Saturday

. . . ran over my toy Bionic Man with the lawn mower . . .

Wednesday

I got on the metro train today, and I wrote the following on a sticky note:
"Instead of ringing, I wish my cell phone would squirt blood all over me."
I put the sticky note on back of the seat in front of me, and I got up and moved to another seat further down. Four people got on the train, and a couple of them took the seat where I wrote that sticky note. I had my music way up in my ear phones, so I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but they were pointing at the note and laughing and letting each other look at it, and then they were looking around the car confused. When they looked at me, I just looked out the window, indifferent.

Sunday

Sometimes I believe I have a memory of my own birth. It is a flash of setting that occurs to me occasionally and has been with me for as long as I can remember. This vision has just always been there. I don’t know how I came to recognize this vision as the setting of my own birth, but in the vision, I am in a hospital room with lots of equipment around. As I view the room, I am looking up at everything, as though from a bed. This vision is so old I am not sure whether it is a memory or a dream. I have a lot of memories like that - that might actually have been dreams. I have dreams that might have been memories. (Memories I remembered during dreams? Dreams of memories? Infinity?) They all fade into a past consciousness, some of it solid, some of it soft. I have dreams when just barely asleep - shallow splashes of sleep will not wash over them. I have had realities that I could not escape by going to sleep.

Friday

"Can I write about you?" he asked. She looked down.

Thursday

Some human brains just taste better. Why is that?
GI Joe rodeo riding house cat rhyme opportunity action figure. Takin a nap, hush.

Tuesday

When a town gets annexed by a bigger municipality
and the people from that town have since died
and their families have moved on to other places
because there's no more ore in the hills around
and the only place you'll see the name of that town
is on the sign for some florist or some realtor or
some grave yard

Miners Mills, Pennsylvania
It existed. My father was from there.

Sunday

Instead of standing in the same spot and taking turns chipping balls in the same direction down field, that day, my dad and I stood at opposite ends of the field and chipped balls to each other. At each other. It was like a golf shot duel. We almost hit each other several times. We didn’t give a shit. He or I - if a shot looked like it was getting too close, one of us would just give a shout, and the other would duck and cover. We were both hitting well - accurate as hell. We were only chipping about fifty or sixty yards, nine and eight irons. A shot like that wouldn’t hurt that much anyway. We trusted each other - trusted each other not to get pissed if somebody got hit with a ball. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and there was a warm breeze blowing. We were by the river. It was a goofy thing to do and a glorious day for it.

Thursday

I am who I am because I decided it would be a good idea to be this way. Mostly. Usually. I mean there's a certain percentage of weakness and pathology in that formula . . . when you say, "I love you" to people close to you, and you get used to saying it all the time, "I love you" "I love you" "I love you," and then you accidentally say it to somebody at work, and then you get embarrassed, and you say you don't actually love them, you're just so used to saying that to certain people, but they are not technically included in that group, but it's too late, it's all over the company, and then HR calls . . . and then they run the report on you . . . you would be surprised what shows up on that report

Monday

Quitting my emotions like I quit the cigarettes.

Wednesday

The man at Tinfoil Viking Science has a post that is so cool, I thought I’d copy his idea and write about a dialogue between my dad and me here on my blog. I can’t remember exactly what my dad and I were saying, though, so I’ll just summarize.

My dad and I were sitting on his porch drinking beers and somebody broke down right in front of the house. My brother-in-law was there, and he’s good with cars, so he was back and forth, in and out of the house, helping the guy. He was bringing out tools and trying to figure out what was wrong with the guy’s car. My sister brought out the cordless phone so the guy could call somebody.

My dad and I were just sitting there drinking our beers. Neither of us were any good at fixing cars. I told my dad that I would go out there and try to help, but I’d probably just end up standing there scratching my nuts.

While we sat there, I told my dad about a time that I actually did help a person with car trouble, and how I felt like a real hero. I was walking out of the building where I worked at the time, and this lady was sitting in her Jeep Cherokee with the door open. She couldn’t get it started. She would turn the key, and nothing. I told her to pop the hood. Her battery cable was very loose. I could turn it with my fingers. So I leaned in and put all my weight on the cable and pressed it down really hard on the battery, twisting like hell until I got it on there as tight as I possibly could. She hit the ignition and it started right up. She was so grateful. I told her to drive it straight to a gas station or whatever and get somebody to tighten it with a wrench. For all I know, she broke down somewhere along the way and got eaten by wolves. The smart move for her would have been to call tow truck or something.

. . . anyway, yeah, . .. what was I talkin about . ?

Sunday

I realized that I am dying of thirst, I forget to drink water. I get bad headaches, I halucinate, and my tongue swells. I realized I am no longer waterproof - with hundreds of dollars worth of gadgets in my pockets. If I get caught in a rain storm or pushed into a swimming pool, I will cease to function. I realized that I may have been caught on camera - putting all those stickers up. They use the cameras to study passenger tendencies. That is my particular tendency.
I’m worried about work lately. It’s very slow. I suppose I should enjoy the downtime, but too much downtime inevitably means things are falling apart somewhere.

