There's an air of madness in the air.

Let's say air a few more times, hmm . . .

I walk down to the Pink to find Paul and a cheesburger, both offer benefits to my conversation with a newcastle. I get a smoke and a desire to head to Mother's which besides the Manhattan's which I know you loved, the atmosphere wreaked of Ertha Kitt. Faherty's it is and Ween awaits as it always does. We picked the wrong song, just so's you know, but fuck it. Two in the morning there's a drink in my hand, dirty martini. By the way, I'm excited at the potential (here he goes again) of the elusive meetings betwixt myself and a glass of Tanqueray. Oh yes, and you. You were there, I should remind you of that.
So I get my dog and return whilst normals sleep. In my craft or sullen art, oh wait Thomas said that. I say, what a beautiful night and right now Josie's on a vacation far away, (dat's for Emily, one day to meet on a porch not so far away) . . .

If anyone has any idea what I'm talking about . . . good. If not, PAY ATTENTION.

Next time I mean . . .

Do it all tomorrow, once again my friend.

ha.

I awoke at 5:08 to a beautiful woman dimly lit by the vague Rhode Island sunrise peaking through an orange bedsheet hung from nails above a window.

I lied.

The things holding the would be curtain weren't nails but a form of hook I'll never find in any Home Depot. But that's not what disturbed me. I fell in love this weekend. I fell in love with romance, passion and the inevitable conversation telling me that I have to go, she has to stay, it won't work, but in the meantime, let me carry you to your room only to not think and just do for the remainder of the night until we wake at 5:08.

I rode on my motorcycle through 15 different climates in three states. I fell asleep in middle of the Service station parking lot sprawled out on top of my bike, mouth open, probably half erect, and thinking of young girls with dresses that button from the front.

I would make it home eventually. Eventually I say because the time effaced itself from my life. I now sit here, thinking of Newport and banal conversations about how things could be and wonder if I should give it any more effort.

Not could be, were, I mean. What things are, well, she's not here, but then, even when I'm there, she never truly is. But then . . .

I like it that way says the tattooed cowboy on his mechanical horse riding off into the sunset of rain and pollution wishing only that he had arms around his waist for five more long bleeding warm petrified minutes.

You won't fall off, I assure you kid.

Hold on.

Every ending is a beginning. Repeat that ten times then call me me if the problem persists.

Yeah well, I've decided. I will not sastify you people with ideas and thoughts of gossip of who I think of at a certain time at a certain place, nay, no, not so.

I will spare the puppies of the world, for I am tired.

alas.

y'all have a great weekend. I shirley will.

She sat there watching, or at least looking my way, last night. I thought nothing of it.

I saw her at the same place today and she gave me a smile that said, you should talk to me. I knew it. You always know when you should, but again, it's the kinetic that I always have difficultly with.

So I did.

I know you, or I've met you before.
-Maybe
You know such and such.
-Yeah I know such and such. My name's so and so.
Hi, I'm this and that
-who?
thi . . . this and that
-hi (smile)

I was nervous. She said she saw me before and so my allegations were right. I felt like saying, it's my dog isn't it, or, you've noticed the shnazzy haircut I gave myself at 5 this morning, but what I said, after odd converstation about why we go to this place is:

okay we'll I'm sure I'll see you around.

She looked at me like, that's it. I'm looking intensly into your eyes (this is her talking to herself wanting to say this to me) and you leave with out engaging in a pleasant conversation on this amazing day, after you just found you've gotten an A in physics. Tell me that you're not just going to walk away.

I did. I like her and that's why I did. Who knows what she is or why she is, but she seems, well, new.

I like new. Who knows if I'll like her, but yet one more reason to leave my house, and that my people is why I get up in the morning.

Or at least why I got up today. Tommorrow is another story.


incidentally, robin, I feel for you. You're shittiness has made you immune to it for four years is what I figure. And if I see you at the Pink tonight at 1am, the whiskey is on me.

It's bad enough to wake up late after you've realized the magnitude of work you are missing out on because of something stupid like sleep, but to go to take a bite of your Life cereal only to almost take a bite of a huge carpenter ant, or ants I should say. They were swimming.

But this is not the first time.

Every night, day I get home, I see four or five around my kitchen. One night I realized that the box of AppleJacks I had above my cupboards, was infested, INFESTED people, with fucking ants.

It's sick and I want to get rid of these fuckers. Any ideas besides cleaning up after myself which is a goddamn feat in itself . . . but I will stand by the fact that, that is not the only reason why these things exist in my kitchen, for it is clean now.

