I tripped over a penguin at Walgreen’s.
I was getting my passport photo.
So was he.
He came out of no where
Like a fart at a dinner party.

I almost smashed the little guy
But I did a faceplant into the candy instead
It was sweet.
He looked at me on the floor
Like he wanted to kill me with his stubby penguin arms

I asked him where he was headed
As he dusted off his built in tuxedo.
He acted strange.
Like no one had ever tripped over him
And then questioned his destination before.

I guessed aloud that he was going to Antarctica.
All the penguins I’ve ever met were from there.
He spat at me.
Like I had inadvertently used
Some kind of penguin racial slur.

I wiped the spittle from my face
And wondered how many people have ever tasted penguin saliva
It’s quite thick
He then started cursing the Antarctic penguin
Like a crazy with a score to settle

I heard him say he was from Tierra del Fuego
It seemed like someplace a smart ass penguin would make up
Land of Fire
Like a penguin could actually be from someplace
That was either made of or somehow on fire

I told the Walgreen’s Photo Technician
That this penguin was out of his mind
He laughed at me
And said that Tierra del Fuego is an archipelago in Argentina
Like a penguin gets a passport just to go to Argentina

I knew right then that the penguin was a liar
He was probably some kind of terrorist dirty bomber spy
It was perfect
Like a flight attendant could stop a penguin
From high jacking an airplane

I stared deep into his beady bird eyes
Wondering how I could hand cuff him due to his lack of wrists
It was useless
He was going to escape no matter what
Like a rich man on the Titanic

I stood in front of the generic photo background
And asked the WPT if I could hold the penguin in my passport photo
He said no
Like my wife is going to believe me now that
I tripped over a penguin at Walgreen’s

Gypsies and Goats

Gypsies and Goats

I like to shoot at gypsies
While I roast a fatted goat
On an open campfire
Down beside my moat
That winds around my castle
And won’t let the gypsies in
Because the lion’s share of gypsies
Never learn to swim.

If by chance a gypsy
Decides to brave the rapids
Just to lick the drippings
Off the roasting goat I’ve fatted
I take my double barrel
Gypsy shooting rifle
And fire at their gypsy head
Missing by a mile

See I’d never kill a gypsy
If it came right down to killing
I shoot at them for sport
And it never costs a shilling
All I have to do is
Roast a goat out on the fire
Then gypsies will come running
From over on the Shire

So my castles free of gypsies
But my moat is full of bullets
And every day and night I feast
On roasted fat goat cutlets
I live the life that others dream
But never can achieve
Sitting in my castle
Shooting at gypsies

I Pushed a giraffe down the stiars.
He had it coming.
The wily way he walked.
So smug it made me sick.
Taking three steps at a time.
Who does that?
He rolled over the railing
And into the parking lot.
Like a sack of potatoes
Except with legs and a neck.
The libraian called 911.
So I karate chopped her cell phone
And told her I had a harpoon.
(I pretty much always carry a harpoon.)
When the police man showed up
He kept asking me why I pushed him
Like it wasn't obvious.
He tried to handcuff me
But I have such small hands
It was useless.
I took his billy club
And threw it in the fountain.
I wished that all giraffes
Would get put in their place.
At the trial the judge was a jerk.
And a giraffe lover.
He gave me life in prison
So I gave him the finger.
If I would have had my harpoon
That judge would have been a goner.
In jail the inmates beat me up
Like I was a punching bag
Except I would bleed alot.

It seems like for some reason
Everyone likes giraffes.
I don't see what the big deal is.

When the Grand Jury smashed the proverbial gavel of justice on the proverbial face of I. Lewis “Scooter” Libby Jr. on Friday, Americans watched in astonishment as their beloved Muppet turned Chief of Staff to Vice President Dick Cheney stood indicted on 5 counts. His less well known twin sister I. Lucy “Skeeter” Libby, of Muppet Babies fame, has been silent for the entire investigation only to emerge now and grant Jiminy Glick an exclusive interview. The following is a complete transcript of this incredible interview:

JIMINY: For the record can you state your full name.

SKEETER: I. Lucy “Skeeter” Libby

JIMINY: What does the I. stand for?

