1. This is a picture of me.
2. The other day I was staring at this crane at a construction site while I was eating lunch. I looked at the height of the crane and wondered this: If it fell, would it land on me where I am currently sitting?
3. I was thinking about getting a P.A. System for my car - a loud speaker behind the grill with a mic inside the car... so I can do a little Spoken Word during my commute to and from work. I could start a car pool and make it into a rolling Open Mic.
4. I miss so many of my old blogging buddies. So many of them have slowed down or stopped. It makes me feel really good, though, when they visit my blog and comment. I started Skullbolt the blog in April of 2002. I was doing a temp job at Georgetown University Alumni Association at the time. I had all kinds of time to play on the internet. I mean - those jokers wouldn’t give me a task for weeks.
5. Today's my birthday. I am 36 years old.
This town where I live is having an art show right now. I think I'll go pull a little stunt. I'll let ya know how it goes.

Did ya hear? He's the Upsetter, Lee Perry



What about this? Poetry's Security Guard.
Because I am not at all career minded, I’m free to say and do a lot more at work than a lot of the other people there - people who are concerned about appearances. I say things that stun them. It’s an incredible freedom. It’s great fun. They have no way of responding. They are only able to smile and try to find some sort of escape route from this conversation they have fallen into - with me. Escape before you are seen talking to the freak temp guy. The looks on their faces make me laugh when I’m thinking about them later.


My ‘Service Engine Soon’ light came on recently. Maybe there’s a light like that blinking inside my skull. (((Service Bobby Soon))) I drove the car to AutoZone, and they plugged into my car (free) and read the code my car computer was throwing: P0174 - System Too Lean. I googled this code. Lots of messages posted to the net about trouble shooting cars - most seem misguided... and because I’m misguided, I read a while. I soon got sidetracked. I don’t care a whole lot because the car still runs, I’ll replace this and that until... finally... whatever... and because I am misguided, I’m considering the possibility of a little more meaning and value in life - that’s what’s important now.

A plan, maybe. If I went back to school, what would it be? Creative Writing? Sociology? World Affairs? Statistics? Microsoft Certification in SQL?

Here’s something: I’m alive. I’ve been thinking about that lately - that simple statement: I am alive. Yeah, I’m going to die some day. Sometimes I’m very sad. But I’m alive right now. I’m out there living my life, and there’s a lot out there for me and everybody else who’s still living. MAN, LISTEN: I got dents in my car from a crazy fucker who, for an instant, wished I was dead! NOW THAT IS A HEIGHTENED STATE OF LIVELINESS! He wanted to smash me into a ditch. He wished I was dead - I saw it when he got out of his truck. He soon became aware that I was about to kick him in the nuts: ALIVE! He soon calmed down and came to his senses, and the cops came, but he wished I was dead for a fraction of a second there... he’s alive, and me too, and he’s probably a soccer dad and all that shit (which is good for him, you know? great)

So... the Mass Air Flow Sensor, I tried that.


Walgreens had a sale on colored T-shirts, five for ten dollars. I went in and bought some. I picked out all different colors. When I got them home and took them out of the bag, each T-shirt - because of its color - reminded me of a T-shirt I used to wear of the same color - but the ones I was reminded of had logos or writing on them stating whatever purpose my life had at that time. The green T-shirt reminded me of the green T-shirt I wore when I worked at Great Big Greenhouse in highschool. The T-shirts reminded me of little league soccer team jerseys I’d worn. They reminded me of bands - concerts - where I bought the T-shirt. They reminded me of surf shop skate shop T-shirts and times that I tore them or bled on them or sweat or burned holes in them... Who would have thought that newly purchased, colored T-shirts - with no writing on them - could be such memory triggers?
It’s good to know, when driving around in circles in town during weird hours, that there are at least a couple of bars open - possibilities for some kind of human contact are there if you need them.


I had this friend in DC named Don. I saw him at all of the poetry readings in DC metro, and we started to hang out a lot. He liked to write poems - spontaneously - on the scene - on bar napkins. He even had a chapbook he was writing called Love Poems on Bar Napkins.

