Coffee Holy Shit Hot Not.
Twitching finger.
Duma key duma key dumdumdumduma Key.
Lite-Murmur. Diet tumor.
Hello. I got Cash Money.
Why not, Brazil? WHY THE HELL NOT.
Scrape.
Shuffle, pour...anticipating next noise.
The man is a gnome. The man looks like a gnome. But instead he's just a person.
Inaudible order. The gnome-man is being very quiet.
Literally suing.
Interesting observation? So many poems full of interesting observations.
Mrk Mynrd.
What a boring observation this is: basements are underground rooms.
Gnome-man has a friend who looks so wholesome.
Oh wait, they aren't friends.
Plankton. Puh-lank-ton.
Dear Diary, today I wish to have no use whatsoever.
Sniff.
You Anarchic Little Prick - stay on your side of the dream pool.
I guess gnome was a bitch.
.
I mean
I guess gnome was a bit harsh.
I just heard the most beautiful sound in the block. And it was a dog barking.
Like that one guy's poem was about who sucks and his poem sucks but it was about a dog barking along with Beethoven and I think maybe he didn't like that the dog was barking which isn't the reason why the poem sucks but is part of why he sucks
Japanese influenced clothing
Flu influenced clothing
Flu influenced flu
Another dumb observation: the past few sentences were influenced by the flu.
It's better to hide in the awning of the stupid then to boldly step forward and say that what you have done is clever
Thank you Confucius.
if Kanye West is the new Confucius, then the world is a good place.
Thank you dishwasher.
Your swishing is so beautiful.
Wait, no, that's the roaster.
Screw you dishwasher.
Click clack click clack
Arthur Miller - Timebends
TimeBends?
Timeb Ends?
Perhaps more of a statement: TIME BENDS
Thick.
Other good words (excluding Thick):
Start
Seven
Nominative
Lansing
Ethereal
You useless piece of loving kindness.
Cardinals.
Cardanals.
Forgot to take allergy medication. Poem ending.
Fin.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Clairvoyance?
It's frustrating to hear the busy signal of a friend when you're trying to tell them great news.
It's weird to think that it's frustrating to hear a busy signal when they're almost entirely extinct at this point. We have voicemail now. Why am I frustrated to hear the busy signal of a friend? How less frequent it is than their voice! And most certainly of a ringing phone!
What a beautiful, beautiful, repetitious beep.
More like an irritating throb that never reaches a climax.
It just keeps going 'til I hang up, holding onto my great news for later. Stuck inside my mouth.
The busy signal is my friend at this point.
Buh Buh Buh to you too, mister.
Sorry to gender a noise.
I just drank steamed milk. It was delicious.
I feel really guilty for not enjoying a sound. Especially one that is so endangered.
It's just that I have really great news, and I wanted to tell it now, not later, because I'm at work and it's spring break so all the students are gone and I have nothing to do. Except I have a lot to do, but not a whole lot that I really want to do right now, so I'm listening to a busy signal.
It's really not all that bad.
Phone must be off the hook. Nobody talks this long.
It's weird to think that it's frustrating to hear a busy signal when they're almost entirely extinct at this point. We have voicemail now. Why am I frustrated to hear the busy signal of a friend? How less frequent it is than their voice! And most certainly of a ringing phone!
What a beautiful, beautiful, repetitious beep.
More like an irritating throb that never reaches a climax.
It just keeps going 'til I hang up, holding onto my great news for later. Stuck inside my mouth.
The busy signal is my friend at this point.
Buh Buh Buh to you too, mister.
Sorry to gender a noise.
I just drank steamed milk. It was delicious.
I feel really guilty for not enjoying a sound. Especially one that is so endangered.
It's just that I have really great news, and I wanted to tell it now, not later, because I'm at work and it's spring break so all the students are gone and I have nothing to do. Except I have a lot to do, but not a whole lot that I really want to do right now, so I'm listening to a busy signal.
It's really not all that bad.
Phone must be off the hook. Nobody talks this long.
Friday, February 13, 2009
As one of five digits, and as companion to four fingers
The thumb
The thumb is the lateral-most digit of the hand.