SKEETER: I don’t want to talk about it.

JIMINY: Wow, that’s an unusual first name.

SKEETER: That’s not what it actually stands for; I just don’t like to talk about my real name. Just call me Skeeter.

JIMINY: I see. . . well . . . Skeeter, can you tell me what the I stands for in your brother’s name?

SKEETER: I Can’t

JIMINY: Amazing.

SKEETER: You are a Moron.

JIMINY: How long have you known the accused?

SKEETER: We are twins.

JIMINY: So awhile then?

SKEETER: Yes

JIMINY: As his twin, you have the ability to read his mind. Do you believe him to be guilty?

SKEETER: You don’t mess around do you? I guess I don’t know. I haven’t talked to him since he left the Muppet scene to go to Washington.

JIMINY: When was that?

SKEETER: 1990. He worked for the Defense department under George Bush I. Or something like that.

JIMINY: Is it true he has been trying to distance himself from everything Muppet since that time?

SKEETER: Scooter was never really one of us. He was always thought he was better than the rest of us . . .

JIMINY: Even Kermit?

SKEETER: Yeah I guess. I noticed it especially on the set of the Muppet Babies. He really thought he was above playing a toddler. Since I was never on The Muppet Show itself he really looked down on me.

(She lights a cigarette)

JIMINY: Perjury. Obstruction of Justice. Making False Statements to a Grad Jury. Did you see any of these tendencies toward the criminal in “I Can’t” when you two were growing up?

SKEETER: Are you serious?

JIMINY: As Cancer.

(She blows a thick cloud of smoke, licks her fingers and puts out her half smoked Camel Red with the saliva. She puts it back in the hard pack.)

SKEETER: Scooter was nerd. Glasses, clipboard, weird shaped head, the whole thing. He never was much of a dangerous kid. I think it was the whole politician thing that made him into a liar. And to quote scripture, liars burn in hell.

JIMINY: Muppet Babies has been canceled for 16 years. Have you done anything since then?

SKEETER: You really know how to make a girl feel good about herself

JIMINY: Thank you

SKEETER: I did some straight to DVD Disney stuff. I got mixed up in some films than turned out to be a little more adult if you know what I mean. The checks still cashed so I couldn’t say no. After that I pretty much gave up acting. What do you want me to say. VH1 has been calling me for a “Behind the Muppet” thing but I think I’m going to pass.

JIMINY: What is Gonzo?

SKEETER: Are you kidding?

JIMINY: Just something I’ve always wondered.

SKEETER: I’m not sure but I think he got his start in the Philippines or something.

JIMINY: I always knew he was some kind of Asian. Do you have a favorite memory from Muppet Babies?

SKEETER: You might want to work on the order of your questions. Uh I guess I would have to say that time when Ralph and I made out in Gonzo’s Closet. Yeah… I miss Ralph.

JIMINY: Fozzie Bear has been quoted as saying “Scooter Libby is fat sack of lies. Wocka, Wocka, Wocka” Can you respond to that.

SKEETER: Fozzie is hilarious. People really don’t give him enough credit. What else can I say.

JIMINY: Do you think your brother will return to the Muppet world now that he has resigned in disgrace.

SKEETER: Before or after he rots in prison?

JIMINY: After.

SKEETER: I guess we’ll have to wait and see.

JIMINY: Thank you for your time.

Animal Lover

I bought a monkey with palsy from a guy on TV
And they threw in a hippo with epilepsy.
The day the two came by US Parcel Post
Was the happiest day in my lifetime, almost.

I unpacked my new friends and got them some food
And put newspaper down where the monkey went poo.
Wouldn't you know right there in the paper
Was a coupon for half off of a snake in a wheelchair.

So I logged on to redeem the exclusive web offer
And the feature this month was a donkey with cholera
I couldn’t resist his emaciated face
So I check marked the donkey along with the snake

They came the next day thanks to overnight shipping
The snakes wheels were stuck in a large donkey dripping
I was mad at Amazon for shipping them together
But they did arrive timely in spite of the weather

The snake knew the hippo and they talked about home
While the monkey called China on my cell phone
The donkey laid down by the fireplace
And continued to make uncontrollable waste

I found in my closet a pack of depends
And slipped one on to the donkeys hind end
He smiled and He Hawed and then closed his eyes
I'm glad someone loved him before he had to die

When I came back through my living room door
The hippo was thrashing around on the floor
I dove to protect the snake and the monkey
But they were both crushed like apricot chutney

I borrowed a bulldozer from a buddy of mine
And buried them all one at a time
I came back inside and turned on the TV
And cried myself to sleep watching Discovery.

