Own up and feel better, bobby, nothing like dead letters and past philanderings with the truth to unsheathe you as truly ruthlessly delusional, uncouth, rude and blinkered, boinked and buzzed on purple juice. Crow not that dogood nazis and driveways nuts did you in. Your sin was in not singing. Your win is winding down anyhow, loud as you are, fond as you are wagging fingers at foes, trusting no one cept those Etobicoke hos. Dial me and I'll return your call: you must resign, that is all.


Too hot

Can I contribute a gift? You and me were tied to a tree. We don't know the chainsaw schedule. I was often afoul of the police. She dragged the fox tail hammock out to the woods and sang a piper's ballad. Milady of malady, dreading humid Saturdays. 

Mention most men. They are jelly until 10. A sweater song, come undone at the dangling string of root a gun. 

O, Electro chemical benzene molecule moist meatpacker backpack-flag-attacker! You sultrify the snark dens with leather pants and obsidian earrings. Twist your dope face into something good. Look around - there are 500 sq km of forestable wood. 

Never even met him. Saw reflections on a screen. Every day you have the same dream.


I See a Darkness

We are worn out and wondering why. I love you in the movie with the big blue African sky.

Oh, the little we love and can do. Unfortunately that music doesn't sustain a two hour spurt. You can't keep rhythm on the screen, you describe your day, like an insect colony production schedule determined to shovel as much dirt into the readers' eyes to make them grit and wince.

There is something you oughta know about the grocer down the block, where people in a hurry get 1L milk for $4.59: He has a room full of heat lamps in the back where his kids teach Vietnamese to strange truckers who have a thing for small-waisted cashiers.

You have to lay it all out there and hope, knowing of course that someone suddenly can't stand your guts and everything you keep bubbles up in the way you post photos, leave witty comments and even by the speed you answer your phone. I can't believe I haven't sat you down in years and told you all about those songs that brought me tears. I think there must have been a hundred.

That way that you were, I remember  it well, I think you are the same in my mind as the day at the airport, I have always just wanted to be near, to stay and not leave. I say prayers in the morning when you go to work and when I turn my first thought is 'did she drink her coffee'.

Oh great people I see you on the street, I see you on the sidewalk, my soundtrack in the car; you are a necessary part of the scenery, each wading through your tiny dreams, your big lungs and loud wails your pissing children your glorious christmas mornings when everything is even steven.

It's me, Andy, I haven't seen you in a while. Like he said you're going to wish you talked to me more when we were alive. I have the recording you made when we were kids, I remember I just laughed in the background; I think I remember everything you ever said. I don't know if it's a photographic memory but I'm certain it's a curse. You can't ever doubt my heart. I am still trying to start.


Pink socks

Pink socks in my nose
on the brown couch, in a row
are somewhat better than sweaty toes
but above both of those, is-not ironed clothes, not your feet decorated in red rows
-the warm winky weirdo I chose.


Kickstarting dead blog part 346

Kickstarting this dead blog is like trying to light a fire when you haven't lit a fire in a year and-most excruciating-you haven't cleaned out the ashes in like 15 years.