"What's your favorite beer?" I ask.
"Two Hearted," replied the one.
I turned to the other.
"Same," he said.
"Me too!" I hollered back.
Then we each took a big pull from our High Life's.
8.08.2013
x2 Heart
At a party. Stuck up a conversation with two guys and the conversation swiftly turned to beer.
4.17.2013
John Elway Leaves His Hotel In Boston
...Carrying an incredibly small coffee, an egg sandwich, and a bottle of freshly squeezed mountain lion urine
6.16.2012
Ode to Perfection
Reflecting upon my new born son
It seems my work is done
For no better thing can I hope to achieve
Than what I have conceived
It seems my work is done
For no better thing can I hope to achieve
Than what I have conceived
6.11.2012
the tangy taste of expiration
I was in a zone. I could not take my eyes off the barmaid. She looked as though she had lived a hard life, her face and hands wrinkled, her voice gravely like that of a decades long smoker.
I watched as she would take her knife and plunge it in and out of the fruit in the same habitual manner that she had for years. It was not a very skilled maneuver she performed and she was lousy at it.
I sat in a private terror that had things gone just a bit differently, that could have been me cutting fruit in that smokey, dimly lit bar. At one point that may have been a fantasy of mine.
Now I sit at a desktop performing the same mundane tasks day in and day out. So badly I wanted to remove myself from the very same position this barmaid was in, and now as irony sets in, I find myself wanting to be back there, with that knife it my cigarette stained hands.
As the hours pass and the nozzle attached to the wall tap of scotch could pour no more, I become mindful of a long drive home. The lousy feeling in my gut is probably from too much cheap booze.
Immediately upon standing I start to see patterns, clouds of cigarette smoke blur my vision. I hit the ground with a thud, vomiting the entire way down.
The diffusion of my throw up causes the remaining patrons to get up and leave, shouting words of praise for how much I could drink. As my memories begin to return, I realize I was not the victim of too much scotch.
That spicy ranch dressing I had on my salad earlier in the day was not spicy ranch dressing at all. That, after all, was the tangy taste of expiration.
I watched as she would take her knife and plunge it in and out of the fruit in the same habitual manner that she had for years. It was not a very skilled maneuver she performed and she was lousy at it.
I sat in a private terror that had things gone just a bit differently, that could have been me cutting fruit in that smokey, dimly lit bar. At one point that may have been a fantasy of mine.
Now I sit at a desktop performing the same mundane tasks day in and day out. So badly I wanted to remove myself from the very same position this barmaid was in, and now as irony sets in, I find myself wanting to be back there, with that knife it my cigarette stained hands.
As the hours pass and the nozzle attached to the wall tap of scotch could pour no more, I become mindful of a long drive home. The lousy feeling in my gut is probably from too much cheap booze.
Immediately upon standing I start to see patterns, clouds of cigarette smoke blur my vision. I hit the ground with a thud, vomiting the entire way down.
The diffusion of my throw up causes the remaining patrons to get up and leave, shouting words of praise for how much I could drink. As my memories begin to return, I realize I was not the victim of too much scotch.
That spicy ranch dressing I had on my salad earlier in the day was not spicy ranch dressing at all. That, after all, was the tangy taste of expiration.
Revolution #8
Revolution, method, prospect, wave, planter, subjugate, sandbar, doorknob, generation, elephant, forecast, action, celebration, reservoir, bladder, medium, century, thunder, wangle, chino
The prospect of revolution just went from medium to imminent
A generation feels the call to action as the celebration ends
The white elephant has entered the room just as forecast
Breaking off the doorknob with a thunder and crashing through the planter
A century beached on a sandbar dreaming of a wave to freedom.
Their bladder’s full, they are subjugate to its release
And assemble at the reservoir donning chino,
Developing a method to wangle credibility.