The pinky
The little finger, often called the pinky in American English and pinkie in Scottish English (from the Dutch word pink, meaning little finger), is the most ulnar and usually smallest finger of the human hand.
Opposite the thumb, next to the ring finger.
The ring finger
The ring finger is the fourth digit of the human hand, and the second most ulnar finger, located between the middle finger and the little finger.
The index finger
The index finger, also referred to as, pointer finger, forefinger, trigger finger, digitus secundus, or digitus II, is the second finger of a human hand.
The middle finger
The middle finger (also the long finger and usually the longest finger) is the third digit of the human hand, located between the index finger and the ring finger. It is also called the third finger, digitus medius, digitus tertius, or digitus III in anatomy. Mainly used by Mr. Myncia
(who the hell is mr. myncia)
In many Western countries extending only the middle finger and sometimes along with the thumb of the same hand, is an offensive and obscene gesture, colloquially known as "flipping a bird" or "Flipping someone off." In some cultures, the middle finger is used as an index, to point things out.
I use my middle finger to make money
It is located between the first and third digits - that is, between the thumb and the middle finger. It is usually the most dextrous and sensitive finger of the hand, though not the longest.
The English word "finger" has two senses, even in the context of appendages of a single typical human hand:
1. The four digits, not including the thumb.
2. Any of the five digits.
According to László A. Magyar, the names of the ring finger in many languages reflect an ancient belief that it is a magical finger. It is named after magic or rings, or called nameless.
The ring finger on this hand is circled.
There is some evidence that the ratio between the lengths of the index finger and the ring finger may be modulated by androgen exposure in the uterus.
this is the right ring finger. this is the right ring finger. this is the ring fight finger. this is the finger right ring. hell, this is your right ring finger
Hello, I am the thumb. I am one of five, companion of four.
Hello, thumb.
Hello thumb!
Why 'ello mate!
Heya thumb.
In the USA a pinky swear or pinky promise is made when a person wraps one of their pinky fingers around the other person's pinky and makes a promise.
This is a picture of the pinky finger extended.
pinky pink. dinky dink. pinky.
Also in Japan, holding up a little finger while speaking of two people signifies that they are in a relationship.
Similarly, in Indonesia, when a man points his little finger downward it is a signal that he needs to urinate
So many fingers so many thumbs! So many monkeys drumming on drums!
In Australia, when a male driver is showing signs of road rage, women hold up their pinkie fingers.
More finger porn for your enjoyment.
This picture is of a human hand - index finger extended.
No picture of middle finger available.
Black sheep of the bunch...Middle finger has gone down a poor path.
We don't talk about middle finger in front of dad.
That's not just a finger. It's so much more than just a finger.
That's all we should really say about the middle finger.
I am the thumb.
I am the beginning of the hand.
I am the sign of approval.
I am the grip.
I am the straw that broke the camel's back.
I am the curve.
I am the space bar.
I am one of five, companion of four.
Thumby thumb thumb, thanks for the thumb.
The thumb is the lateral-most digit of the hand.
The pinky
The little finger, often called the pinky in American English and pinkie in Scottish English (from the Dutch word pink, meaning little finger), is the most ulnar and usually smallest finger of the human hand.
Opposite the thumb, next to the ring finger.
The ring finger
The ring finger is the fourth digit of the human hand, and the second most ulnar finger, located between the middle finger and the little finger.
The index finger
The index finger, also referred to as, pointer finger, forefinger, trigger finger, digitus secundus, or digitus II, is the second finger of a human hand.
The middle finger
The middle finger (also the long finger and usually the longest finger) is the third digit of the human hand, located between the index finger and the ring finger. It is also called the third finger, digitus medius, digitus tertius, or digitus III in anatomy. Mainly used by Mr. Myncia
(who the hell is mr. myncia)
In many Western countries extending only the middle finger and sometimes along with the thumb of the same hand, is an offensive and obscene gesture, colloquially known as "flipping a bird" or "Flipping someone off." In some cultures, the middle finger is used as an index, to point things out.
I use my middle finger to make money
It is located between the first and third digits - that is, between the thumb and the middle finger. It is usually the most dextrous and sensitive finger of the hand, though not the longest.