Writing about my work concerns on my blog is probably not the best way to allay those concerns. I blog a lot at work, and I worry about who might be watching. I don’t want to jinx myself. So far, the little angels in the IT department have not run the report on me, not that I know of. Nobody has said anything to me about my internet usage specifically. The worse trouble I’ve ever heard of anyone bringing upon them self with internet usage was this guy a few cubicles down from me who was practically watching TV on his computer - streaming video.

I have had some slack ass jobs. I have had jobs where I would go for days or even weeks without having any tasks at all.

Wednesday

On the way to classes in the morning (100 years ago when classes were where I was going) half awake, walking to class with all the other college fuckers, and I looked down that one street - the street everybody knows not to go down - and I saw this ZOMBIE! . . . who looked generally like a guy I knew, a guy I drank beers with, he worked at a restaurant near the one where I worked, he came in my restaurant, I went in his, a friend of a friend, a friend really, he lived a couple of streets over . . . that morning: I was walking to class, hair was neatly parted, shirt was clean, teeth brushed, book bag shouldered, and there he is, it was him, the zombie was him - HE WAS UP ALL NIGHT SMOKIN CRACK in the neighborhood you always hear gunshots coming from, full-auto sometimes, fuckin machine guns, Norfolk, Virginia, a port town you never even heard of where the shit gets just as bad as anywhere, you got PRODUCT coming in the port: Portsmouth, Norfolk, Hampton, Newport News . . . he hadn’t paid tuition that semester, he was just going to try to work a lot and try to save up - YEAH RIGHT! It was just weird. Walking to class with all the other clean and studious and sober fuckers and here’s this guy, Kyle, and his hair’s all fucked up, his eyes are evil and angry and black underneath, cheek muscles clenching under creepy glaring bulging eyeballs scanning the street, he’s wearing the same shit I saw him in last night - his waiter clothes, his Oxford shirt was a complete loss, is that blood or grenadine? And, fuck, he’s walkin up to me, and I’m just about on time for class, and that smell! Jesus! And, nah, I don’t have any cash on me, and goddamn - he was just bragging the night before about how he made over two hundred bucks in tips, some older lady of independent-looking means grabbed his cock or whatever, so he said, right there while he was waiting on her, table side . . . that fibbing crackhead, or maybe it was true, who knows who cares . . . I heard he became a surveyor. . . One time he and I were driving around in this piece of shit car I had. Wasted. We pulled into some stranger’s driveway and just sat there talking at three-thirty in the morning. Talking and talking. I opened up my door, leaned out and puked and shut my door and then resumed conversation as though nothing had happened, I mean a bucket of puke - some stranger’s driveway . . . a couple of hours later, I started the car and drove to his place and we fell asleep watching TV . . .

Sunday

Once, when I was eight or nine years old, I was walking down my street. I reached a point right across the street from my house. I didn’t intend to go home, I was not on my way to any specific destination. I was just out for a walk. I stood there across the street from my house. I decided to pick up a rock and throw it at my house. I don’t know why I decided to do that. It was just one of those dumb things a kid does completely without thought, playing around. I was trying to hit the roof of our house. Throwing a rock at the roof wouldn’t damage anything, I thought. On many days before that, I had stood for hours, bored, throwing a tennis ball up onto the roof just waiting for it to roll back down to me. I threw the rock at the roof for the same dumb reason, for fun. It was a little rock anyway, about as big as the last digit of an adult’s thumb. I picked up the rock and threw it at the house. My throw was well short. The rock pierced a windowpane in the front of the house.

I didn’t know it when I threw the rock, but my mom was lying on the couch in the front room where that window was. The rock didn’t hit her, but if I remember correctly, little bits of glass landed in her hair. I ran across the street and jumped up on the porch and saw the hole in the window pane. Then I saw my mom in there. I went inside and apologized repeatedly. I was so sorry.

My mom was dazed by the weirdness of the incident. She described how she witnessed it. She saw me walking by, across the street. She saw me pause there and look at the house. She thought I was looking at her, but because of the shade and distance, I couldn’t have seen her. She saw me pick up the rock and throw it at the house. She saw it pierce the window, and she closed her eyes and winced. She felt the glass land in her hair.

I was so sorry. I tried to explain to her that I didn’t mean to hit her, that there was no reason for my action, and that I had no idea that she was laying there. I really didn’t know why I did it. I am pretty sure she believed me. Even back then I was pretty sure she believed me, but I felt so bad. I loved my mom, and I got along very well with her. We were very close. There was no hostility between us at all. But you never know what somebody will think when you do something crazy.

Friday

If I was a flasher, I'd practice on my TV.

Thursday

. . . untangling my goddam ear wires . . .

Monday

One time my dad installed a garage door on his house, and it was a great achievement for him. Even though he was a designer and had worked on everything from warheads to aircraft carriers, and really was quite brilliant, he was not very mechanically inclined. So putting up this garage door was a serious accomplishment. To celebrate this accomplishment, he went to his bar to play pool and drink and hang around with his friends.

My brother was staying there at my parents’ house, for a few days, because he had gotten into a huge argument with his wife. After my dad left that evening, my brother pulled his jeep up into the driveway to tinker around with it. With his jeep idling in front of the brand new garage door, my brother was leaning in and out of the driver seat, adjusting this and that, tooling around. He leaned much too far out of the seat one time, and he lost his balance. He started to slide out of the jeep, and his leg kicked forward reflexively as he tried to regain his balance. He accidentally kicked the jeep into gear, and the vehicle lunged forward, and plunged right through the brand new garage door. He was thrown from his seat and sandwiched between the garage doorway and the vehicle. It didn’t smash him or even break any bones or anything, but it bounced him around badly, and he was hurting. He could walk and all. He was not seriously injured, but he was very sore.

