Oh DUDE... I wish so, so, so bad I was dancing with you... my life is empty without your groove, baby...
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Dance!
"Now you know your way back from the spirit far/Brush your teeth for bed/Blow out that cherry bomb/Blow out that cherry bomb for me/You got to know it's on your sleeve/Know it's on your sleeve/Know it's on your sleeve
It was the longest day that I ever known/I watched you start that drive alone/Blow out that cherry bomb for me/It's gonna burn right up your sleeve/Burn right up your sleeve
So there you go again/Out in your dressing gown/Get yourself to bed/Blow out that cherry bomb...
It was the longest day that I ever known/I watched you start that drive alone/Blow out that cherry bomb for me/It's gonna burn right up your sleeve/Burn right up your sleeve
So there you go again/Out in your dressing gown/Get yourself to bed/Blow out that cherry bomb...
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Friday, September 24, 2010
Kind of like crushing some E and M into a cigarette and then handing it to some homeless dude
Honestly, I have no -- NO -- idea what this guy is talking about but I have to say that I dig the fact that he's sampling Billy Squire... if you're going to apply "dope" to anything, this certainly deserves that tag...
Then do this...
Then do this...
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Friday, September 17, 2010
Surely I dream'd to-day, or did I see The wingèd Psyche with awaken'd eyes?
Smoking a cigarette and holding a tumbler of scotch...
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
"I have to go"
"Hello!"
Her voice locked me into every moment I've only dreamed of: both of us in bed, reading, our feet rubbing each other's shins, Mahler or Monk or Mogwai whispering amongst us.
A candle flickers on the bureau, another in the bathroom, it's flame flapping towards the cracked window, casting dancing shapes across the bedspread.
"Listen," she says, her eyes dancing, her smile inviting, her voice a nostrum to all things within in my book and myself.
It's why I cherish her phone calls. Her seductive and sultry "Hello!" draws me in immediately, I'm enthralled, hooked. The following minutes (or hours, even) will make it that, by the end, I'll loathe letting go.
When she left, it was not "Goodbye," but "Later," I'd said, "You're coming back."
It's what we are; destiny, inevitability.
She reads: "This is a valley of ashes--a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens; where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke and, finally, with a transcendent effort, of men who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air. Occasionally a line of gray cars crawls along an invisible track, gives out a ghastly creak, and comes to rest, and immediately the ash-gray men swarm up with leaden spades and stir up an impenetrable cloud, which screens their obscure operations from your sight."
I love that, I love her. She'd told me, almost embarrassed, she'd never read "The Great Gatsby" and now she is, with every page she turns I steal a glance, wanting to catch her reactions, watching her eyes caress the page.
"I have to go," she says, inevitably (I'm rarely the one to say that), and then it takes us another half hour to make that happen.
Looking upon my own page, silently, surreptitiously, I read:
"He loved her because it was his nature to do so, but there were times when he could not endure her love for him. There were times when it became nothing but pure idiot mystery..."*
Placing the book on my chest, the pages cool and silky against my nipples, I think of her lips and her breath slipping fast between them, her tongue tumbling in my mouth, her torso writhing as my hand cups her breast.
"Hello!" she says, playfully, her legs wrapping around my waist, her moan locking me in and hypnotizing me.
"I have to go."
And, for another half hour, we cannot let each other go.
Her voice locked me into every moment I've only dreamed of: both of us in bed, reading, our feet rubbing each other's shins, Mahler or Monk or Mogwai whispering amongst us.
A candle flickers on the bureau, another in the bathroom, it's flame flapping towards the cracked window, casting dancing shapes across the bedspread.
"Listen," she says, her eyes dancing, her smile inviting, her voice a nostrum to all things within in my book and myself.
It's why I cherish her phone calls. Her seductive and sultry "Hello!" draws me in immediately, I'm enthralled, hooked. The following minutes (or hours, even) will make it that, by the end, I'll loathe letting go.
When she left, it was not "Goodbye," but "Later," I'd said, "You're coming back."
It's what we are; destiny, inevitability.
She reads: "This is a valley of ashes--a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens; where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke and, finally, with a transcendent effort, of men who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air. Occasionally a line of gray cars crawls along an invisible track, gives out a ghastly creak, and comes to rest, and immediately the ash-gray men swarm up with leaden spades and stir up an impenetrable cloud, which screens their obscure operations from your sight."
I love that, I love her. She'd told me, almost embarrassed, she'd never read "The Great Gatsby" and now she is, with every page she turns I steal a glance, wanting to catch her reactions, watching her eyes caress the page.
"I have to go," she says, inevitably (I'm rarely the one to say that), and then it takes us another half hour to make that happen.
Looking upon my own page, silently, surreptitiously, I read:
"He loved her because it was his nature to do so, but there were times when he could not endure her love for him. There were times when it became nothing but pure idiot mystery..."*
Placing the book on my chest, the pages cool and silky against my nipples, I think of her lips and her breath slipping fast between them, her tongue tumbling in my mouth, her torso writhing as my hand cups her breast.
"Hello!" she says, playfully, her legs wrapping around my waist, her moan locking me in and hypnotizing me.
"I have to go."