The English word "finger" has two senses, even in the context of appendages of a single typical human hand:
1. The four digits, not including the thumb.
2. Any of the five digits.
According to László A. Magyar, the names of the ring finger in many languages reflect an ancient belief that it is a magical finger. It is named after magic or rings, or called nameless.
The ring finger on this hand is circled.
There is some evidence that the ratio between the lengths of the index finger and the ring finger may be modulated by androgen exposure in the uterus.
this is the right ring finger. this is the right ring finger. this is the ring fight finger. this is the finger right ring. hell, this is your right ring finger
Hello, I am the thumb. I am one of five, companion of four.
Hello, thumb.
Hello thumb!
Why 'ello mate!
Heya thumb.
In the USA a pinky swear or pinky promise is made when a person wraps one of their pinky fingers around the other person's pinky and makes a promise.
This is a picture of the pinky finger extended.
pinky pink. dinky dink. pinky.
Also in Japan, holding up a little finger while speaking of two people signifies that they are in a relationship.
Similarly, in Indonesia, when a man points his little finger downward it is a signal that he needs to urinate
So many fingers so many thumbs! So many monkeys drumming on drums!
In Australia, when a male driver is showing signs of road rage, women hold up their pinkie fingers.
More finger porn for your enjoyment.
This picture is of a human hand - index finger extended.
No picture of middle finger available.
Black sheep of the bunch...Middle finger has gone down a poor path.
We don't talk about middle finger in front of dad.
That's not just a finger. It's so much more than just a finger.
That's all we should really say about the middle finger.
I am the thumb.
I am the beginning of the hand.
I am the sign of approval.
I am the grip.
I am the straw that broke the camel's back.
I am the curve.
I am the space bar.
I am one of five, companion of four.
Thumby thumb thumb, thanks for the thumb.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
I Apologize
I A Pile of Eyes
I'm sorry. I'm in a state of trying to discover myself through different blog layouts.
Have I been unhappy because I've been using templates? Or have I been using templates because I'm unhappy?
I like to call this version "poop chic." It took me at least 5 minutes to find acceptable shades of brown to lay against each other. At least I feel original and less inclined toward self-deprecation now.
In order for this not to be a dreadfully narcissistic post (The whole world holds their breath as Theresa switches from color scheme to color scheme. Bracing themselves against their seats as she changes the font color from black to egg-white. "No! Not that one! Gone are the good days! Welcome, Chaos, you foul master!"), I will post a series of links to pictures that I think are pretty:
Remember: No reason to think our alphabet is the only one around. Lots of other languages have equally important and interesting alphabets.
In a similar vein, I thought this was an excessively interesting suggestion.
Have you ever met this woman? If I ever met her, I would tell her a happy thing. She looks so sad. I found her by Google Image Searching "Smacky the Insufferable." That is not a good example of a happy thing.
This is a picture of Pablo Neruda with a statue of a breasty lady behind him. Sorry to spoil the surprise!
This picture presents a lot of interesting points for discussion. What I find of particular interest is that the man's photobucket.com address implies that his name is "Adam Lester." Oh, if only his middle name was "Oliver." See if you can put that all together.
Sometimes, I do require a professional clown.
This is a link a to the color blue.
Google searching the color purple is a huge pain in the ass because of THAT DAMN BOOK! Sorry, I'm really emotionally caught up in this. This is the best example of it that I can get for now.
Breakfast.
I'm gonna go do that picture now. I miss you. I miss you all.
I'm sorry. I'm in a state of trying to discover myself through different blog layouts.
Have I been unhappy because I've been using templates? Or have I been using templates because I'm unhappy?
I like to call this version "poop chic." It took me at least 5 minutes to find acceptable shades of brown to lay against each other. At least I feel original and less inclined toward self-deprecation now.
In order for this not to be a dreadfully narcissistic post (The whole world holds their breath as Theresa switches from color scheme to color scheme. Bracing themselves against their seats as she changes the font color from black to egg-white. "No! Not that one! Gone are the good days! Welcome, Chaos, you foul master!"), I will post a series of links to pictures that I think are pretty:
Remember: No reason to think our alphabet is the only one around. Lots of other languages have equally important and interesting alphabets.
