this will be an earthworm in 1000 years: March 2006

The dog is missing

and the children misses him.

This is my shadow

at the edge

of the Mojave

Desert.

This burned out

or (gas station) hasn't

hill-somebody's been here

So how old (do you think)

are these shoes on sticks? And who

leaves their shoes? I guess in the desert

one goes barefoot.

Help me take my life

less seriously. Dentist in seven and a half hours...one entire bottle of Chardonnay and is there a script to write?
Yes. Let me explain something to anyone who has some idea about riding out into the sunset and living like an artist for a while: It's fucking hard.

Hoping for the best is like asking your older brother to play Midge. Barbie's friend, Midge? the slutty one? Ask your brother to play Midge on the night she and Barbie are supposed to go to the prom. Midge ends up naked in the microwave.

I drive to Tijuana in the morning (if my phone wakes me up) where I will allow myself to be drugged and drilled and...this isn't making any sense. Why would I do this?

I have a cavity and no health insurnce.

Whose fault is that?

Bush, I blame Bush.

That's easy. Look, look...look at me! I'm yawning. That's how boring and unoriginal it is to me that you are blaming Bush.

He can't help it.

A fat kid with brown pants and a face full of potato salad.
An ugly homosexual resorts to the park.
A retard in a closet banging his head against a wall.
An inmate with his hands behind his back getting a Medical Shave from a prison guard.
Your father finishing an entire bag of baked Lays then farting for three hours on the couch and falling asleep.
Your mother alone in her bedroom
Abraham Lincoln with a black woman
College educated storyteller surrounded by children.

Is anyone ready for rapid fire questions? I can barely type without spilling my wine.

keeping myself honest

To wake without a purpose is to excersize enormous amounts of willpower...only when you're already in the business of giving yourself too much credit. Today was a drive across the Mojave desert. Blinded mind behind the wheel, thinking how the desert looks like it's dusted with sugar. There's a cloud in the sky that's shaped like Europe and maybe you start wondering what tonight's hotel will look like? Two stories? One? Indoor pool? Fucking that crawls through the walls? No. rarely that.

Americans don't fuck anymore. I've decided. You would too, staying where I do. True, on this budget we keep it as clean as we can, but some nights you wind up winding down some yellow hallway towards a door thick as cake with a frosting lock, carpet crawling over itself to reach you and you expect...illegal noise. A cetain amount. You watch Nick At Night with the sound low-one bump and the thumbs already sitting on mute. Mute. Head cocked to the side. Standing up. A creak. A nothing. Nothing. No fucking.