The prospect of revolution just went from medium to imminent
A generation feels the call to action as the celebration ends
The white elephant has entered the room just as forecast
Breaking off the doorknob with a thunder and crashing through the planter
A century beached on a sandbar dreaming of a wave to freedom.
Their bladder’s full, they are subjugate to its release
And assemble at the reservoir donning chino,
Developing a method to wangle credibility.
6.01.2012
Diffusion of Terror
Zone praise terror fantasy lousy memories private patterns gut desktop plunge clouds mindful irony mundane knife nozzle habitual diffusion maneuver
Since we’re speaking in private I can tell you that my fantasy is to plunge this knife into someone’s gut. However, I’m mindful that my memories are lousy and this maneuver may be habitual.
Insensitive irony paints patterns of clouds in stabbing swaths throughout this time-zone.
Coworkers praise the safety of their desktop while I file this brass nozzle to a point.
Ahh, how the mundane can cause a diffusion of terror.
Since we’re speaking in private I can tell you that my fantasy is to plunge this knife into someone’s gut. However, I’m mindful that my memories are lousy and this maneuver may be habitual.
Insensitive irony paints patterns of clouds in stabbing swaths throughout this time-zone.
Coworkers praise the safety of their desktop while I file this brass nozzle to a point.
Ahh, how the mundane can cause a diffusion of terror.
5.30.2012
Night Maneuvers
I maneuver my
Terror knife to private zones.
Habitual me.
Lousy memories,
Fantasy and irony
Fuel my hate nozzle.
In praise of the plunge,
Long patterns leap from the gut
Painting fluid clouds
Not of mundane shape
But of soft diffusion and
Dark, growing splendor.
Now, calmly cleaning.
Ever mindful of the warm,
Rich cherry desktop
Zone of habitual terror
Zone, praise, terror, fantasy, lousy, memories, private, patterns, gut, desktop, plunge, clouds, mindful, irony, mundane, knife, nozzle, habitual, diffusion, maneuver
“Watch this maneuver” I say to Jeremy, elbowing him in the ribs, as I jump from my moving Segway onto the pale green lawn surrounding the governor’s mansion.
“Park Core” he shouts and launches his off the sidewalk and into a small fountain nearly toppling the perched gargoyle onto some unsuspecting penny wishers.
“I wish I wasn’t soaking wet” says the oldest boy, wringing water from his t-shirt. The picture on it is of Garfield with books strapped to his back and the caption “learning through osmosis”.
Its funny that the word “osmosis” actually means the diffusion of water through a semi-permeable membrane. Surprised you didn’t know that.
Wreaking havoc in public places and correcting the improper use of words and phrases is nearly habitual for this merry band of pranksters. In times of economic woe, like the one we suffer from today, their dubious acts are aimed at public officials and corporate fat cats who‘s excesses are abundant and a constant slap in the face for your average work-a-day Johnny.
Jeremy and I pull our plastic forks from the fashionable blue JanSport backpack he’s wearing and begin to assemble the words “free nozzle” on the governor’s lawn, but before we can finish an husky security guard whom we’ve tussled with before is bearing down on us with a can of pepper spray in one hand and a 3 inch pocket knife in the other. Lord only knows what he plans to do with the pocket knife, but sufficed to say we’re afraid to find out. I assume his job is just so mundane that to cut up a couple punks would be the adventure of a lifetime. Also, because he says “I’m gon’ filet me some street toughs” in a thick southern drawl.
I’d call it irony when the Segway in the fountain starts to short out with a loud POP!, CRACKLE! and SNAP! And then a flash and a plume of smoke causing the ever approaching security guard to briefly turn his stone gaze away from Jeremy and I. Mindful of our opportunity for escape we start running in the direction of the clouds which are looming ominously over the subway station just a couple hundred feet away. We plunge down the staircase and over the turn-style hopping the bar with one hand while flipping the bird with the other. The grizzly looking recipient of our protruding appendages slides over her desktop like the Duke boys used to slide over the hood of the General Lee and sets after us minus one pair of pumps and one crimson red wig, the former for speed, the latter completely unintentional. When I see the hairpiece falling to the ground I double over in laughter holding my gut. WHACK! Suddenly she thumps me with her nightstick and I’m falling to the ground. The last thing I remember is thinking how weird the patterns on the floor seem in intersecting lines of grey and white tile.