In a similar vein, I thought this was an excessively interesting suggestion.
Have you ever met this woman? If I ever met her, I would tell her a happy thing. She looks so sad. I found her by Google Image Searching "Smacky the Insufferable." That is not a good example of a happy thing.
This is a picture of Pablo Neruda with a statue of a breasty lady behind him. Sorry to spoil the surprise!
This picture presents a lot of interesting points for discussion. What I find of particular interest is that the man's photobucket.com address implies that his name is "Adam Lester." Oh, if only his middle name was "Oliver." See if you can put that all together.
Sometimes, I do require a professional clown.
This is a link a to the color blue.
Google searching the color purple is a huge pain in the ass because of THAT DAMN BOOK! Sorry, I'm really emotionally caught up in this. This is the best example of it that I can get for now.
Breakfast.
I'm gonna go do that picture now. I miss you. I miss you all.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Anxieties at 9 In the Morning
Is my youth gone?
Were those my glory days, and these my other days? Were those REALLY my glory days?
I live in terror of finding out how many triangles there are.
Why is my stomach making those weird sensations? What have I done to deserve this?
Do I need to order coffee for the shop today? What if I forget?
I get paid today. What if it's not enough?
IS IT EVER ENOUGH?
What if I do dare to eat a peach? One time, I ate an apple and contracted an allergy. It closed my throat. I went to the allergy doctor, and they tested me for a lot of things, besides apples. They said I could go either way with peaches: happiness or death.
Maybe I woke up too early today.
Maybe not.
I think today could go either way.
Today isn't a poetic day. Today is a clunky and endearing today. Today fell off the shelf on top of my head, and I thought Oh, what a dust jacket.
In some ways it's nice to have lost my youth. I have an excuse to sit around and stare at the cat. I have an excuse to ensure my consumption of breakfast.
Lonely, lonely, my life is boney.
I have an excuse to say no to that next drink. Except I normally don't. That's not a function of age. That's a function of sourness.
Turn down the loud! I'm souring in here. And clutching my aged limbs to myself. If I wrap them tightly enough, they'll mummify and quit aging.
I should probably go out to Ann Arbor today.
I'd much rather just stay here on the couch. This couch used to belong to my Grandma. She grew old, too.
Growing old guarantees at least one thing: death. But it can go both ways. It can never go either way.
Death is as mysterious as peaches.
Hello Death, you sly peach!
Was hast du jetzt gemacht?
I might be yet tired.
Why do my words always hump the left margin?
They're clinging to the left margin with their scraggly finger nails crying out OH GOD DON'T DROP ME.
It's 9:22 and the bells rang 5 times.
That makes less sense. But in making less sense, the bells make sense. Whenever they establish a pattern, I get scared that my queries have been in vain, and I've just been observing a completely normal pattern of nature that some other scientists figured out long ago and I was simply too lazy to read the report.
"Ding-Dong, Bing Bong: An Exploration Into the Bells of Ypsilanti which Ring on the :22's"
Yes. That will be my report. I will be famous. Makin' so much moonnneeeeyyyy.
Dolla dolla bill ya'll.
Pat, fat, sat, rat, mat, gnat, hat, bat, cat, eat.
I think I'll go back to bed for a wee sleepsies. My anxieties weren't as bad as I thought they were going to be. Except for the one where I thought I'd lost my youth. Oooeeee...that was bad.
Were those my glory days, and these my other days? Were those REALLY my glory days?
I live in terror of finding out how many triangles there are.
Why is my stomach making those weird sensations? What have I done to deserve this?
Do I need to order coffee for the shop today? What if I forget?
I get paid today. What if it's not enough?
IS IT EVER ENOUGH?
What if I do dare to eat a peach? One time, I ate an apple and contracted an allergy. It closed my throat. I went to the allergy doctor, and they tested me for a lot of things, besides apples. They said I could go either way with peaches: happiness or death.
Maybe I woke up too early today.
Maybe not.
I think today could go either way.
Today isn't a poetic day. Today is a clunky and endearing today. Today fell off the shelf on top of my head, and I thought Oh, what a dust jacket.
