Friday, February 15, 2008
Anathema.
I arrested a scary dude for DUI one night. He had six knives taped to his body and a revolver rusted shut. I thought I was gonna get my ass kicked but he was so downtrodden I felt like crying instead. Blackjack = thirteen (13) ounces of lead sewn into eleven (11) inches of leather = compliance upon display = my best purchase in a long time. Everything beautiful is gone. What now?
I think that was lightning, dear.
I don't like for my shirts to say anything. I'm very vain, I have fat that needs to go. I have high blood pressure, and go unmedicated. Too many cigarettes, and five pots of coffee a night. I drink beer when I'm not working, but not to excess. I'm entering personal ad territory with this, and I have no need for a personal ad. Socially anxious? Sure. Bad at times. If I see someone out when I'm rolling, I look away and pretend to fiddle with my vehicle intruments so I don't have to answer their wave. I WILL NOT call to order pizza. I have no problem with crowds, absolutely no stage fright, and sometimes take over interactions. I humbly submit that I once was a lot of fun, but I doubt it now. I take my children everywhere. I not so humbly submit that I have a nice turn of the thought. My vanity takes over when it comes to my lightspeed intelligence. I really am several steps ahead of most. Sorry. Sorry for me really, it makes me hard to be understood. Like now. I really like monkeys wearing pants and no shirt. (Seen the 'Trunk Monkey' videos? Those kill me.) I am an excellent horseman, and dislike to ride. I want a helicopter terribly. The nicest compliment I ever received was that I don't have "boy" feet. Ask to see them, I don't mind. My sideburns grow unruly. I've missed lots of opportunities. I'm allergic to gun oil, and I play with guns for a living. Sulla's epitaph fits me squarely. Is this enough? You tell me. There's more.
Spill the wine.
If yer gonna read me, at least let me know. I like that. Seriously, tell me you like it, tell me you hate it, tell me you wish you wrote it, anything. "When you reach the part, where the heartache starts, the hero would be me." Damn. I want out of this uniform, I want to work in the sun, I want a car that goes with me, and I want you to pay for the gas. I toured a nine million dollar jet last night, and I want one of those too. From Spokane, WA to Raymond, MS in 3 hr 51 min. Yes. I want Nicaraguan real estate, I want a colonial. I want a mule and a cart, and a big straw hat to wear. I want a little boat, and I want you to be there to laugh when I fall into the water. Ere it was won, or maybe one, who knows?
UPDATE: As of 02/15/2008, the gas, the car, and the sun have come to pass. Still waiting on the jet and the colonial.
UPDATE: As of 02/15/2008, the gas, the car, and the sun have come to pass. Still waiting on the jet and the colonial.
Beleaguer the new. Second.
Selfish impulse on that one.
Both ways is a no. A no.
I'm outside making conspicuous,
the cops are driving past.
I'm looking at a car, two cars
and I don't like them.
Mine is covered in tiny flowers.
I saw the same flowers on another car.
It was today.
I'm thinking now.
I've plied my trade and come up aces.
Back then....
sat next to me in her work shirt and underwear.
talked, can't look at me
could not comprehend my listening.
saw my sad and was touched, she slept in my bed instead.
I said what's next and she cried.
Still thinking.
Hard to nail down.
I'll get it, I always do, I have to, and I will.
Now...
Residence to residence.
One place the wrong place.
Telephones undone.
A photograph. Somethings wrong. Something.
I find. I find. I find.
Both ways is a no. A no.
I'm outside making conspicuous,
the cops are driving past.
I'm looking at a car, two cars
and I don't like them.
Mine is covered in tiny flowers.
I saw the same flowers on another car.
It was today.
I'm thinking now.
I've plied my trade and come up aces.
Back then....
sat next to me in her work shirt and underwear.
talked, can't look at me
could not comprehend my listening.
saw my sad and was touched, she slept in my bed instead.
I said what's next and she cried.
Still thinking.
Hard to nail down.
I'll get it, I always do, I have to, and I will.
Now...
Residence to residence.
One place the wrong place.
Telephones undone.
A photograph. Somethings wrong. Something.
I find. I find. I find.
Friday, February 8, 2008
Vas deferens
Attn: Imaginary readers
Subj: Headings
If a blog subject heading refers to or is named after a component of the reproductive system, please be advised that the following blog will contain particularly vulgar sexual references. If such references are troublesome to you, please refer to the subject heading before continuing to read. If such references are appealing to you, then Goddamnit, subscribe to my fucking blog. Such topics can appear at anytime, can be very salacious, and oftentimes quite comical. Wouldn't wanna miss that, now would you?Thank you. And with that having been said, on to the posting. I love you too, fuckers.
