And she keeps hitting me in the fucking kidneys. And I like it. No I don't. He's kicking me in the teeth. I am sorry. No teeth. No luck. All sorrow. Good weekend. I just want to read that book that yo wrote back then.
December 2007 Archives
There's a drunk and another drunk at the bar and they are both failing horribly at telling the punchline to some jokes that they earlier have practiced way too much. He's Andre and she's sally. The people on TV are talking too much about porcupines.
If I could bite off the ass of a porcupine it would mean so little. I would still just be the guy who bit off the ass of a porcupine. It would not win me points on match.com. It would make me pariah amongst the friends.
I could love though. Mouth full of quills.
Quills inmy mouth, writing the things I cannot say on my own.
I miss so much.
I don't like writing about the good stuff. Not necessarily the bad stuff. Just the difficult stuff. That is what I prefer.
But tonight driving through this town tonight, during this time of the year that I have a psychologically disposition to breaking down, was like flying. I have laughed until my sides hurt. I have realized there is someone that knows the ends of all of my family stories when the beginnings are told.
I think there are songs that can and will be sung.
I think I will make it through these holidays, and the rest will become easier.
There are soldiers out tonight, even in this city. I have seen them in their clandestine suits. I have wondered about them through dreams.
Tomorrow will be another dream day for this fallen one. I am not broken or foresaken. Just fallen at this point.
From the top of the hill over there the scout can see everything and with that everything he cannot move. He want to tell his comrades what there is to come, but he just stand still and the whole world passes, at once, through his eye.
That is the nature of the scout. He has to understand it all. The soldier should understand very little if anything. There is this and there's the hospital. There's a nurse with a tender touch, or there's another day.
When they saw the whites of the eyes the muskets came ablastin'. The scout dreamed, closed his eyes and composed letters to his wife.
There was 30 shot initially, and one when they came face to face. Was it brothers? Of course it was. In some place or not with a name or not. No names on placards or plce cards. There would be no wedding or funeral. Just some dirt sifting through fingers.
One last look at the moon.
My point being that the man who took the bullet and the one who sent the bullet are one and the same.