Diary of a Dromedary

Dromedaries don't like camels.
They like Zydeco
And newsboy hats
They wear them on their one hump
As a sign of peace

Camels hate Dromedaries
They like yogurt
And mustached men
Like Bert Reynolds
And Steve Harvey

There is an unspoken agreement between Camels and Dromedaries
They can have yogurt and mustaches on men
And we can have newsboy hats and Zydeco
As long as they keep their extra hump to themselves
And don't flaunt it around like a loose woman

If you put a dromedary in a camels college writing class
He would shit a brick
And throw it at the teacher
Who is probably a two humped tramp
With a mustache

If you took a camel to a dromedary demolition derby
He would die of dehumping
As the demolition derby dromedaries
Rip off his pretentious protrusion
While wearing their symbolically peaceful newsboy hats

My heart breaks for my fellow beasts of burden
War is the scourge of a segregated society
Terrorism is the natural outcome of our circumstances
Violence is born out of class distinction
Racism will be the death of the desert.

My Sister is a Rhombus

My sister is a rhombus
She was adopted from Finland
They have lots of rhombuses
She eats beats
They don’t have beats in Finland
I get in trouble if I call her a rhombus
But I do it anyway
Because she is one

At dinner I don’t look at her
She might steal my soul
Finns are soul stealers
They use their eyes
My sister is 6
That is 78 in rhombus years
So hopefully she will die soon
But Finns can live a long time

In the park she plays in the sand
Digging for beats
Beats grow in sand
I take her shovel hostage
She cries to mom
I give it back
Finnish Rhombuses are cry babies
My mom likes cry babies

I tried to sell her on EBay
But no one bid
They were afraid she would steal their soul
I also tried to mail her to Finland
But their weren’t enough stamps
Mom says I should love her
And I do
It’s just that she’s a rhombus.

Boy George of the Jungle

This is the story of an effeminate fellow
Who lived in the jungle and wore neon yellow
The animals would stop and point up at him
In his yellow loincloth with its red rhinestone trim

“I am original unlike you jungle clones
With your beiges and tans and your soft neutral tones”
He said switching vines with the greatest of ease
Ignoring the taunts from the homophobic monkeys

“You boys wish you could have my movie star beauty
And could wear this loincloth like I do on my booty”
The creatures all laughed at his arrogant lisp
And went on about there jungle business

Then one day there came to the Jungle
A man by the name of Mr. O’Tungle
“This looks like the place to build me some factories
I’ll kill all these monkeys and burn down their trees”

Then out came Boy George, of the jungle that is
With his yellow loincloth and its red rhinestone friz
“Leave Mr. O’Tungle or face severe consequence”
But with George’s thick lisp it was hard to convince

The old fat O’Tungle stood there without blinking
And spit back at George, his breath mighty stinky
“What will you do to a strong man like me?
You’re just a girl with a capital G"

“Oh you think so sir so I guess you could take me
In an old fashioned duel refereed by these monkeys”
The monkeys looked on with the rest of the creatures
As the two men stared down each others features

”Well if that’s what you want than that’s what you’ll get”
He hocked up a big one and sealed the showdown with spit
And back they came at high noon on the dot
O’Tungle packing heat and George in his loincloth

“Where is your weapon you girly man fart?”
”I come just me my loincloth and heart”
A hush feel over the mixed mammal crowd
As the effeminate primate made the mean monkeys proud

They took ten paces in the hot jungle sun
George turned around and stuck up his buns
The reflection was blinding off his shiny buttocks
Knocked Mr. O’Tungle right out of his socks

The animals loved him for the great deed he had done
And next seasons fashions were filled with neon
George was a hero and went down in history
A legend, his sexual preference, a mystery

If James Bond had a bunny, and the bunny did not look good in a tuxedo, do you think that 007 would let him where a jumpsuit, or overalls, or a sundress, or a flesh colored unitard, or a dragon mask, if it made the bunny feel more comfortable even if it made people look down on the bunny and call him names like fancy, and ninny, and twirly, and lollipop, and loosey goosey, and then those same insensitive people would vicariously think less of the Bond man himself . . . or do you think that Bond, James Bond, would just have his bunny put down, or assassinated or guillotined or stir fried or sacked by a gaggle of pirates just because he refused to where the oppressive clothes of the aristocracy? It hardly seems fair.