At some point later I wake up in a private room. My arms are handcuffed to the back of a metal chair. I’m alone with my thoughts and scour my memories for anything that can help me out of this untimely situation. What happened to Jeremy? Where is everyone? What the hell does “free nozzle” mean? The room is damp and lousy with the smell of grape drink and cigarettes, mostly cigarettes. Briefly I return to a fantasy I had in high school wherein I was seduced by my home-economics teacher, only…where were the cinnamon rolls? But this isn’t a fantasy, the feeling fades and in enters one of complete terror. Is this it? Am I finally going to be held accountable for all the years of public disturbance, uncivil disobedience and absurd for-instance our rabble rousing crew of pranksters has unleashed upon the fair city of Chicago. Suddenly it hits me…praise Jesus this isn’t real. Its merely a pretty lame episode of The Twilight Zone.
“Watch this maneuver” I say to Jeremy, elbowing him in the ribs, as I jump from my moving Segway onto the pale green lawn surrounding the governor’s mansion.
“Park Core” he shouts and launches his off the sidewalk and into a small fountain nearly toppling the perched gargoyle onto some unsuspecting penny wishers.
“I wish I wasn’t soaking wet” says the oldest boy, wringing water from his t-shirt. The picture on it is of Garfield with books strapped to his back and the caption “learning through osmosis”.
Its funny that the word “osmosis” actually means the diffusion of water through a semi-permeable membrane. Surprised you didn’t know that.
Wreaking havoc in public places and correcting the improper use of words and phrases is nearly habitual for this merry band of pranksters. In times of economic woe, like the one we suffer from today, their dubious acts are aimed at public officials and corporate fat cats who‘s excesses are abundant and a constant slap in the face for your average work-a-day Johnny.
Jeremy and I pull our plastic forks from the fashionable blue JanSport backpack he’s wearing and begin to assemble the words “free nozzle” on the governor’s lawn, but before we can finish an husky security guard whom we’ve tussled with before is bearing down on us with a can of pepper spray in one hand and a 3 inch pocket knife in the other. Lord only knows what he plans to do with the pocket knife, but sufficed to say we’re afraid to find out. I assume his job is just so mundane that to cut up a couple punks would be the adventure of a lifetime. Also, because he says “I’m gon’ filet me some street toughs” in a thick southern drawl.
I’d call it irony when the Segway in the fountain starts to short out with a loud POP!, CRACKLE! and SNAP! And then a flash and a plume of smoke causing the ever approaching security guard to briefly turn his stone gaze away from Jeremy and I. Mindful of our opportunity for escape we start running in the direction of the clouds which are looming ominously over the subway station just a couple hundred feet away. We plunge down the staircase and over the turn-style hopping the bar with one hand while flipping the bird with the other. The grizzly looking recipient of our protruding appendages slides over her desktop like the Duke boys used to slide over the hood of the General Lee and sets after us minus one pair of pumps and one crimson red wig, the former for speed, the latter completely unintentional. When I see the hairpiece falling to the ground I double over in laughter holding my gut. WHACK! Suddenly she thumps me with her nightstick and I’m falling to the ground. The last thing I remember is thinking how weird the patterns on the floor seem in intersecting lines of grey and white tile.