With his newly acquired aches and pains in his back, sides, arms and legs, and with the horrible devastation before his eyes to the brand-ass new garage door, my brother smoked a bunch of dope, and then went inside and picked out a bedroom and passed the hell out. Some time passed, and my brother entered very deep sleep.

Closing time came at my dad’s bar, and my dad left. He had drunk a bit that night, and he drove home. The bar was only two or three minutes away. My dad was in a pretty euphoric, boozed up state, but he could make that drive in any condition, really. So he drove home. He arrived in his driveway and saw the demolished garage door and my brother’s jeep parked right in front of it.

He was a bit upset.

He stormed into the house and roused my brother from a dead sleep. I’m not sure exactly what happened next: who grabbed whom first, who hit whom first. I know for sure that my brother punched my dad in the face and broke his glasses - snapped them in half. My dad had a black eye.

My brother left the house and went who knows where. My dad was so pissed off, he called the cops on my brother. My brother usually had a gun on him and some quantity of ‘Green Devastator’ as well. If the cops had busted him with all that, it would have been really bad.

When I woke up and found out what happened (I slept through all that shit – I was staying there too), I went to a pay phone and beeped my brother. He called back, and I told him that my dad had called the cops on him and to be careful what he carried around and all that.

Things eventually cooled down a bit. My dad didn’t press charges, but he didn’t want to see my brother for a while either. I can’t remember exactly how that worked out with the police and shit. Do the cops have to bust you - no matter what - once the call has been made? Then the complainant decides - at that point - not to press charges? I can’t remember how that shit worked out, but my brother didn’t go to jail.

It messed up the holidays for a while though. My brother and dad would not attend the same family gatherings for a year and a half there. They would not be caught in the same location at the same time. We had to work it so that one of them would come in the morning, like Christmas morning, and the other dummy would come in the evening. And it was a pain in the ass for everybody. Finally they buried the fuckin hatchet, and all was well again.

The dumb asses.

Saturday

extremist shoes - I wish I hadn't fast forwarded through the in between times

Friday


. . . shop vac my patch, Jesus designed me all wrong . . . typing so hard my fingers might fly off . . .

Tuesday

When I moved, I found so many notes to self I forgot to read.

Friday

Dr. Dog at Black Cat. Fun. Next is Architecture in Helsinki.



Bodyguard: Golden Helmeted Honeyeater (2003-04), Patricia Piccinini. I linked to this picture from an article by Barbara Morris at stretcher.

Thursday

Did you ever steal? What did you steal?

Monday

I moved to my new home finally. When you are forced to carry every single one of your possessions up and down stairs and hills and over guard rails and through doorways, you keep wondering: Where did all this junk come from? Why did I keep it?

When you store things away, because you don't really need them every day, but something compelled you to keep them, and then you go back through that old stuff, two or three or five years later or ten years later – and you find these particular things – and you remember them – and you remember that you once loved this particular thing or that particular thing – so you decide take it out of storage and keep it nearby for a while – even though you don't need it. You never would have stored it away if you needed it. But you kept it. You kept it because you like having your own hidden treasures. You have forgotten these things – you just occasionally glimpse the box or the bin that they're stored in when you shove all of the clothes hanging in your closet to one side – or when you scoot all the boxes over that were blocking it from view – or when you go tearing through all that mess looking for a tax form or a Service Agreement or whatever. Your experience of it becomes more and more rare. You are just aware that you have treasures. And somehow that maintains an underlying happiness.

Saturday

The one fun thing about moving is driving the big ass truck.

Wednesday

My tomb stone WILL be in the shape of a television set.

Friday

. . . drunk at somebody's wedding, not exactly stealing the show, but definitely stealing the sideshows . . .

Saturday

. . . letting other people's foolish moments take years off my life . . .
The story of how I became a failure is much more interesting than if I had succeeded at something.

Tuesday

I don't have just any voices in my head, I have a team of experts (in my head)

Monday

DAMN! The drug dealers in my neighborhood are listening to the 911 and 311 dispatchers with police scanners. Sometimes the dispatchers give out identifying info regarding callers to the cops over the radio - so the dealers overhear it and know who is calling the on them. Scarey. Below are some posts to my neighborhood's LISTSERV that were shooting around:

Anything that is not on the tactical channel can be listened to with a digital scanner or on the internet by dsl quite easily. If you have the frequency for the tactical channel you can listen to the tact channel. If you do not want to be identified when calling 311/911 do not provide your name and the only information that 311 will be able to provide is you call back number which appears on their screens. If you do not want your number to be connected to you use a prepaid cell phone and do not purchase the phone or minutes with a credit card. The only way not to alert someone in an area that that mpd has been contacted to respond to an issue is to call an official on their cell phone. If you want to call 911 anonymously use an analog and not a digital cell phone(due to enhanced 911 tracking) that no longer has service that was not under your prior contract. All cell phones under fed law whether having service or not must be able to call 911. Many neighbors notice that when a 311 call is placed the individuals who are the subject of the call move out of the area quickly since they are monitoring 311/911.