In some ways it's nice to have lost my youth. I have an excuse to sit around and stare at the cat. I have an excuse to ensure my consumption of breakfast.
Lonely, lonely, my life is boney.
I have an excuse to say no to that next drink. Except I normally don't. That's not a function of age. That's a function of sourness.
Turn down the loud! I'm souring in here. And clutching my aged limbs to myself. If I wrap them tightly enough, they'll mummify and quit aging.
I should probably go out to Ann Arbor today.
I'd much rather just stay here on the couch. This couch used to belong to my Grandma. She grew old, too.
Growing old guarantees at least one thing: death. But it can go both ways. It can never go either way.
Death is as mysterious as peaches.
Hello Death, you sly peach!
Was hast du jetzt gemacht?
I might be yet tired.
Why do my words always hump the left margin?
They're clinging to the left margin with their scraggly finger nails crying out OH GOD DON'T DROP ME.
It's 9:22 and the bells rang 5 times.
That makes less sense. But in making less sense, the bells make sense. Whenever they establish a pattern, I get scared that my queries have been in vain, and I've just been observing a completely normal pattern of nature that some other scientists figured out long ago and I was simply too lazy to read the report.
"Ding-Dong, Bing Bong: An Exploration Into the Bells of Ypsilanti which Ring on the :22's"
Yes. That will be my report. I will be famous. Makin' so much moonnneeeeyyyy.
Dolla dolla bill ya'll.
Pat, fat, sat, rat, mat, gnat, hat, bat, cat, eat.
I think I'll go back to bed for a wee sleepsies. My anxieties weren't as bad as I thought they were going to be. Except for the one where I thought I'd lost my youth. Oooeeee...that was bad.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
To Tampa and Back (or Lines Written a Few Minutes Before and After Flying a Few Miles Above the Earth)
As I set about to recontextualize my travel experience and drink coffee at the airport as I think "hey, I can drink beer at the airport" if I'd like
and I'd like except its 6:45 in the morning
I watched a man grope the fountain and felt a poem-like diarrhea coming out of me.
Recontextualizing the Airport in the Wake of My New-found Adulthood
1. Airport travel is no longer besmirched with carrying bags that belong to my mother.
2. Travel is no longer confusing. Either I'm less panicky, or we always had complicated flights, or my dad was teeming with questions.
3. Travel is lonelier-like.
4. I can stop and look at the damn fountain as long as I like!
5. TSA guy who I gave my receipt to instead of my boarding pass, who scoffed at me - what a hottie.
6. The Detroit airport doesn't have smoking rooms. But if it did I could smoke. Except I quit smoking.
7. Only go to the bathroom when I need to go - which isn't nearly as often as the female conglomerate and male stronghold of my family.
8. No loud almond-crunching while we wait for our flight. The airport doesn't play loud enough music to mask that sound.
9. The Atlanta airport had smoking rooms. They were sick!
10. The boy standing in line to the desk is adorable. He is also five. He can't see over the counter as daddy talks to the lady behind the huge silver wall. What do they talk about? Boring stuff.
11. The lady across from me is drinking Big Joe's coffee. I'm drinking Starbucks. I'd rather drink anything else besides Starbucks. Maybe she'll switch with me.
12. I just ate delicious buttered bread. There's more in my bag - I'll eat it soon.
13. If THEY ever made a movie of my life, I would want them to have a 3 minute static shot of me eating bread because that is so much more of life than the time I saved a tribe of babies from imminent peril in the Ozarks. In that moment, one would know just how much I like bread, how I hate crumbs on me, and how I have a bent against airport food because my parents never ate it.
14. Start eating airport food.
15. Big Joe's lady looks like a depressed sleepy bird. Poor lady.
16. Sad Bird left me. Now I feel a little sad. Fly away little birdie; find better poaching ground.
17. Big News! I just got paged! Over the intercom! No, and this time it's not terrorism. I got moved to a window seat so that a baby can sit by their parent. No kidnapping for me. Or parent napping, for that matter, under the watchful eye of the baby. I might be able to do some windownapping!
18. Sad Bird came back to find her seat filled by a besuited man with big, jocular eyes and too little hair for his age. He stares bravely forward. Sad Bird drifted to a new seat, and sunk into despondency.