At some point later I wake up in a private room. My arms are handcuffed to the back of a metal chair. I’m alone with my thoughts and scour my memories for anything that can help me out of this untimely situation. What happened to Jeremy? Where is everyone? What the hell does “free nozzle” mean? The room is damp and lousy with the smell of grape drink and cigarettes, mostly cigarettes. Briefly I return to a fantasy I had in high school wherein I was seduced by my home-economics teacher, only…where were the cinnamon rolls? But this isn’t a fantasy, the feeling fades and in enters one of complete terror. Is this it? Am I finally going to be held accountable for all the years of public disturbance, uncivil disobedience and absurd for-instance our rabble rousing crew of pranksters has unleashed upon the fair city of Chicago. Suddenly it hits me…praise Jesus this isn’t real. Its merely a pretty lame episode of The Twilight Zone.
5.29.2012
Private Melanie for work-a-day Johnny
Zone, praise, terror, fantasy, lousy, memories, private, patters, gut, desktop, plunge, clouds, mindful, irony, mundane, knife, nozzle, habitual, diffusion, maneuver
I work at Auto-Zone three days a week. 10 hour days slinging oil filters and answering questions about the which spark plugs fire quickest and whether or not you need a gap wrench at $7.95 to ensure the pre-spaced Split-Fire spark plugs are sized appropriately for your 1997 Honda Accord. Praise God if it isn’t complete terror. I spend the day lost in fantasy about my one true love. To say I’m a lousy salesman would not be an understatement as each benign question only beckons memories of my soul mate Private Melanie Rundel, 82nd Airborne division based out of Fort Bragg and currently serving in Baghdad. Its somehow easy for me to relate the sale of simple quart of 5w-30 with the time she taught me about the importance of using natural oil when applying patterns of camouflage during recon missions in Iraq. She is the ultimate soldier with the mind of Sun Tzu and the steel gut of a commercial grade Dixon model 3200 trash compactor. I love her beyond words and constantly day dream of the next time I swipe clean the nearest desktop and plunge my love piece into her waiting flesh clouds. I’m mindful that my comparisons matter little to the customer. All they care about is getting whatever technological miracle will make their car get to their next appointment. Isn’t it irony that what they want and what I want could be so different yet matter equally little in this mundane existence we call lives. It’s a knife in the back every time some one requests a nozzle, radiator hose or otherwise. Its almost habitual to think of her. Jokes aside, I long to hear that pet name and for her to “turn me on.” Diffusion is my only recourse, and so I jest with each sale of power steering fluid until my gal returns. Only one more maneuver behind enemy lines and her tour is complete. Auto-zone is promising me a week off.
I work at Auto-Zone three days a week. 10 hour days slinging oil filters and answering questions about the which spark plugs fire quickest and whether or not you need a gap wrench at $7.95 to ensure the pre-spaced Split-Fire spark plugs are sized appropriately for your 1997 Honda Accord. Praise God if it isn’t complete terror. I spend the day lost in fantasy about my one true love. To say I’m a lousy salesman would not be an understatement as each benign question only beckons memories of my soul mate Private Melanie Rundel, 82nd Airborne division based out of Fort Bragg and currently serving in Baghdad. Its somehow easy for me to relate the sale of simple quart of 5w-30 with the time she taught me about the importance of using natural oil when applying patterns of camouflage during recon missions in Iraq. She is the ultimate soldier with the mind of Sun Tzu and the steel gut of a commercial grade Dixon model 3200 trash compactor. I love her beyond words and constantly day dream of the next time I swipe clean the nearest desktop and plunge my love piece into her waiting flesh clouds. I’m mindful that my comparisons matter little to the customer. All they care about is getting whatever technological miracle will make their car get to their next appointment. Isn’t it irony that what they want and what I want could be so different yet matter equally little in this mundane existence we call lives. It’s a knife in the back every time some one requests a nozzle, radiator hose or otherwise. Its almost habitual to think of her. Jokes aside, I long to hear that pet name and for her to “turn me on.” Diffusion is my only recourse, and so I jest with each sale of power steering fluid until my gal returns. Only one more maneuver behind enemy lines and her tour is complete. Auto-zone is promising me a week off.
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