One time he wrote one of his love poems on a bar napkin, and he showed it to this girl in a bar. She started to read it, and then her friend said something to her, and she got distracted. She spilled her beer, and then she used Don’s poem to wipe up the beer spill. She realized what she had done, and she got this look on her not to laugh out loud...covering her mouth with her derision. I don’t know if Don thought so, but it seemed to me to be the cruelest fuckin thing I’d witnessed in quite a while. Don seemed to be half stunned, but he was still trying to hit on this girl... and therefore he was willing to allow her whatever cruelties she whimsically felt like dealing out. But poetry is Don’s thing - his poems have been in the Iowa Review and a lot of other places and shit - he’s no joke - he takes his poems very seriously... and that dumb girl just laughed it off... she looked to me for some kind of complicit expression - on my face - as if she was hoping I would sigh and roll my eyes and wordlessly convey something like, “I know. Who cares about this weirdo’s dumb poem?” I gave her a look that I was hoping would cause her to have great guilty feelings... but then I just tried not to look at her at all. She walked off leaving Don with his soggy fuckin poem.

I told Don to hurry up and transcribe his poem to another piece of paper before the writing on the napkin got blurred too badly.

...that was one cold, creep of a skank ‘ho’ - that girl... or maybe Don was the one - the one going around showing poems to girls in bars - as a way of hitting on them - I don’t know. The whole thing made me queasy.
Using a magnifying glass to burn words out of a dictionary in the sun, trying to estimate exactly how many people will care when I die, if I ever go crazy, it’ll probably happen in the morning, it’s my most creative time. Unless it happens in my sleep... I just wake up as a crazy person... Everybody wants to die in their sleep, but would they want to go crazy in their sleep?


By the time you read this

I will be thinking about something else...

therefore you should look and listen to THIS.



1. I don’t have any friends, and here’s how it affects my schedule: I have lots of time to think. And anyway, when I do spend time with other people, I often dominate that time with explanations of my own thoughts ... which tends to drive other people away - so it works out.

2. I think that being a good story teller doesn't always require the most creative or clever person. You just have to be a good collector - have a good memory. Remember the best stories. Keep them ready to cue up. Keep stories for all occasions. Know what parts to delete - what is necessary - where to start the story. Sometimes a story telling session - because of its spontaneously, tacitly agreed upon rules - requires that you - the narrator - were actually involved in the story - like, directly. You did the thing or the thing happened to you (a macho story telling situation perhaps). The story tellin sessions are better when there is no such limitation. You shouldn't steal stories. Credit your source. Or just begin your story by saying, "There was a guy..." or "There was this lady..." Sometimes you're in a story telling situation, and you have the perfect story - you're just waiting for your turn - and the context suddenly changes! Or the story tellin session ends - like because your boss walks up or whatever.

3. When sleeping your way to the top, kissing is optional.

4. How many times has a saxophone been used as an ashtray - like as it was being played... and when this happens, how often does that saxophone player set his saxophone down and prove how good of a slugger he is...

5. For all he knew, she was speakin ten different languages...

6. Going down to get her name adjusted.
I recently had my driver side rear view mirror torn off by an asshole who drove up onto the median from behind me - his truck side swiped my car as he bolted passed - half on the sidewalk, half in the lane... The mirror still hangs from the side of my car by the adjustment cable. Sometimes when I’m driving at higher speeds, the dangling mirror gets a bit of wind under it, and it flops up and bashes into my window - scaring the ever living dog shit out of me... usually it's when I'm deep in thought that this happens.


Greetings and short answers only today


So you had one or two drinks with your co-workers, and you're preparing to leave... but they talk you into having a few more drinks... and then a few more after that etc etc. Finally you leave - you get into your car and start the long drive home and then... suddenly the periphery is awash with flashing blue lights!



When a person gets arrested, their mug shot and their information - including the charges against them - it all gets posted to the county sheriff's web site.

I hope my mug is never posted up there, but if it does get posted here - if I get busted and they photograph me, I hope they don’t photograph me while I'm crying or something.


. . . an invention of little use, with no industrial or commercial value, by default, what is it: garbage, memento, abstraction, souvenir, gift, future relic, symbolization, shaping, portrayal, recyclable material, particular, art, reminder, trophy... I want to be the little golden guy on top of a trophy. You have trophies in your house, right? Don’t you look at the golden guy on top of the trophy sometimes and think, wow, that guy is a winner eternal.


Compared to what?

That is my new response to everything.


Part of a special task force assembled to fix my own errors. Volume, volume, volume - wholesale errors. Jobs are social traps. Sitting on the floor of your cubicle with papers spread around you looks very ‘special projects.’ I could walk around all day carrying one piece of paper - stepping hard - a serious look on my face - I could do that all day, and people would think I was ‘about something.’ They’d offer to help. They’d fall in behind me. If they asked what was up, and I didn’t tell them, they’d assume it was really bad, and they’d just follow - with determination. They’d figure that when we stopped walking, the truth would be there.