John Fogarty's "Rock 'n' Roll Girls" is an excellent song. Of course, John Fogarty only has one song really, but it's a damn fine song. While musing upon this, I noticed that the song that was following it on the radio was the Eric Clapton "Unplugged" version of "Layla." I remember that this song was playing during my first ever sexual experience. I was in the 8th grade. In my hometown, the local Methodist church held dances after every home football game. I was at one of these dances with a new girlfriend. I sought this girl out because she was a known slut, and I was pretty mercenary about such things at the time, being fourteen years old and ready to step up from masturbation. You know how that goes. Anyway, me and this little tart were sitting against the wall in the gymnasium, and she asked me to finger her. "Huh?" I said, as I was unaware of the term. She enlightens me. "Put your fingers in my pussy." That I understood. So I did. After a minute, she says, "You're supposed to move it around, asshole." So I did. Then she tells me to add more fingers, all the way up to four. Although I didn't know what the hell "fingering" was, even I thought that four was a bit much. More than should be possible with a girl my age, at least. But, like I said, she was a slut, so you get what you pay for. A few days or weeks later, I had my first sexual intercourse with this same girl. Right after we broke up. We screwed several times after that, always immediately following a break-up. Odd, that. "Hey, let's go, all over the world, Rock 'n' Roll girls."
Subj: Headings
If a blog subject heading refers to or is named after a component of the reproductive system, please be advised that the following blog will contain particularly vulgar sexual references. If such references are troublesome to you, please refer to the subject heading before continuing to read. If such references are appealing to you, then Goddamnit, subscribe to my fucking blog. Such topics can appear at anytime, can be very salacious, and oftentimes quite comical. Wouldn't wanna miss that, now would you?Thank you. And with that having been said, on to the posting. I love you too, fuckers.
John Fogarty's "Rock 'n' Roll Girls" is an excellent song. Of course, John Fogarty only has one song really, but it's a damn fine song. While musing upon this, I noticed that the song that was following it on the radio was the Eric Clapton "Unplugged" version of "Layla." I remember that this song was playing during my first ever sexual experience. I was in the 8th grade. In my hometown, the local Methodist church held dances after every home football game. I was at one of these dances with a new girlfriend. I sought this girl out because she was a known slut, and I was pretty mercenary about such things at the time, being fourteen years old and ready to step up from masturbation. You know how that goes. Anyway, me and this little tart were sitting against the wall in the gymnasium, and she asked me to finger her. "Huh?" I said, as I was unaware of the term. She enlightens me. "Put your fingers in my pussy." That I understood. So I did. After a minute, she says, "You're supposed to move it around, asshole." So I did. Then she tells me to add more fingers, all the way up to four. Although I didn't know what the hell "fingering" was, even I thought that four was a bit much. More than should be possible with a girl my age, at least. But, like I said, she was a slut, so you get what you pay for. A few days or weeks later, I had my first sexual intercourse with this same girl. Right after we broke up. We screwed several times after that, always immediately following a break-up. Odd, that. "Hey, let's go, all over the world, Rock 'n' Roll girls."
Vae Victus
Zagar of Zagar and Evans. 2525? You know you're into it. All of this was down yesterday when I really wasn't feeling it but it wouldn't post. So I'll try again. I was pissed, to be sure. On with it, oh weary scribe.
"Lost loves, part the first."
When I was in kindergarten, there was a beautiful little dark-haired girl in my class. We got on together very well, and played many games of Stratego. Aside: (When my classmates and I played Monopoly, no one wanted to land on Charles Place. It was called "the stinky place" because of this one kid that was always shitting his pants. His name? You guessed it, Charles. Children are thoughtlessly cruel oftentimes. Kids are generally decent until they meet other kids. You give away so much of who you really are when you begin to socialize.) Face forward. One day she asked me if I liked her. Liked her? I loved her, and love her still. Being the insecure five year old I was, I told her, "No!" At this she became very upset. I frantically back-pedalled, correcting myself, "Of course I like you, I like you very much, please believe me, I do!" She would have none it, and for some reason wasn't in my class after that. I don't know why, but I always think of her when I sit at red lights in the rain.
"It's my party and I'll cry if I want to."
In that same kindergarten class there was a really rotten Isaac from "Children of the Corn" looking motherfucker named David. A total shit, for real yo'. He was deathly afraid of heights, so as punishment when he misbehaved, the male teacher would hoist him upon his shoulders and walk around. One day lil' Davy came to class and handed out birthday party invites to everyone. I didn't want to go to that impish little bastards party, but my mom made me. The other mothers did not. I was the only kid that showed up. Since it wasn't much of a party with only me and David, his mother took us around with her while she ran errands and shopped. She bought me a G.I. Joe and cried the whole time. Now that I have children of my own and understand a little better, the thought almost makes me want to cry. David and his mother seemed to walk on eggshells around his father. I don't know how David's life has turned out, but I don't think it's been all that great. A prayer for Dave and his mom, huh?