-----Original Message-----
From:
Date: Mon, 12 Sep 2005 06:30:04
To:MPD-4D
Subject: RE: [MPD-4D] Scanners and Emerson St NW

Lt. -

So, when residents call 311 and ask to speak with an officer following an incident, is their information dispatched on the officers' radios (which can be heard by someone with a scanner) OR is that information provided seperately on the officers' cell phones?
When I call 311 or 911 for something critical, I often ask to speak with an officer following the incident to provide any information that might be important in an arrest. It is only under these circumstances that I provide my name, address, and phone number. I think residents need to know how this information is transmitted to the police for their own personal safety.
Thanks,


________________________________

From: MPD-4D
Sent: Sun 9/11/2005 8:33 PM
To: MPD 4D; 4D Neighbors; ANC4C09 ANC4C09Groups
Subject: [MPD-4D] Scanners and Emerson St NW



I just got off the phone with yet another resident of the 600 block of Emerson Street NW. He told me how the drug crowd there worked very aggressively, especially once the "boys" darkened street lights, getting a convenient night-time cover.

Question for the District government: Given the situation, why'd it take so long to fix those lights? Residents said the lights were out for weeks. Meanwhile, homeowners got to ! enjoy having the drug crew set off fireworks in front yards, driving by at a slow crawl, coldly staring into eyes of any neighbors they suspected of calling the Metropolitan Police (311,911), leaving messages formed with pebbles on residents' windshields.

The resident who called witnessed the drug-selling crowd listening to their own digital, police-radio scanners, allowing them to hear MPD calls, ensuring that the drug "boys" can be on the run or have their guns and drugs neatly tucked away out of sight and reach when MPD rolls around.

What are they hearing on those scanners? Can anyone tell me?

I think I heard there is a device that can jam scanners.

I wonder if there's any Homeland Security money kicking around that would allow residents to jam the dealers' scanners.

Techies of Ward 4 and anyone in the Metropolitan Police Department, any thoughts?

Friday

I HAVE THE DECAPITATED HEAD OF A SPIDERMAN ACTION FIGURE IN MY POCKET. I didn’t bite it off, I found it on the sidewalk. I find toys sometimes, but often I find pieces of toys. The toys get dropped out of windows of moving cars by kids. Then they get run over and pulverized by hundreds of vehicles . . . squeezed, crushed, dismembered and scattered around roads and parking lots. I find them and keep them. I have Big Bird’s foot too (I think).

Tuesday



I linked the above from bighappyfunhouse.com. There are whole communities of these old collectors online. I have some old photos I could contribute . . . here are some other sites like this:

squareamerica
phototaken.my-expressions.com
ookpiksnegz
happypalace
oldhaunts

Sunday

I like sunglasses that change the color of the world instead of just darkening it.

Wednesday

Beware of the Hardened, Street Microwave Dealer:
Don’t Bring Your Baby Out Here. . .

Reports from the home front, Homes. DC Metro Police Reports via crimereports.com:

PSA 705
8/24/2005 2:10:00 PM Hours
ROBBERY - PBS
Unit Block MISSISSIPPI AVE SE
CCN #05114230
C1 REPORTS WHILE STANDING AT THE BUS STOP, S1 APPROACHED ASKING "DO YOU
KNOW SOMEONE THAT WANTS A MICROWAVE?" C1 REPLIED NO. S1 SNATCHED C1'S HAND BAG FROM HER SHOULDER AND FLED IN AN UNKNOWN DIRECTION.
------------------------------------------------------------------------

PSA 701
8/25/2005 9:58:00 PM Hours
Assault With A Deadly Weapon - Other
1600 Block V ST SE
CCN #05115054
C1 REPORTS WHILE WALKING, S1 APPROACHED HER YELLING, "WHY DO YOU HAVE
YOUR BABY OUT HERE!"