And, for another half hour, we cannot let each other go.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Meta-four
While the kids and I roasted wienies on a few blazing copies of the Koran ("Quran" if you're not wearing some fruity biker mustache and flimsy comb-over in a failed attempt to deny your parents weren't related, in any way, before they begot another Elmer Gantry), chatting about killing moozlim babies and merkin baby killers, it was remarked how all brown people are really the enemy. "Agreed," I said, looking for another Koran to stoke the fire and, not finding one, grabbed a Torah scroll (they make great Yule logs, BTW).
Wienies consumed and brown people hiding out and calling the cops (apparently I have a constitutional right to own a gun but not to actually point it at people and fire it. What fun is that?), we strapped bibles on the bottoms of our feet and stomped out the fire, singing "My god is an awesome god; your god is substandard, at best."
Swaying back and forth, with our arms in the air and our eyes closed, we stomped those cinders dead.
Unstrapping the bibles from our feet, my son asked why 9/11 was such an important day.
"Why did they fly planes into buildings?" he asked, "and isn't a few more than three thousand dead kind of, um, small potatoes?
"You mean like a few million dead in Sudan?"
“Yeah, that, but why fly airliners into skyscrapers? And why those buildings?”
Chickens coming home to roost, I told him.
Watching the metaphor in his mind (he’d just “metaphor” in school), his eyes tracked a chicken screaming across the sky to topple a tall building, while soldiers torched families in mud huts.
“2 million in Sudan?”
“Two, three, who’s counting? At least ten times that many die in Africa every year due to famine, disease and thug governments.”
“So when is Africa Day?”
Too many brown people, I told him. Not gonna’ happen.
His mind again tracked metaphors and seeking out chickens, counted the eggs, knowing that more than just a few would hatch.
“So what am I going to do with these?” he asked, waving the bibles from his feet, pages still smoking and stinking of burnt Koran and Torah.
“Toss em’ up in the air.”
And, as soon as he had done that, I peppered it with a burst of my AR-15, bits of paper and shards of leather sprayed across the horizon, shrapnel taking to the air like cabbage moths.
Blasting the next one similarly, we watched bits of Luke and Deuteronomy drift down on pine needles and leaves of scrub oak, snow in September so to speak.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Nine hours
It was over a month ago when we last kissed.
It was almost three weeks ago when she next got back to me after that, a hurried note telling my she was thinking of me, that she loved me, that she was being followed closely; "Don't respond," she said.
It was five days ago she told me the date and time when she would finally be free to call and we would once again be in that universe that only we share, the valance unknown to anyone but us.
In nine hours I will be with her again, thousands of miles away, just a phone and a longing, low and urgent like the reprise of some blues song.
Not that we get connected on another plane -- we always are. Her presence is with me, another limb, an organ, there is never a disconnection.
I am never without her, ever, and every waking moment brings her smile, her laugh, her dulcet voice into my immediate landscape, the crosshatch gray of my existence filled in with dabs of her color.
In nine hours, her words will be with me in a way that I cannot write or say or tell or make sense of, ever.
In nine hours I will be transported, transcendent, lost in everything she has to say and how she says it. No one has ever captivated me the way she does. There is no needed distraction with her, no hasty exit sought, she begins to speak and there is nowhere I'd rather be than in her company.
In nine hours, she will be on the coast, away from Him and free to fill whatever hours of mine she wants.
The thrall of touch is there, with all it's exigency and urgency, but the need is not. Need is fatal, a needle into the thin veneer of the just-getting-by balloon that we continue to hold onto, that bladder filled with the determination to scratch out hash marks on a prison wall.
In nine hours there will be no platitudes, no pretense, no parsing of words or heart. Everything will be out there, on the field, the bone sticking through flesh and the flesh flying thousands of miles, in an instant, to caress just a moment of the last time we made love.
It was almost three weeks ago when she next got back to me after that, a hurried note telling my she was thinking of me, that she loved me, that she was being followed closely; "Don't respond," she said.
It was five days ago she told me the date and time when she would finally be free to call and we would once again be in that universe that only we share, the valance unknown to anyone but us.
In nine hours I will be with her again, thousands of miles away, just a phone and a longing, low and urgent like the reprise of some blues song.
Not that we get connected on another plane -- we always are. Her presence is with me, another limb, an organ, there is never a disconnection.
I am never without her, ever, and every waking moment brings her smile, her laugh, her dulcet voice into my immediate landscape, the crosshatch gray of my existence filled in with dabs of her color.
In nine hours, her words will be with me in a way that I cannot write or say or tell or make sense of, ever.
In nine hours I will be transported, transcendent, lost in everything she has to say and how she says it. No one has ever captivated me the way she does. There is no needed distraction with her, no hasty exit sought, she begins to speak and there is nowhere I'd rather be than in her company.
In nine hours, she will be on the coast, away from Him and free to fill whatever hours of mine she wants.
The thrall of touch is there, with all it's exigency and urgency, but the need is not. Need is fatal, a needle into the thin veneer of the just-getting-by balloon that we continue to hold onto, that bladder filled with the determination to scratch out hash marks on a prison wall.
In nine hours there will be no platitudes, no pretense, no parsing of words or heart. Everything will be out there, on the field, the bone sticking through flesh and the flesh flying thousands of miles, in an instant, to caress just a moment of the last time we made love.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
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