

in

snap your worries like dry, dead branches,
and watch them explode 
into bright, white mist
as if they were made of sugar. 

crack open the vodka
 and pour it into
a frosty mug
 of creme soda

sit back with the house plants,
and let the springs of the couch crack the weight

let your hair bounce lightly
into black and white light

and let your shoulders crumble and thaw
into warm, soft bread

and damn it,
just let go of everything

like you did when you were young.

and slide down the hill
on a flattened cardboard box
all the way to the bottom


until there's no more hill to ride.