S1 STRUCK C1 IN THE FACE AND UPPER BODY WITH A POLE. C1 RECEIVED TREATMENT AT HOWARD UNIVERSITY HOSPITAL. S1 FLED ON FOOT IN AN UNKNOWN DIRECTION.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PSA 501
8/25/2005 1:35:00 AM Hours
HOMICIDE - Gun
1400 Block 1ST ST NW
CCN #05114594
R1 REPORTS THAT UPON ARRIVAL AT THE LISTED LOCATION C1 WAS OBSERVED
LYING ON THE SIDE WALK SUFFERING FROM MULTIPLE GUNSHOT WOUNDS TO THE CHEST, ABDOMEN, AND HEAD AREA. C1 WAS TRANSPORTED TO MEDSTAR BY DCFD MEDIC 6 WHERE HE WAS PRONOUNCED DEAD.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PSA 501
8/25/2005 9:50:00 PM Hours
Assault With A Deadly Weapon - Other
2300 Block 1ST ST NW
CCN #05115053
C1 REPORTS THAT, DURING A VERBAL ALTERCATION WITH S1, S1 GRABBED C1'S
CANE AND BEGAN TO BEAT C1 ABOUT THE BODY. S1 THEN PUSHED C1 FROM HIS WHEEL CHAIR AND CONTINUED BY KICKING C1 ABOUT THE FACE AND BODY WITH HIS
RIGHT FOOT. S1 FLED.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PSA 504
8/25/2005 12:30:00 AM Hours
Assault With A Deadly Weapon - Other
2800 Block BENNING RD NE
CCN #05114775
c1 reports that after becoming involved in a verbal dispute with s1, s1 began punching her in the face and
biting her on the left hand and shoulder.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PSA 701
8/24/2005 1:00:00 AM Hours
Assault With A Deadly Weapon - Other
2700 Block BRUCE PL SE
CCN #05114074
C1 REPORTS THAT HE WAS APPROACHED BY SIX JUVENILES. S1 ASKED C1 FOR A
CIGARETTE. C1 STATED HE DIDN'T HAVE ONE. S1 STATED "STEP OFF!" S1-6 BEGAN TO VIOLENTLY KICK AND STOMP C1 CAUSING INJURIES. S1-6 FLED ON FOOT. C1 RECEIVED TREATMENT AT A HOSPITAL.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PSA 607
8/23/2005 11:24:00 PM Hours
Assault With A Deadly Weapon - Gun
1700 Block 16TH ST SE
CCN #05114038
C1 WAS FOUND WITH ONE GUNSHOT TO HIS BACK. C1 GAVE NO INFORMATION AS TO
WHO OR WHY HE WAS SHOT. THE AREA WAS CANVASSED.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PSA 502
8/24/2005 12:05:00 AM Hours
Assault With A Deadly Weapon - Gun
900 Block RHODE ISLAND AVE NE
CCN #05114054
C1-2 REPORT THAT WHILE IN THE VEHICLE THEY WERE APPROACHED BY S1 IN AN
UNKNOWN VEHICLE. S1 THEN BEGAN SHOOTING AT C1'S VEHICLE AND HIT C1 AND CAUSING INJURIES. C1 DROVE HIMSELF TO MEDSTAR WHERE HE WAS ADMITTED.
C2 WASN'T INJURED.

------------------------------------------------------------------------
PSA 504
8/24/2005 9:19:00 PM Hours
Assault With A Deadly Weapon - Gun
1100 Block 17TH ST NE
CCN #05114477
C1 REPORTS THAT S1 ASKED HIM FOR HIS MONEY AND THAT S1 PRODUCED A BLACK
HAND GUN AND PRODCEEDED TO FIRE ONE SHOT. S1 SHOT C1 IN THE UPPER RIGHT SHOULDER. S1 THEN FLED THE SCENE.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PSA 706
8/22/2005
10:30:00 PM Hours
Assault With A Deadly Weapon - Knife
4000 Block 8TH ST SE
CCN #05113452
C1 REPORTS WHILE WALKING AT THE LISTED LOCATION S1 APPROACHED
BRANDISHING A LARGE BUTCHER'S KNIFE IN C1'S FACE STATING "I'M GONNA KILL YOU. YOU BETTER NOT LET ME CATCH YOU SLIPPING."

Thursday

standin next to a cop and listenin to his walkie talkie

Tuesday

weaving through the crowd whispering "exotic love making techniques"

Saturday

Purse snatchin in Georgetown

Tuesday

A solar energy farm outside Las Vegas . . . am I right?

Monday

I buy toys and am ashamed of that, so I just say that I found them.

Sunday

When talking to the normals, you must impose a word count on yourself.

Saturday

Sorry I am such a slack blogger lately. I have to move, and I have to start up a new connection, and I really need a new computer, and work is so hard!!!! I'll get it together, and I'll be buzzing you folks soon!!

Monday

"I can do it," I said, and I took each hit, and I made decisions in advance.

Thursday

No, the address on my license does not match the adress where I currently reside.

(. . . and, no, Borf is not caught)

Wednesday

stomp on the hose that makes the bell ding inside
When you fall asleep on the commuter train, and you miss your stop, and you're on there just snoozing away, and the train finishes its run, and it pulls back into the yard, and the mechanics and all are there . . . you should see what they do to you

With a rowdy re-entry before lunch
and random numbers on the couch

I fixed him a plate
during all the wobble talk

each remembered when we all walked together
but no two continue to pace the same

a fraction of a mile per hour
accumulations of time in the face, feet, and belly

certain roads hurt the feet
we’re walking now, concentrate

pauses and accelerations
perfect places for lunch

when years between bites
decisions and the waitress

songs from north and south
channel three is thirteen and back again

when the impact and only
able to fix upon one phrase

up from the woods at night
and strike

the power of outside
the laws they break

every myth
every book they bind

the ceremony will proceed
it has been announced

Friday

. . . pullin apart my umbrella, putting pretty hats on unwilling heads . . .

Wednesday

From the bridge
the river bank below
visible from my seat in the back
when I was first able to see up and out

in that setting flowed many future memories
I would remember only by instinct
that shore
sighted from that bridge

a bluff there haunted with thoughts
something there for me
though I'd never been
a walk, a job, a course of study

I still glimpse the place
arriving by boat
or dirt road
or motionless thought

maybe it’s a wildlife refuge now
my vision captured the slowest
dynamic of the scene
geology slow

years when young weigh more
than those when old
warm was hot
cool was cold

poachers would only pass before or around
not through
nor during that vision
my dad humming at the wheel

a fisherman on shore
hooked our bumper
up on the bridge
and the line screamed off his reel

Tuesday

. . . and if one or two of your pubes pops out of your panties, hey, they won’t give you the death penalty . . .
reading minds without the use of a barf bag

Monday

I have not written a single poem about 9/11. Not one.