"Jesus Not Supreme Court Material" Says Bush

As Hurricane Dennis marches toward the gulf coast like a crazed chimpanzee in uniform, another storm is a brewing’ off the coast of Washington D.C. and this monkey isn’t wearing any fancy pants. The partisan shit-storm that is about to reek havoc on the beaches of the Potomac is the battle over who will replace the late Supreme Court Justice Sandra Day O’Conner. After her tragic and metaphoric death by retirement last week, a vacancy has been opened on the highest bench in the land for the first time in over a decade. Her position as a moderate on an evenly divided court leaves President Bush with some big shoes to fill.

"She can’t just be replaced by anyone" says average American citizen John Travolta. "Sandra D’s staunch record, including not going to bed until she was legally wed, and keeping your filthy paws off her silky draws, were not only ground breaking constitutional law but they also made classic song lyrics". Rizzo was unavailable for comment.

And for once Mr. Travolta is absolutely right. The task of replacing the first woman ever appointed to the high court is a task so big that it makes Texas look like Connecticut. However Mr. Bush need not fear, whenever weak minded politicians need assistance they need look no further than the lobbyists to tell them exactly what to do. Taking into account the possibility of undo influence by several different special interest groups it appears that two different officials are emerging as front runners. The most widely spoken of is Alberto Gonzalez, the presidents’ token Latin friend and the attorney general of the United States. He is backed by the NRA and the low-rider association of America. Gonzalez is a moderate republican and could receive some limited democratic support. Grizzly Adams of the 9th District Court of Appeals on the other hand, has the support of the far right and righter. He is famous for his abortion sucks bumper sticker and matching T-Shirt, and has been known to hate gays. Grizzly is backed by the powerful Christian Coalition along with the Lumber Jack Alliance. He has a beard.

These two have dominated the early speculations of the talking heads, but a relative unknown out of Nazareth New Jersey named Jesus Christ has caught the eye of the press and the public. Although he is not quite as Latin as Gonzalez Jews are still considered minorities in some circles, and that can never hurt.

Bush said of the unknown Jesus from Jersey "I would like to know where he stands on the issues." And by "the issues" he is of course referring to the triumvirate of abortion, gay marriage, and Yankees/Red Sox. It is true that the Nazareth native has been relatively silent on these key points, choosing to speak in parables and provocative questions. But his presence and popular appeal is hard to overlook.

"He’s a flip flopper" says conservative commentator Pat Robertson "’Love Your Neighbor as Yourself’ ‘Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s’ . . . What if your neighbor is a gay? What if Caesar wants to abort my fetus? It’s just too dangerous; I think Grizzly Adams is the man for the job".

Pat is not alone; many people are raising questions as to the ability of Jesus to wear the robes of American justice. "I heard he healed a man who didn’t have any insurance" says Dr. Hurtmann a spokesman on behalf of the HMO association.
"His advocating of tunic ‘give-a-way’s’ and going the extra mile will have us out on the streets, eating cold fish heads and toast" says Margaret Miller of Second Mile Tunics in downtown D.C.
"I think Bush ought to go with the token".

Jesus has been hard to pin down for questioning, and rarely hosts his own press conferences. He is said to spend a lot of time alone, talking to himself, and has been seen down at the Warf mixing with some riff raff. US Weekly actually snapped a picture of him standing up in a boat fishing in his skivvies. President Bush puts it best when he says "I’m just not sure if this Jesus fella is Supreme Material". Bush then went on a tirade about the less than "supreme" contents of the Taco Bell Burrito Supreme.

