"What Comes After Happily Never After?"

Daniel Pruitt makes
Me want to drink gasoline.
He makes my stomach churn
With that which he has
Set his whole heart on:
To take that unnatural/darkness and
Cover even night with it.
Yes, the man who
Face-fucked me with
His fist while wearing
Blue bib overalls has dreams.
In his dream,
We will all follow into
The righteousness that is
Invented in him.
And no one will ask
Him to turn his
Stereo down.

Facebook: a new fucking gimmick for life (or, I haven't said the F-word in a while)

Well, it's not so new anymore...only to those who have not.

Moving on. I received a Pell grant for my "studies" in education--nice. However, it really means that I don't feel so bad if I drop the whole education career, letting my wife win the bread and honey for a while, with me being a stay-at-home dad and cool-as-shit motherfucker {good thing the latter needn't any qualifications other than what I give it--fuck you [I've been working on my self-esteem (I guess only a few of you will actually find out how that's going)]}.

"You want me?

Well, fucking then come and get me."

Selfish

I don't know how many times I've posted that title, but I think of it almost every time I post. I just sold a bike with a tattoo in mind. Now I've got other things in there: Frances' birthday present, gift for my wife, donating it, or groceries (which then makes me think of what booze I would buy, since that's about all the groceries I shop for).
I've wanted this tattoo for a while (not the coy banana fish that some of you may well know from my earlier threats). I'm alone. I am alone along the shape of my body.
Love,
Paul
Post Script:
If you haven't heard about this, then give it a click (since that's about as much as we relate these days):
http://stereogum.com/archives/new-thom-yorke---all-for-the-best-stereogum-premie_079431.html

as unpoetic but yet

I've been playing guitar with by brother Jimmy lately. He has been in such a situation that has brought his presence to our home much more often. It is good for my soul.
A tool box for a kick stand, cracked symbols and blood on the snare. If not spirit, then what then?

What then bitch?

"Bolder financial workers leaned out their office windows Wednesday, taunting demonstrators and waving 10 pound notes at them."

Foggy Pennsylvania

If Pennsylvania was Buckeye, Az.

I was driving Pop J's big truck in the fog when I happened upon another big truck on the road, which had a very large sticker on the back window that read: FUCK SCOTTSDALE. That made me smile, not because I agree (though I probably do, with Scottsdale not in the least privileged, rather every other person who puts there weight in something other than spirit), but because it helped me remember how much I like to say the word Fuck, as timidly as I do, yet in a much different connotation. That bra-han looked straight at me, look as straight as his lips as straight as the bill of his FAMOUS hat, and gave me a nod like we eat the same shit for breakfast everyday--feeling mother fuckers like me. I smiled and gave him twiddle fingers. The word has been so silent on my lips.

There has been a lot of silence on my mountain-shaped lips. It gets lonely sipping coffee (among other things) by myself. I stopped brushing my teeth in the mornings--the taste of coffee is too good of company to part with sometimes. It is a knife for the blandness of my day.

I've been trying to write creatively lately, but nothing can knife that dullness of life I try to express. There aren't many that would see the beauty I try to convey, but hopefully, hopefully. Anyway, it's good practice for becoming a better writer, and reassuring myself that I still exist--in pain of lacking, existing all the more.

Well...all is well?

Frances. Self Portrait

"But in your fear you would seek only love's peace and love's pleasure,
Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love's threshing floor,
Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears."

We went to Las Vegas to visit Rosie and grandma Young. "Cancer runs in my family dear," my grandma Young tells. Aside from that, she is content with her dog Hershey and canasta.
In Kingman, Az, we visited my grandma Chapman, who refuses to accept earth and time. She still drives. She quivered, "I'm looking more like my mother all the time." This means she remembers my great-grandma Bratton as an old withered lady with dementia, rather than a beautiful lady who loved literature and painted-she used to give me frozen grapes while I looked at her bells and paintings. My grandma Chapman has her bells now, but their tolling has become dull.
A hard trip in some ways, but Rosies company did us well.