You Can Tell A lot About a Man...

they say, you can tell a lot about a man by
the state of his front yard.
how often he tends to it,
what he keeps in it,
and how tall his fence is.

they used to say, you can tell a lot about a man
by the condition of the shoes he's wearing.

these days though, shoes don't mean anything.
no. it's all about the front yard.

i think you can tell a lot about a man
by the items he selects at a buffet
and whether or not he eats everything on his plate
before returning for more (if he even does).

but that's not the industry standard in the "you can tell a lot about a man" system.
no.  right now, it's all about the front yard. 

but what if you don't give a shit about front yards
and the only thing you care about is crocheting sweaters?

can you still tell a lot about a man by his front yard?
what if he just pays someone else to groom the damn thing?
what if he lives in New York City and doesn't have a front yard?
can you tell a lot about a man by his bird shit covered cement stoop?

perhaps we need another form of measurement.

perhaps it's time we
tell a lot about a man
by how often he donates his time
to concerns beyond his own
self-serving interests. 


Separation Inspiration - Short Biography of Mister W.C. Wright

he was a ranch dip kind of guy.

he liked cheap breadsticks and tiny samples of grocery store cheese.
he drove a 1987 lincoln towncar with keyless entry
and he manufactured drywall for a living.

he loved dinosaurs.

he wore steel toe boots and stiff shirts
and his hands
were always crispy.

he lived out in the desert,
in a crumbly, brown sugar house surrounded by
thirsty evergreens.
his cooking tasted like pine cones.
his shirts smelled like old spice.

on the eve of his 20th anniversary,
he quit his job two hours into the shift.
he dropped his safety glasses into the gypsum
and watched them sink slowly
as if they were melting
into folds of old skin.

he walked away
and didn't bother clocking out.
he didn't wash his hands and he didn't smile.
he just left.

the day his wife disappeared
was the day before her 20 year high school reunion.

he had come home
to a cage full of hungry parakeets
and a frightened dog,
nervously weaving itself,
in and out of the blinds.

she had walked away
and she hadn't bothered clocking out.
she just washed her hands, smiled,
and left.

he watered the evergreens for the first time that day.

and when he finished watering them, he cleaned the guest room.

he cleaned it meticulously, sweeping every corner
with a damp broom.

the motion of the broom kept his mind at bay.
and for the time being, he enjoyed the
mechanical repetitions.

eventually, while sweeping,
he found
between the rolltop and the divan
his old
geography project from school.

it was a plaster volcano.

hanging heavy in his hands,
mounted to thick plywood,
covered in hardened dirt,
and flecked with tiny, plastic dinosaurs
this little volcano
stirred something
inside him
long forgotten.

he hadn't made anything worth while in years

and suddenly, like a crack to the spine
he felt like dropping his safety glasses
into the gypsum
all over again.

the day after her disappearance
he never returned to work.

and for 7 years now
he has been making life-size plaster dinosaurs
for roadside exhibits and truck stop gas stations.

every dinosaur measures 20 feet exactly,
each is painted in silver and purple,
and out of the six hundred models he's made
no two

new license.

I lost my license a couple weeks ago and had to get another one. On the way to the tag agency I stopped by Michael's Craft Store and grabbed some stickers and stuck them on my face.

Also, if you look closely, you can see a fake bluejay peeking his head into the bottom of the photo. I should have used a cardinal, it wouldn't have blended in with my shirt so much. The lady at the tag agency was confused and reluctant to cooperate, but after I spouted off some bullshit about how "the law only requires the eyes and mouth to be unobstructed in a government issued I.D.", she agreed to take the photo. Afterwards, she xeroxed it and hung it up on their wall and I wasn't sure what to think about that. She'll probably get in trouble by her supervisor for this. Or I will.

I am very excited about getting my license renewed in a couple months. I'm thinking about changing the words on my head every time I get a new license and writing a long run-on sentence over time. As my hair disappears I'll probably be able to fit some pictures up there. Maybe even a giant exclamation mark.

Year 1: "Help"
Year 2: "Me"
Year 3: "I'm"
Year 4: "Getting"
Year 5: "Older"
Year 6: "And"
Year 7: "Crazier."


This is a picture of one of my best friends.
His name is RAY.


And here is one of the headlines on CNN today:


I had no idea Ray was such a

That poor woman should have protected herself and taken notes from


One letter away and that "Rat" becomes "Ray" which indicates
that Ray went on some water based killing spree, killing women
in the ocean and then shooting up the sewer line to kill again.

I actually didn't notice that last headline until I posted the first one.
I was just about to log out when I looked down and saw it.
Really CNN? Killer toilet rats? Front page national news? REALLY!?!??!