It remains to be seen whether this underdog from the garden state stands a fighting chance this hurricane season. Partisan politics have a way of crucifying even the most worthy candidates. But if there is one man who can walk into the face of a political storm and command it, it is this Jew from Nazareth, New Jersey.

Gerald the Asthmatic Cheetah Part 1

Somewhere south of the suburban Serengeti there lives a brown spotted cheetah named Gerald. Gerald has Asthma. I only bring up the asthma because that is how Gerald introduces himself at dinner parties. “Hello, I’m Gerald the Asthmatic Cheetah”. He always says that having asthma is what separates him from the indistinguishable masses. I think it’s the asthma along with saying things like “indistinguishable masses”. Gerald is a regular Cheetah, a sort of hard-working, blue collar, every-Cheetah. He wears a red T-shirt with a pocket on the left front breast. Gerald, being the kind of cheetah that is embarrassed by referring to the pocket with the adjective breast, usually describes it by the less provocative word front. Inside his signature pocket Gerald keeps his secret weapon, his closest ally and his best friend, Raymond the inhaler. As far as breathing aids go Raymond is top notch; duel layer titanium alloy casing, patented double helix canister, and revolutionary lip moisturizing mouthpiece. Raymond prides himself on being the best experience you can have inhaling legally. And as for sidekicks there is none better. Raymond is always there for Gerald, whether the cheetah needs help at the factory or he needs a breath of fresh air to help him run down his breakfast. The two are inseparable. They finish each others sentences like an old married couple with telepathy. But it wasn’t always like this. There was a time when Gerald hated Raymond. Back before Gerald was so proud of his Asthma, and before Raymond was featured on the reality TV show “Pimp my Puffer”. . .

to be continued

I've been married a whole year. That is ridiculously amazing. I guess it kind of snuck up on me and then all of the sudden boom. I love it. I just wish I could figure out this marriage thing. Not that this past year has been bad or anything, it's just that I know I'm slacking hardcore. I am falling way short of my husbandly duty as spiritual leader because I am falling way short of my humanly duty to continue in a spiritual realationship with Christ. I don't know what else to say except that I need to do more to lead my marriage toward Chirst. Or maybe I need to allow God to lead me on a more regular basis. I don't know. Don't ever let anyone tell you being an adult is easy. Responsibilty blows and work is never as fun as it seems like it should be. I love my wife so much. I just wish I would make the time to do the things I know I need to do to make our marriage continue to grow. Pray for me I guess.

Shopping for a new Jesus

I'm walking the isles at the Jesus store
Looking for a quality product.
Perhaps a fine hand crafted Jesus
Or a powerful and efficient new model.
Something with that new Jesus smell.
Not to flashy though.
I don't want to get my Jesus jacked.

I pass the red furry Jesus
And the effeminate candle Jesus.
Kitsch Jesus just isn't my style
I need something more reliable
A Jesus with a money back guarantee.
And it better be in writing
Right on the box.

There is always the create-your-own-Jesus kit.
But I like my Jesus batteries included
No assembly required.
It just doesn’t seem like
They make Jesus like they used to
Maybe I'll just wait till my birthday
My wife always buys me Jesus.

It just never feels good
Walking into a store
And not buying anything.
Maybe I'll pick up some gummy Jesus
You know, for the kids.
I'll see what type of impulse Jesus
they have by the cash register.

Man 1: Pardon me do you have a hanky?

Man 2: How did you know I had a hanky?

Man 1: There is a hanky hanging from your breast pocket.

Man 2: How do you know I have breasts?

Man 1: Just becasue you have a breast pocket dosen't mean you have breasts.

Man 2: Don't get smart with me, beggar.

Man 1: It's just my allergies are killing me.

Man 2: I'd rather let you be killed than let you go on talking about my breasts.

Man 1: So you do have breasts?

Man 2: Quit slandering me.

Man 1: A question can't slander.

Man 2: Is that you're hooker or your wife Mr. Presidnet?

Man 1: Point taken.

Come to think of it.
Past the footsteps.
Soul intervention.
Miles of space.
Insert Interjection.
So to speak.
Turn back into.
Burnt filament
Long prestigious walks.
Self promotion.
Ill will to men.
If I were you.