Thursday

visiting states with alligators in them

Wednesday

finding styley new ways to hang my sunglasses off of my person





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Saturday

comparing how I feel now with how I felt this morning

Thursday

The meaning (value) of life is all contained on one huge spreadsheet . . . somewhere . . .

Wednesday

When playing videos games, I used to try and kill off only as many bad guys as I had to in order to maintain my existence - I wouldn't clear out the level. I would just roam around the video game world, spending time in different parts of the maze or running in circles or even dancing.

There are so many ghosts swirling around you every second that no one ghost can claim a spot next to you for too long before she or he is caught back up in the swirl. I am working late. Late late. I am the only one here. People leave their little radios on just a mumble in their cubicles, and I hear them on my way to the copier. I get chills. I have walked right through a ghost before. I just knew. Warm and cold at the same time. Definitely alive. Paralyzed by the invisible life I’d walked into. She held me in that spot for a moment. I’d heard her story. It was sad.

Tuesday

Last post for a while. Nothing's really wrong. More details later.

Sunday

Last week I bought a self help . I was walking through the book store and the title caught me, Excuse Me, Your Life Is Waiting. Or something like that. I’m a sucker for a clever title. (It’s how I land on a lot of cool blogs when going through blog aggregaters and shit - long lists of blogs like the “Most Recently Updated Blog” lists - you know . . . . a good blog title is all you have to go on.) So the title of this self help book caught me. I picked it up and flipped to a random page, and it seemed great. Things I had been thinking about were in there: the amount of time I dwell on little stupid things that happen to me day to day - inconveniences, slights, bumps, rude behavior - I’ve been analyzing my thought routine - how much time I spend thinking about a rude comment a fucker made standing at the printer . . . what it means - the philosophy of it, the ethics, the true meaning - how it reflects on me - HOW DO PEOPLE SEE ME?!?! . . . all the shit I read into these stupid, trivial situations and really run with it and my heart, guts and limbs get all fluttery and before long I am really miserable and I know it is not healthy . . . so . . .I’ve begun to analyze how negative thinking can gain momentum and really become difficult to stop . . . and how it takes root deep in your subconscious - so deep you really don’t realize it is influencing you so profoundly - so deep you can’t do anything to stop it immediately. It takes time and effort to halt it and reverse it. So . . . this book was kind of touching on these things - things I’d been thinking of already so I said hell yeah and bought it. Well it turned out to be this horse shit about magnetic waves and attracting negative events by being in a bad mood and how there is scientific evidence to prove that if you are frowning, you will definitely bounce a check that day . . . I mean I could see it if she meant it figuratively, but she sited some bullshit source, some so called scientists or whatever pseudo science ‘managing her energy’ using the force, drinkin soda with Yoda, Mr. Miaggi A.K.A. Arnold from Happy Days. . . plus the writing was absolutely horrible . .. she moved way too slowly from example to example - dwelling too long on dumb shit . .. It sucked. I got fed up with it, and I left sitting there on the metro train. Maybe somebody will find it useful. So this week I bought a wilderness survival guide! Another one . . . I’m into books like these because I find it fascinating :::: what plants are edible, and how to make shelters out of branches and rocks and mud, and how to find water and make fire . . . and it has diagrams of traps you can spring on small animals so that you can eat them ! ! !

Tuesday

The training for my current job went as follows:

“Where ever you see question marks, fill in answers. Go get ‘em, Tiger!”

Thursday

I can't even read my own mind.

Sunday

. . . a crop duster, but with spray paint . . .

. . . talkin on a cel phone while he's playin pick-up soccer . . .

Saturday

When you are alone in a bar, you are scum whose only human contact is with the staff. They become so superior.

Am I really the guy who never acknowledges folks I see from my high school? So long ago? Hundred years yesterday.

Alone in these scarey times (because being alone is scary) I wonder: Am I in control? Where’s the old Bobby? What would the old Bobby Do? What is my pattern? What strategy for dealing with situations like this? There is not really a situation, I’m just alone and scared. So what would stable old reliable Bobby do? Bobby – who has gotten me to this point – what would he do? What should I do? Don’t know. There never has been a stable Bobby. Bobby has always balanced on the edge.

- - Scarey drunken post by Bobby

Monday

My internet connection and computer at home are fried, and I’ve been trying to keep up with blogging at work, but they keep making me do work at work. So until I get a new computer and connection at home, I’m going to be kind of a quiet little ghost. Any suggestions what kind of computer I should get? I want a laptop.

Sunday

Filmed before a live studio audience.

