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Array
(
[sid] => 62999
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => episope 1.. Dressed up for blow hards
[time] => 2004-09-08 13:15:00
[hometext] =>
[bodytext] => Dressed up for blow-hards. peanut butter captain crunch and sticky teeth on Wednesday morning. The farm took its time to wake me up today. The chickens vacillate their love toys and I dream of rice paddies and vegan milkshake. I forensically examine every hair I pick off my pillow "Jean, long blonde and wavy, Moiré short soft and light, David short black and thick, Antreo the length of my finger and brown black, Me, Me and Me." no mysteries today. I'm fishing for conflict, a favorite TV alternative. I guess it's on to shirt collars and underwear drawers. Dusty rose colored terry-cloth sweat suit pants swirl around my ankles as I walk barefoot into a puddle of urine left by the resident *****zu. YAP! YAP! he looks up at me, underbitten and bug eyed. Filthy Animal. I curl my toes so the top pad of my foot does not contact the floor and hobble to the kitchen for more cereal. Then to the bathroom for a quick foot rinsing. I don't miss you in the morning, but then there's always something to show me how all over again. Breakfast, the minimalistic percussion in Latin jazz, fleshed out in classical guitar. My cereal tastes so inconsequential. The water on my foot feels futile. The Chuck Wagon has rolled on, and nothing is going to bring you back now. you're on your way to the airport, checking in, having your microphones inspected for anthrax While I'm having my interview at the retail association pushed beck, you're taking off your shoes for security. Monday, the 13th, at 9:00am, (dig dig). Off to jump in the Suwannee, and I'll be here, hum drumming it. Nothings going to bring you back now, short of five days and two plane rides. You'll be back to Portland. Not here. Not back to me. Once a month, like some kind of ***** up custody arrangement, I'll see you in bed in the morning and turn you on in a fake German accent, the return of Brumhilda. The return of the unapologetically fun morning. I'll lobby the house and senate, and play my guitar for at least twenty minutes a day. I'll write you a song, and I'll sing it to you when I think I can play the guitar part without the crippling shyness and stage fright. [comments] => 1 [counter] => 159 [topic] => 29 [informant] => MsScissors [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 1 [ratings] => 1 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => PetPoems )
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