Summer is a proud time if pride comes before the fall
Excuse me while I bulid an altar to myself

Does it matter anymore whether the time is wasted here or there? Are we mixing metaphors or sharing stolen property with the people. Wait that makes me a people. I am not a people. Long live the labor of the masses. Eventually the turn is inevitable. Ignoring wounds makes them worse not non-existent. I hope I don't wait for death to be my wake up call. I hate funerals.

"My sunburn hurts." Said the man who had been told a hundred times.

Accused before a jury of his peers for negligence. "I didn't know". He responded lackadaisically to the man with his finger on the decision maker.

"It was just an accident". The words slide out from his lips like everything he does could fall into that category.

He began his lie with a sincere apology for future wrongs "I'm sorry" The words sound calculated and not sincere like the phone system lady.

Individual instants
Creeping cowardly
From sex to silence

Wasted words
investing permanently
in lies of love

Apologize again
Crying cynically
on silk sheets

Degenerate Desire
resting secretly
in lock jawed lips

Hardened Heart
moving languidly
through lost life

Addicted to Almosts

So I fill my head with unthougts to relieve the pain of maybeness and uncontrollable futures. If all I have to deal with is a moment by moment forgetfulness and the idea that sleep is my most desired goal I won't have to do anything about the predicament of existence. He slowly takes away the excuses I am trying to build brick by brick like a jail cell and hurls them into the bottomless pit of omniscience. He knows that I am trying not to think about Him. He knows that I don't want to work on my soul. He knows that humility comes before change and that a proud piece of shit won't take a shower because that would be admitting defeat. So what if God beats me. I know he is right and I know I need what he is trying to give me. But then I couldn't worship myself if I let myself worship him. I just don't have that kind of time.

Ask a Hobo

Ask a hobo to dinner and what will he say
"Hell, Why not? What else was I doing today?"
Give the hobo directions, don't let him get lost
Give him money for taxis no matter the cost
If he says "Aye yo! Got a five spot for cigs?"
Throw him a Lincoln and watch his hobofied jigs.

If he shows up on time, great, good for you
But don't worry too much if he's running late too
A punctual hobo’s like a three legged cat
Nobody wants one but they’re fun to look at.
First thing he'll say is "Hey where’s da food"
Unless he's been drinking than he'll ask for the loo.

After his bowels are all emptied out
The loo will smell like fresh sauerkraut
“Let’s Eat” he’ll say and dig right in
Scarfing cheese, baked beans, and some grilled chicken
And he’ll keep on eating until the last dish
Or till he swells up like a pregnant blowfish

As soon as he’s done get that hobo outside
You want him gone if he explodes or dies.
Shake his hand if you want, but it’s not necessary
He lives in dumpster his hands could be scary
If he’s says “Thank you kindly” just smile and nod
But don’t worry an appreciative hobo is odd.

Now that your guest is back on the street
Crack open a cold one and put up your feet
You’ve done our city a wonderful deed
Preparing a meal for a person in need
At the end of the day there’s nothing like giving
Even if it’s to those who don’t work for a living

Blue skies in February

Over look the expansive ugliness

Of imported dirt

Brought in to make things flat

Clearing earth for progress

The telephone wires

Cut the horizon

Like a police barricade

Between the unnaturally new

And the majesty of the ancient sky

Reforming Creation

Like a weak god

Constructing away the chaos

Into cookie cutter cul-de-sacs

For the cause of convenience

The concrete curbs scream separation

Standardizing the flow of the fallen rain

Away from here

Here all the water

Must first be bottled

As a reflection on sacrifice I don't know what to say except that I don't much. I didn't I mean. I was going to but I justified not doing it pretty easily. I kind of meant to do better which I think counts for something, or maybe not. I wish I weren't so caught up in my ideas. Or better yet I wish I was caught up in better ideas, maybe ones that I won't even claim. Some thoughts I could attribute to other people. But than again I'm too proud to do that.

As far as first person goes. So I decided a while in the past ago I would make a bit of thing happen that I am now about to regret soon. I put out there just to be cool for a second that I might give up this blog and other such frivolous internet meanderings for the good period known as the lent. Well this and things and such will be happening again and anon for the next 40 days or so or just the 40 days. Recreactional internet and I must be waving goodbye to each other for the sake of my own discipline and commitment to things that I hope I will better realize after I put thought into it eventually someday or some 40 days from now. I think that goes without saying for itself but I thought I would mention it. So I will see you again post-Easter.