Thursday

I’ve got so much to say, I’m just gonna say it, and I am going to pattern this group of items in the form of a list – in honor of the greatest list compiler I have ever witnessed on the internet. It’s just of list of things - you know - I’m thinking:

1. I roam all over Washington, DC and super glue plastic toy soldiers to every surface I can.

2. There’s an exhaust vent or heating vent thing in a flowerbed outside this Art Museum/Art School here in Washington, DC. Homeless guys usually sleep there because it’s warm by that vent. Well, this performance artist has set up her exhibit right in their spot! She built a wooden platform there and sits on it wordlessly scowling out towards the White House all day and all night ignoring every word said to her (except to smile at it [a smile of hate {or mock hate?}]). Behind her are bottles of water for drinkin. In front of her are bottles for peein – seriously – I mean - some yellowish liquid which I am going to have to go ahead and guess are her urine. She just sits there wrapped in blankets. There’s a binder on a podium in front of her with her bio and her statement of purpose or whatever. Don’t get me wrong: I love performance art. Don’t get me wrong: I love the homeless.

3. When the tornado devastated the mental hospital, the patients were surprisingly calm.

4. Sitting in my apartment imitating every noise I hear in the hallway.

5. . . . just like those people who stop taking the medicine because one day they feel better . . .

6. Sometimes you see these bits of fuzz floating in the air and you wonder: Is that some weird insect? Is that part of a plant? Is that the filling from somebody’s jacket?

7. The story of an art museum security guard who allows the janitor to sleep in the museum at night because he’s been evicted. Sometimes the poor guy oversleeps, and he has to remain perfectly still because the museum has opened, and the patrons think he is an exhibit.
this is an audio post - click to play

Wednesday

At closing time, no matter where I am, I start looking around for hiding places. Where could I hang until all the workers have left? Between racks? Under a table? Above the ceiling tiles? Once they leave, I'll be able to run around this place like a crazy person (as long as there is no motion sensor). I could let the rent go on my apartment and just come here every night. Yep.

Monday

. . . like Pacman right after he's eaten the BIG cookie . . .

Saturday

untitled

. . . waiting in the car in the cemetery parking lot during the ceremony

Wednesday

I should blog more positively.

Thursday

Here's a Shitty Memory

A guy who beat me up in high school after football practice went on to become a cop after graduation. After graduation, I went to a local college. I worked at a local restaurant. It was a damn cool restaurant, actually. It attracted all specimens of society in Portsmouth, Virginia. Including fuckin cops. Yep. I had to wait on this guy numerous times. He would actually request me when he came in. The kid who, in high school football practice, kept cutting in line and shoving me during drills, between plays, calling me a bitch, the kid who grabbed me by my face mask and twisted my neck all around and followed me after practice and told me to meet him behind Ames department store. So I did. The first thing he did was grab me by my hair and pull my face into his knee. He pounded me pretty good for a while. I mounted a minor comeback toward the end - pinned him against this hand rail and elbowed him in the face and pounded him in the guts. But everyone who witnessed it said, yep, I got my ass whipped, even my friends. Shit. The fight lasted a good ten, fifteen minutes. It seemed like forever. In the end, we were both just exhausted, and staggering around. Two football practices – one in the morning and one in the afternoon - and then a good, long brawl like that will take a lot out of you. The cops arrived. They put us in the squad car and took us to our football coach. That was great! (Coach was my Biology teacher too.) Yeah. Extra laps before and after practice for the rest of that miserable fuckin season and all kinds of other special treatment. Clean the chalk board, clean up the class room after frog dissection day or whatever the fuck. Finally I quit. Football I mean, not Biology. Fuck football. We lost every fuckin game anyway. Wrestling season was coming up, though I sucked at that sport too. Soccer was really my sport anyway, goddammit.

So yeah - he beat me up and became a cop after high school. It seems like bullies make such great cops. And I had to serve him his miserable fuckin fried catfish or whatever. Refill his tea. I never spit in his food once. I don’t know. He tipped alright. He didn’t really fuck with me like I thought he would - you know - not outright. He was friendly, and he didn’t talk my head off or run me back and forth for one ice cube at a time. We actually kind of joked around at times and shit. So I guess it was alright.

Saturday

Why do we find it so funny when our pets menace or attack our siblings?

Wednesday

As soon as things get stressful for the lady in the next cubicle, I start to hear the pill bottles rattle.

Friday

When you are in a loud, crowded bar, and all you can think of to do (in your condition or your situation) is go up to the juke box and flip through songs for well over an hour, and you finally make some selections after inventorying every single tune in there, and you have your dollar bills in your hand - AND YOU KNOW - you know - that as soon as you start jamming dollars into this thing and pushing buttons - you will assume a special role in that bar - and your selections will drown out many of the conversations going on in there - the attention of everybody in that bar will be on you. Choose well, Bud. Your back is to them - Yes - but they are staring at your ass.

I was a hero one night simply for playing the song "Hey Jude."
My dad worked for GE for twenty-some years from the late 1960's into the eighties. He did all kinds of design work. He designed the casings and containers and packaging and cabinets that the electronics or whatever came in. He designed casings for warheads (no shit). He once worked on a project where they were trying to build a nuclear blast resistant booth made out of diamonds. Do you remember the old televisions with the huge, beautiful, ornate cabinets? My dad. My dad would design these things, and one time he brought one home (a TV cabinet - not a warhead, not a booth constructed of diamonds - a TV cabinet, he brought home), and I was amazed at the site of it, but I went up to it, and I opened it, and it was empty. I said, "Where's the TV, Daddy?"

