I'm thinking about old guys. And about taking them for Lent ( Read more... )

Make Speed to Breakpo

On fishing day, the creaky stairs meant Dad was up.  The whistling kettle meant five minutes til breakfast. The clanking tackle box meant five mintutes til we leave. The whinnying car starter meant five seconds or seven days til you could fish with Dad again.

Fishing days were clockwork, were liturgy.  On the dot, at 6:00am, Dad ( Read more... )

Tearing Flannel & Polyester ( Read more... )

Daniel Boone & The Old Dusty Trail ( Read more... )

I like Lay’s potato chips. I like popping the bag , and I like craning my hand down and clawing the depths of the crumply plastic. I like shoving greasy crinkly chips into my face. I like crunching handfuls of fried potatoes under my teeth and mashing them down to goo ( Read more... )

6:05 am ( Read more... )

I kicked Cate.
She deserved it.
For being so beautiful.
And for being Cate.

Why dost thou slumber O sleepy sun ( Read more... )

homage to gwinn commons

clanging forks,
a frizzle fry of frazzled faces
hidden in curtains of highlighted hair and crackled make-up

bench-seats of buzzing bees,
earning rations of honey,
making sweet the death of dreams,

me eyes close over.
drifting-
to the land of the living,

I used to wake up
and climb out of my crib
to wake my parents--
who spanked me and
put me back to bed.

Now, when I wake
and climb out of my crib,
I wake my cigarettes--
who spank me and
put me back to bed.

Everone needs to smoke--

to climb from the crib
and to crawl toward the nipple,

and to suck--

til kingdom come
or will be