Eating dinner on the deck, trying to do some work. Now it’s dark and it smells like maybe rain, but it seems far off. I think the parrot from the rear neighbor’s tree is around. Or maybe I’m just hearing things.
Archive for August, 2009
The Shape of My Head Tonight
Thursday, August 27th, 2009I give you… the super penguin
Wednesday, August 26th, 2009We made sliced bread. We invented the internal combustion engine. We put a man on the moon. And now… the planet earth brings you… FLYING PENGUINS!
White Girl, Brown Couch
Saturday, August 22nd, 2009
Patio furniture Saturday
Saturday, August 22nd, 2009
Brought to you in part by: Christina’s Chicken Pasta If You Don’t Like
It, Cook Your Own Food, You Ungrateful Lazyass.
Best dish ever.
Between the Boards
Sunday, August 16th, 2009I crawled under the deck today
belly up
unblue wood underneath
looking for the fount of wasps
and I discovered a party
in a corner
buzzing too big
for the holes in their nest.
Belly against wood
dirt in my hair and crack
something with wings
setting on my left shin
the women hiding inside
I thought
how nice down here
aimed and fired
“20 foot spray”
all hands lost
just their booger
of a nest stuck to a board.
Plopped it down
with a grout dowel
did the belly up backwards worm
caught a sharp rock
across the back of the head
came up
no one around
just the charcoal’s chimney
on the grill
fiery wavy congratulations.
Took a shower in the dark
this is important
to know one’s home
in blackness
fridge
the rug that slides on tile
steep steps to the garage
the towels
the razor
the soap
and the random blinking light
in the air over the yard
that flashes into the bedroom
like there is an invisible alien ship
taking pictures
reading my mind
knowing me for the devil
in the spaces
between the lives we live
ready to spray
something.
It’s the alphabet, kids
Friday, August 14th, 2009
There’s a lot of letters in this picture, but do you know which one is
missing?
I like Star Wars, but I like girls in bikinis more, so…
Friday, August 14th, 2009I like this a lot.
The one girl is having a lot of fun with it. Not the white girl and not the asian girl. The OTHER girl. I think she wins.
Sunrise
Thursday, August 13th, 2009
And I thought I had misunderstandings with my girlfriend…
Thursday, August 13th, 2009
Dear God, whichever one of you is listening…
Sunday, August 9th, 2009I need to know. It’s very important. I know you’re big on the whole moves in mysterious ways thing, but we are talking about life and death. Did Satan invent weeds and you invented the shake inducing bio mechanical symbiont known as the weed eater? Or did you make them together and have a chuckle behind the moon afterward? You fucks. And what’s the deal with the fact that there is no shoulder strap included with this weed eater? The answers to these questions, whatever they may be, have collided and left my right arm shaking so bad I almost took my eye out when I went to scratch the top of my head. I may not be able to wank tonight, either. Or grab my beautiful girlfriend’s breast in a manner that wouldn’t make her think I thought it was one of those pens on a chain at the bank. If I try to give her a back rub after the day’s hard work, she will ask, “Why are you knocking on my back like it is a door and you are the most urgent Jehovah’s Witness ever?”
Why can’t the lawnmower get it all? Why wasn’t it designed to be a ball of blades and lasers that destroys the “ugly” plants? Home ownership has been awesome: First, the shower didn’t get hot. Now, the weeds and the weed eater are colluding to give me Dumbledore’s Last Hand (nerd reference, go watch Harry Potter or just pretend you know that Dumbledore’s hand is really messed up toward the end). At the least, if there was no way to get past this weed + weed eater thing, how about, I don’t know, beautiful naked ladies in the sky, singing songs I love, and pouring beer in a perfect downward arc and into my smiling mouth? Or unmessy orgasms as I go. Maybe every time I do a “section” of yard, POOF, Orgasm!
You know what? That might be a bit too much to ask for. What if the yard was just perfect. Forever. And maybe every once in awhile, I’d pay tribute by pouring a 40 in the corner by the shed in a never moving fat gnome’s mouth? I could go on and on. No, wait, I can’t because my hand just died and something funny is happening. I can’t feel my shoulder now. Just typing with the left now. Tingle in my left eye. Oh. That’s the strok…