I climbed inside the cabinet, and shut the doors, and just sat there until somebody made me get out.

A week or so later, he brought home a TV - a real beauty. It didn't fit inside the cabinet, it was a stand-alone kind of unit. So it sat in our living room next to the really ornate cabinet for years. The TV had that old kind of remote control - a clicker - remember? It worked by making a sound at a certain pitch or frequency or whatever - and that sound would signal the TV and change the channels and turn it on and off and shit. Well - my brother always wore a wallet with a chain on it. One time my brother walked into the room wearing that chained wallet of his with the chain just jingling and jingling, and one of those jingle sounds off of his chain matched - exactly - that certain pitch or frequency or whatever, and it turned the TV on. My brother was like - "What the . .. ?"

Sunday

My blog has not made me famous yet. What's going on here? And Blogger is only paying me $25 per word. Is this really worth it?

Friday

. . . live and die without doing much thinking . . .

Saturday

untitled

Showing up at small town events in a costume waiting to be revealed as somebody nobody knows

Monday

My cousin used to work in a prison, and he told me that sometimes, people on the outside – friends of inmates – would take bows and arrows, and they would . . . like . . . tape joints or whatever to the arrows and shoot the arrows into the prison yard, and the inmates would retrieve them. Can you imagine - you’re standing there, and all of a sudden an arrow pierces your eyeball, and it is sticking out of your eye socket, and it’s got joints taped to it, and so you’re like, “Hey! Sweet! Like . . . Joints! But ouch, you know? There’s . . . like . . . this arrow sticking in my eyeball and all.”

This is why I love my blog (and poetry) – it gives me the opportunity to do, online, what I do in real life – namely: start weird, one-sided, unsolicited conversations about obscure, untimely, out of context subjects – out of the blue, just saying stuff I’ve heard or seen because for some reason, the stuff surfaces in the ridiculous spin cycle that my brain always seems to be on – and so I mention it to whomever. Like the following: Whenever I point at something so that my cat will look at it, my cat just looks at my pointing finger and then looks at me like “What? It’s your finger. So what.” You know? Instead of looking at what I’m pointing at I mean.

Friday

One of these days I’m going to buy about a hundred packs of underwear, and I’m going to come to my office building here at some weird hour during the weekend. I’m going to go to each chair and stretch a pair of underwear over the top of each chair. When I’m done, every chair in the company will have underwear over the top of it. And I’ll come in on Monday and try my best to act surprised.

Monday

. . . googling all the people I have done wrong . . .

Tuesday

. . . when you give somebody the finger, and they wave at you, because they first thought you were waving at them, but then they look closer and realize you are giving them the finger, so they retract their waving hand as though it had just gotten burnt, and they look at you in a confused kind of way. You know?

Saturday

When I was young, I only had one invisible, imaginary friend. Pretty pathetic. I couldn't even imagine a decent social life back when my imagination was at its strongest.

Thursday

This is what I'm talking about: Borf
I've seen Borf all over DC. I see Borf on my metro ride to work every day.

Saturday

When a crisis happens in a particular country, people around DC bring flowers and set them outside that country's embassy.
I was walking by the White House after playing soccer all afternoon one Saturday. I had my soccer ball in my bag. I wondered what would happen if I took that ball out of my bag and punted it over the fence into the White House compound. Would a sniper drop me right there?

Monday

She stole a few checks out of my check book and wrote herself a few drafts for cash. A couple hundred bucks. She was some stoner girl who crashed on the couch of this house where I lived for a while - some scholarship drama student who had dropped out. I didn't figure it out until my check for rent bounced. She had moved on by then. I heard that she got locked up in the psych ward after she went berserk and cut off all of her hair and tried to kill herself, a 'cry for help' type of attempt, I heard.

I left it alone.

Whatever. I guess it would have been pretty fucked up to wait for the girl to get discharged from the nut ward, and then have the cops come sprawl her across the hood of the squad car in the looney bin parking lot, and cuff her and stuff her, and cart her ass straight to jail before she's even finished her first cigarette in months. You know.

Sunday

I am a temp who has finally found a permanent job - temporarily. I knew that while this person was standing in my cubicle talking to me, if I were to suddenly stand up, he would step aside or step out of my cubicle or maybe feel startled or just feel as though I had to go somewhere, and that he was in the way or holding me up . . . yet I still stood up - quickly - but then I kind of slouched and leaned back and looked very relaxed, yet attentive - interested - so he resumed what he was saying - resumed the pace of it.

I just have to be on my feet sometimes.

Then, at lunch, people on the wait staff had words written on their hands -
Different words:
‘Blank,' ‘out back,' 'running,' ‘revised.' I knew what they were up to.
You have to have been in the business to know what they were up to.

Monday

I was on TV news tonight. "Tea. Hot tea. Yes indeed," is what I said. No shit. Some story about staying warm in the cold.

Tuesday

Don't you think you could just quit everything and open up a little shop in a little college town? A little bead shop or somethin - sell hacky sacks, tee-shirts, frisbies, sandals, all that shit college folks need - - a thrift store. Or a warehouse where you store students' junk when they're home - between dorm and apartment - whatever. Or a little beer and hot dog joint. Or beer and tacos. Or beer and sammiches. It'd be so easy. I wish life was easy.