They've grafittied the ant traps I left. They sit around drinking and laughing, mocking me for my feeble attempts.

Fuck I'm pissed.

My apologies to anyone I might have offended with my over-sexed personality ce soir. I will not blame it on alcyhol however. I meant what I said and I said what I meant. And for that that I apologize, only to cover my bases. Nothing was lost and perhaps something was gained, but only time will tell.

Thanks be to my dates. Y'all were a blast.

And to

---

perhaps I should pleasure myself more to ease the blow. No pun intended. Maybe.

Take it easy, but take it.

If you feel like getting depressed, not like Requiem for a Dream depressed, but like "goddamn mother fucker fucking asshole Bush/America" go see Farhenheit 9/11.

I wish I knew how to bold.

Terry, brother, I saw the sweat flying off your forehead whilst you walked from the laundrymat. Cart it my friend, lest you get hemorrhoids (or more if you have them).

I will be proming it up tonight, so I must attend to doing my hair and shaving for the next two hours. My face that is. And getting flowers for my dates.

Strike that.

We're going to scratch the flowers and go right with alcohol instead. I'll hear no complaints, so stop it.

The new Wilco and the new Ozomatli are fucking great. If you think not, you know not good things.

Jesus Christ, I might as well have said, riddle me this . . . did you read that shit?

Here's a little transcript from what happened this evening. Paul, Matthew, I understand that a roast beckoned this evening. I would do the same for sushi.

On a side note, everytime I spell check because I'm a fucking flash card away from being
illiterate, my computer busts all up. The web site freezes and what I just spent days writing gets lost, so guess what, I spell like shit, take it or leave it.

Now, as for what I spoke of this evening.

Turtles in an Aquarium

I sip my Bass as two TV’s play shit.
Football on one,
shit.
Not even legit, it’s a scrimmage.
Commercials of the History channel
No history,
shit.
It’s all speculation anyway.
The better show is in front of my face.
Not you, dip shits,
the turtles.
Yes, the turtles in the aquarium.
That’s legit,
and not shit.

Then of course Dylan's Last Thoughts on Woody Guthrie



Then finally, and a version of this originated on this site, thanks to Rachel:

Tick.

I was once asked what makes me tick. Here’s the answer . . .

Could it be the desire to find a connection, knowing only that it has been done before?
Perhaps.
Could it be that there has to be a reason for something somewhere and quite possibly I'll find out tomorrow?
Perhaps.
Or it could be that for all the absurdity, all the times I mess up, lose it, lose someone, give up, stop working, stop giving chances, stop taking chances, start riding fast, stop going slow, stop sleeping, quit reading Thomas at the Pink, stop writing about my day, my year, my decisions, my, my, this person, that person, that one over there with her head in her hands, me over here, face in a notepad, on the cusp of something, figuring out what someone else knows, thinking about what you know, or I know, or what Woody Guthrie knew and tried to tell, what I know and am trying to tell, or trying to listen, trying to keep my mouth shut for once, or open my mouth for once, for being honest, for saying sorry, or thanks or let's have a drink, or let's live, now, here, not tomorrow, today, the moment is gone as soon as you think it, but the clock still goes on and the apathy is enviable, especially when you stand on the rocks at the marina on a hot August evening when the storm clouds frame the sun over the water, a raindrop hits my book and the next line reads "and the rain began to fall," and makes me think, yes, this is where I am at, that is why I'm here, and I will see that again, and I can show this, regardless if you see what I do, I can show you this, and you can say what time is it, and I can say, "God knows," this is all worth it.
Bob Dylan said the answer to everything can be found at the Grand Canyon at Sundown. I'm not sure because I haven't been, but I can go and I will, and I'll see what he saw. That is beauty. That you can, I can, and yet those who can't, never will. That is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. Or in my own words, it's that simple.

Perhaps.

tick

Alright there people, check out this little dabble of ketchup:

tonight, if you're bored, or feel at all like being alienated, or doing some alienation, head on over to that Coffee & place just south of Spot (the place wherein I will start my caffeine high, writing and ultimately getting frustrated with everything).

Myself along with a very witty and sardonic freind of mine who is now in the process of picking a new name for herself, will go at 8 or so'ish and attempt to deliver lines of poetry in a dignified manner, in a dignified way. You all should stop by because it's a Wednesday.

I will say this - absurdness will be covered along with the ever famous poem by yours truthfully, Turtles in an Aquarium.
After that well . . . a decent bit o'debauchery.

That is all.

Alas.

-ticksayoybay