"Lost loves, part the second."
My family and I always took an annual vacation to Florida. While enroute the summer after seventh grade, I locked eyes with a girl in the car next to ours. Something passed between us, something real, and we knew, we KNEW, and we were found. Then she was lost. Her car took an exit. In the eleventh grade, when my classmates and I took the Functional Literacy Exam, the essay question was "Who would you like to meet and why?" I wrote of wanting to meet that girl, and you know why. I like to think that she and the little dark-haired girl were one and the same. Mayhap they were.
"Did I fuck up?"
Eleventh grade again. I was sitting in my friend Ernie's red Beetle parked at a gas station (the Chevron where now sits a Walgreen's.) The car was sideswiped by an old "Good Times" van with 70's striping and bubble windows. Probably had a mattress in the back. A very nervous old white man got out and hurriedly exchanged information with Ernie. While this occured, I noticed two small black children in the van watching us from the cab. The exchange was completed, and the old man sped off. It didn't occur to me later that maybe something was wrong. What were the old man and the children doing together? Why was the man nervous? Was his information even correct? I didn't hear of any kidnappings, or bad things happening to small children, but I worry about it still and it's why I became a cop. May it never happen on my watch, but I hope to be able to stop it if it does.
Skating away on the thin ice of a new day.
"Lost loves, part the first."
When I was in kindergarten, there was a beautiful little dark-haired girl in my class. We got on together very well, and played many games of Stratego. Aside: (When my classmates and I played Monopoly, no one wanted to land on Charles Place. It was called "the stinky place" because of this one kid that was always shitting his pants. His name? You guessed it, Charles. Children are thoughtlessly cruel oftentimes. Kids are generally decent until they meet other kids. You give away so much of who you really are when you begin to socialize.) Face forward. One day she asked me if I liked her. Liked her? I loved her, and love her still. Being the insecure five year old I was, I told her, "No!" At this she became very upset. I frantically back-pedalled, correcting myself, "Of course I like you, I like you very much, please believe me, I do!" She would have none it, and for some reason wasn't in my class after that. I don't know why, but I always think of her when I sit at red lights in the rain.
"It's my party and I'll cry if I want to."
In that same kindergarten class there was a really rotten Isaac from "Children of the Corn" looking motherfucker named David. A total shit, for real yo'. He was deathly afraid of heights, so as punishment when he misbehaved, the male teacher would hoist him upon his shoulders and walk around. One day lil' Davy came to class and handed out birthday party invites to everyone. I didn't want to go to that impish little bastards party, but my mom made me. The other mothers did not. I was the only kid that showed up. Since it wasn't much of a party with only me and David, his mother took us around with her while she ran errands and shopped. She bought me a G.I. Joe and cried the whole time. Now that I have children of my own and understand a little better, the thought almost makes me want to cry. David and his mother seemed to walk on eggshells around his father. I don't know how David's life has turned out, but I don't think it's been all that great. A prayer for Dave and his mom, huh?
"Lost loves, part the second."
My family and I always took an annual vacation to Florida. While enroute the summer after seventh grade, I locked eyes with a girl in the car next to ours. Something passed between us, something real, and we knew, we KNEW, and we were found. Then she was lost. Her car took an exit. In the eleventh grade, when my classmates and I took the Functional Literacy Exam, the essay question was "Who would you like to meet and why?" I wrote of wanting to meet that girl, and you know why. I like to think that she and the little dark-haired girl were one and the same. Mayhap they were.
"Did I fuck up?"
Eleventh grade again. I was sitting in my friend Ernie's red Beetle parked at a gas station (the Chevron where now sits a Walgreen's.) The car was sideswiped by an old "Good Times" van with 70's striping and bubble windows. Probably had a mattress in the back. A very nervous old white man got out and hurriedly exchanged information with Ernie. While this occured, I noticed two small black children in the van watching us from the cab. The exchange was completed, and the old man sped off. It didn't occur to me later that maybe something was wrong. What were the old man and the children doing together? Why was the man nervous? Was his information even correct? I didn't hear of any kidnappings, or bad things happening to small children, but I worry about it still and it's why I became a cop. May it never happen on my watch, but I hope to be able to stop it if it does.
Skating away on the thin ice of a new day.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Exodus
My 40 days in the wilderness are over. I leave Raymond for the last time today, never to set foot upon it's bloody soil again. I have spent a large part of my career in this town, essentially for naught. I return from whence I came.
According to quantum theory, nothing takes form unless it observed. By that logic, if I don't see this place, does that mean it's not there? Maybe I should ask Scott Bakula.
According to quantum theory, nothing takes form unless it observed. By that logic, if I don't see this place, does that mean it's not there? Maybe I should ask Scott Bakula.
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