Tame my idealistic tounge. I shout from my comfort about the spiritual benifits of suffering. Talking of peace and making peace with yourself and the world are different things. Wisdom that is heavenly is pure, is submissive, full of mercy, impartial and sincere. The wisdom I seek is powerful and full of pride. My untamed tounge drips with the drool of good things I should have said. I consume other peoples ideas for my glory. And spit them out when I decide what their flaw is. A harvest of righteousness?

I'm addicted to the sound of my own voice. Can it happen this way every time I open my mouth? It's not profound. In fact it is quite dull and often vacuous obsequiousness. I said those words because I like the way they sound next to each other not because I really know what they mean. I can't get enough. It fills a void to spit words like accomplishments. Each one a prideful ego boost to a man who pretends he wants to become humble. The type of humiltiy people respect of course. The type that others want but only I can articulate. Only I have the proper words to describe the sheer magnitude of the humility that I seek. I will shut up now. But only because I have too.

Manage my ability to be involved in the mystical. Not too much so as to rock the boat. I wish that there was a way to become good at knowing what to say. I am saying I would take that class. If my encouraging words are seldom heard it is because I am in Kansas. Perhaps I should tell her that. But what if I was to know exactly what she needed to hear? I would feel like a trickster saying it. A manipulative magician working tricks in her to change the way she sees things. Is Jesus like magic? Is it wrong to want him to be? Than again I want results more than I want answers. Just go ahead and fix it all and it will be okay. Don't feel like you have to tell me more than that it is done. Thy will be done is what I am trying to say I suppose. Or is that my cop out of the day? Cynical people question everything even their sincerity in questioning everything. That's why cynicism kills encouragement; it is too caught up in the flaws of self and society to push the tender hearts that carry their flaws like heavy luggage without wheels. Stop standing at the baggage carasoul critiquing the possessions of your peers and run to help her, before the sheer weight makes her miss her flight. Mystisize me.

I used to think cracked hands didn't hurt.
That dry man hands just felt like regular hands.
I used to wonder why he came home so tired sometimes.
It seemed like he never could get rested.

Feeling in Color I awake with a stiff neck after a day of almosts and a night of swirling sleep. I can't see the plan unfold I can only have faith. Faith is feeling out of control and not caring. What would it look like to share my mind as it happens. Moment to moment each picture is something to give her, something she won't understand but she will love. I hate not knowing how to fix life. Fixing is so much eaiser when you know how. I really cuts down on the Bull Shit. But I am not called to know but to follow without knowledge. Bull Shit is not my calling.

Solitude filled with technology. Druged by the hope of new distraction. Don't think to long on one page or you will be left to die alone. Fake excitement popping in my brain like spyware. Where did this shit come from? On my knees in my apartment crying like I have never cried before. Did I really say those things? Manufacured need; faulty desire.

If today could last forever.
I would hold her like there is no tommorow.

I can cut the silence with a knife. I hear the sound of disconnect coming from my fingers. Pens are irreleveant in a paperless society. Take to the formula and dangle a carrot in front of it. It will stay put. I don't eat vegtables. I want to have my cake and eat it too and diet and call people who diet dumb and on and on until I don't know if cake is cake anymore. Bull shit is an art form. I work in the medium of Bull's Shit. I sculpt. With my hands. Is dreaming different than your doing lying to God? He put those dreams in me. Or are they temptations. Opprotunitty knocks and I make fun of someone else for hearing it because I know there is no such thing. Mystify me. I think I am better than everyone sometimes.

He Gives and Takes Away

My hand is gripping the things I call mine. The things I build myself from, and out of, and for. My hand begs the question "Can I possess?"

I need ownership to feel alive, but is feeling alive and being a living soul the same thing?

In my pile of comfort, covered in expensive feathers, plucked from expendable geese, I try to hide from possibility and from providence. From the taker.

Life is not mine. They are not mine. She is not mine. Is anything mine?