19. Now the lady behind the huge silver wall is reassigning the shit out of this plane! How big is this baby?
20. If the plane was hijacked by a tribe of Ozarkian militant babies, do you think people would be less likely to defend themselves? Hell I wouldn't want to beat up a baby.
21. I'm not sure this is a poem anymore.
22. The airport is a roaring poem.
23. Standing on the moving walkway is really stupid.
24. That lady had red hair! I didn't care for her boots. The man with her probably cares for her boobs. They have to be cared for like waxing a car.
25. A bigger boy just tackled his smaller cousin, and they both fell. A lady screamed Cousins!
26. I think we're boarding now onto our drastically shifted plane. Here's to infant militantism.
27. I never want to forget what a big deal this is. I'm staring at the top of clouds, watching the sunlight dance through their stringy membranes. Dare I turn a cold shoulder?
28. Recontextualization may be complete: I'm drinking at the airport. The magical threshold has been crossed and it tastes like Sam Adams.
29. On my way home now. I was reading Frank, but decided writing could be better. Oddly enough I'm the only one reading poetry at the Jose Cuervo bar in Tampa. Does that make me awesome or an asshole?
30. It's funny to stereotype people at an airport.
"Damn Tampanian hicks."
"But I'm from FRAHNCE."
31. Bartender keeps staring at my Frank book. Closeted poesyphile?
32. When I walked in here, she said:
"Hello there, welcome to Jose Cuervos. Know what you want or do you need a minute?
What I wanted to say:
"Wow, what a creative name for a tequila bar. How'd you think of that?"
What I said:
"Ooh! I'll need a minute. I've always wanted to drink at the airport!"
I'm fuckin' adorable.
33. Have to fly in 15 minutes. Gee, so much beer to drink. Hope I don't miss it!
34. Well, I guess I'm boarding in 15 minutes. Quite different than flying.
35. Only near attractive man in this joint (enjoyed use of word joint) is wearing a nice scarf and has squinty eyes. Maybe he's tired? Lonely?
Lonely, lonely, my life is boney.
Bonely.
36. I think he's drunk.
37. Lady next to me is one of those hot 41 year old types. She's drinking Michelob Light. Bottled.
38. Yeah, I think I'm an airport asshole. Is this what I grew up to be?
39. Or maybe everyone is cynical at airports - sitting around judging all the nincompoops.
40. How odd that we would be that way. It's a perfect place to make friends! A playground of weapon-free waiters who are BORED.
41. Smile! I'm bomb-free!
42. My favorite is that the government strips us down to our stockings as we walk through the metal detectors. How cozy is that?
43. Well, need both hands now. Is this the end? This part really was just the epilogue.
and I'd like except its 6:45 in the morning
I watched a man grope the fountain and felt a poem-like diarrhea coming out of me.
Recontextualizing the Airport in the Wake of My New-found Adulthood
1. Airport travel is no longer besmirched with carrying bags that belong to my mother.
2. Travel is no longer confusing. Either I'm less panicky, or we always had complicated flights, or my dad was teeming with questions.
3. Travel is lonelier-like.
4. I can stop and look at the damn fountain as long as I like!
5. TSA guy who I gave my receipt to instead of my boarding pass, who scoffed at me - what a hottie.
6. The Detroit airport doesn't have smoking rooms. But if it did I could smoke. Except I quit smoking.
7. Only go to the bathroom when I need to go - which isn't nearly as often as the female conglomerate and male stronghold of my family.
8. No loud almond-crunching while we wait for our flight. The airport doesn't play loud enough music to mask that sound.
9. The Atlanta airport had smoking rooms. They were sick!
10. The boy standing in line to the desk is adorable. He is also five. He can't see over the counter as daddy talks to the lady behind the huge silver wall. What do they talk about? Boring stuff.
11. The lady across from me is drinking Big Joe's coffee. I'm drinking Starbucks. I'd rather drink anything else besides Starbucks. Maybe she'll switch with me.
12. I just ate delicious buttered bread. There's more in my bag - I'll eat it soon.
13. If THEY ever made a movie of my life, I would want them to have a 3 minute static shot of me eating bread because that is so much more of life than the time I saved a tribe of babies from imminent peril in the Ozarks. In that moment, one would know just how much I like bread, how I hate crumbs on me, and how I have a bent against airport food because my parents never ate it.
