Sunday, July 3, 2011


My Inoculation With the Sand

I am unlike anyone I have ever a good way.

Although insensate ladies find me fatuously primitive…in a good way.

My butt is far stronger than you can possibly imagine...but try.

It’s seemingly me, ostensibly one of the last of the "Singing Acorns",
presumably hiding a tiny cone of pure NASCAR in a spider cage
under my breastbone.

I’ll keep it "evil" like one of those white blues songs, to keep things
uninteresting enough to blunt your being mature and serious, but seriously,
what heart still runs at an average of 8-year-olds per minute and displays
this kind of iron? Who likes to pull on your “pigtails” with his bridgework?

Who is very open-heart, upper-deck, full-frontal, and still honed like your first
really monster Bowie knife? You may see my gist but the reverse is something you
can’t escape without violating my right to violate your small parts. Earn me into
your private soul facility, I’ll clean up on the back end.

I carry my will wherever I go and revise it depending.

Like the proverb says, “Shit man, get off my back!”

But even if I love you like the Russian hooker of my dreams you still have the right
to do what I want you to. That’s the cross I have to bury, the rest I can burn
in the hesitation of a chemical fire poised at the point of a Jiffy Pop life or death decision.
There’s a line in the sand, you are the sand, you need to call and cancel your service,
with me here now it’s redundant.

I'm not peeing in everyone's cup, but if you’re the tea type take that bellywash and sell it
to the rednecks. I don’t want to know you, I have a TV for that.

Still, if you have the guts, then take a sip... I think you'll like it. There’s always
that look of realization just before Mister Deerhoof comes out to forage.

I am not dry, you are, I am good to go, you’re wilting, I am the fable of the dog
who sewed his own reflection into a small pox quilt for the so-called “guys” on Bourbon
below St. Ann. Like Chelsea with the fronts inverted to keep you staring at flowers.

What Am’n’t I doing with my life?

Spending my days (and odd numbered nights)
expressing myself like The Guns of Navarone.

In real estate we have the expression:
while figuring out what kind of waiter you want
let yourself be served by the waiter you get.

That’s the kind of troubadour I wanted
to be when I grew up. Now I want to suck
the world out of the pages of Maxim
Arm Chair General
Reptiles USA
Fire & Movement
Cigar Aficionado
The Christadelphian
Christian Century
Christian Music Monthly
Star Wars Insider
Blood & Thunder
Field & Stream
Open Minds UFO
Barely Legal
Over 40
Perfect 10

Each in its own way makes me wonder if I am more of a writer-as-creative-type than writer-as-jerking-clavicle-twitch.

I’m a Startling Contrast With A Microphone and Corn Chips

I run nine buildings with ten tenants. One of them is named Ryan.
I don’t always share that story but I believe, like Gandhi, in an open book.

I can climb a mature blue spruce and come out at the top skinned with intact
memories. Socially, I am into laying blame and not only in a kidding way.

There’s a big one coming from the East, I can feel the Thunder in four
of my testicles. When I see something fine I sire it!

I AM miserable.
Don't gibe with me even as a tease, your steak can be returned.
But try training me and you get the ham spread.
Based on my experience, if I am jilted I will thresh you.
If not I will thresh you flawlessly.

The Fireproof Inflatable Nurse I’m Totally Genuflecting To

It's easy to be a complete f-up on a site like this and blow the chance at a roofie tryst with the hole in your cogitative trance -- I enjoy it breezy or flat and a little abrasive -- but at the end of the day, what I really want is a bond that transcends the limitations of one partner suffering a massive stroke and global aphasia, being rendered able to utter only one schizophrenic syllable: SMUM, when he had formerly been a highly successful author of children’s erotica. The devotion of the woman who records his work in this state, herself a noteworthy writer of books of poetry of house pets, for the entirety of his final fourteen months, is to me the most beautiful representation of something that approximates love.

... And I'm willing to wait for you to come.