14. Start eating airport food.
15. Big Joe's lady looks like a depressed sleepy bird. Poor lady.
16. Sad Bird left me. Now I feel a little sad. Fly away little birdie; find better poaching ground.
17. Big News! I just got paged! Over the intercom! No, and this time it's not terrorism. I got moved to a window seat so that a baby can sit by their parent. No kidnapping for me. Or parent napping, for that matter, under the watchful eye of the baby. I might be able to do some windownapping!
18. Sad Bird came back to find her seat filled by a besuited man with big, jocular eyes and too little hair for his age. He stares bravely forward. Sad Bird drifted to a new seat, and sunk into despondency.
19. Now the lady behind the huge silver wall is reassigning the shit out of this plane! How big is this baby?
20. If the plane was hijacked by a tribe of Ozarkian militant babies, do you think people would be less likely to defend themselves? Hell I wouldn't want to beat up a baby.
21. I'm not sure this is a poem anymore.
22. The airport is a roaring poem.
23. Standing on the moving walkway is really stupid.
24. That lady had red hair! I didn't care for her boots. The man with her probably cares for her boobs. They have to be cared for like waxing a car.
25. A bigger boy just tackled his smaller cousin, and they both fell. A lady screamed Cousins!
26. I think we're boarding now onto our drastically shifted plane. Here's to infant militantism.
27. I never want to forget what a big deal this is. I'm staring at the top of clouds, watching the sunlight dance through their stringy membranes. Dare I turn a cold shoulder?
28. Recontextualization may be complete: I'm drinking at the airport. The magical threshold has been crossed and it tastes like Sam Adams.
29. On my way home now. I was reading Frank, but decided writing could be better. Oddly enough I'm the only one reading poetry at the Jose Cuervo bar in Tampa. Does that make me awesome or an asshole?
30. It's funny to stereotype people at an airport.
"Damn Tampanian hicks."
"But I'm from FRAHNCE."
31. Bartender keeps staring at my Frank book. Closeted poesyphile?
32. When I walked in here, she said:
"Hello there, welcome to Jose Cuervos. Know what you want or do you need a minute?
What I wanted to say:
"Wow, what a creative name for a tequila bar. How'd you think of that?"
What I said:
"Ooh! I'll need a minute. I've always wanted to drink at the airport!"
I'm fuckin' adorable.
33. Have to fly in 15 minutes. Gee, so much beer to drink. Hope I don't miss it!
34. Well, I guess I'm boarding in 15 minutes. Quite different than flying.
35. Only near attractive man in this joint (enjoyed use of word joint) is wearing a nice scarf and has squinty eyes. Maybe he's tired? Lonely?
Lonely, lonely, my life is boney.
Bonely.
36. I think he's drunk.
37. Lady next to me is one of those hot 41 year old types. She's drinking Michelob Light. Bottled.
38. Yeah, I think I'm an airport asshole. Is this what I grew up to be?
39. Or maybe everyone is cynical at airports - sitting around judging all the nincompoops.
40. How odd that we would be that way. It's a perfect place to make friends! A playground of weapon-free waiters who are BORED.
41. Smile! I'm bomb-free!
42. My favorite is that the government strips us down to our stockings as we walk through the metal detectors. How cozy is that?
43. Well, need both hands now. Is this the end? This part really was just the epilogue.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Poem
I am a sort of cloudy day sadist
unmoved by the shining sun
I nod my violent approval to the frigid breeze
that renders impotent none but the cloudless sky
The quivering alleys fill their potholes with rain
for my triumphant yellow boots to disembowel
I slosh through Cross Street
and cast a perverted gaze to the gray
I ignore the sagging blue pectorals of sky!
How I beg the clouds to drape their curtainous bodies
over the sun and darken
the golden veneer that crops on the brick
Let this puddle be the sky
and my yellow rain boots be the sun
I am the screaming demon of this day
and will beat the joy out of its bleak hips
the Earth will sigh today
Gloomy Thursday shines for no one.
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