compassion is the new black.
i’m trying to get back. so i
try again. and
here we were:
food fried so nice and good,
sitting down, us both in the round –
this is nice! we haven’t been together in
what seems like forever
because we’re never in town!
catching up above-ground with Top-40 in the background –
about how far forward you can see,
and on and on about how great it would be,
and this was your second time starting a family
and me, me, me,
me?
please?
Continue reading
ahem:
if i were a cave man,
i wouldn’t be a strong man –
a warrior or a hunter
or hold a leadership position –
but i could at least be remembered
as a proud man.
i would sit by the lake
and smoke herb all-day from my wooden pipe
and think
and play with my dink
instead of fixing the crack in the basin
which is really just a naturally-occurring rock formation
at the base of a waterfall my wife & i
and our tribe call a kitchen sink.
i never said i would be the missing link –
only that i would think.
and touch my dink.
thank you.
//jf 11.2.2022
Photo by Following NYC on Pexels.com
voluptuousness at the grocery store –
of all places, i’m shore –
distracts me from what i even went there for.
i swear i have the list in-hand:
yellow mustard; country gravy; mini SOS pads,
and a friendly face patrolling should i forget such well-laid plans.
i don’t really want to be here but i am:
adulting is hard but proves i am a man!
another impromptu shopping experience in the can,
til i reach the impulse purchases at the exit door.
Ruggero Deodato’s “House on the Edge of the Park” is straight up “genre trash”. Terrible movie. Review over. For those wondering why this lesser-discussed grindhouse rape-revenge “most disturbing movie of all-time” nominee is so bad, let’s talk. Come on, I know this spot over by the park where we can groove, baby. I’ll be quick (probably not).
another morning,
another full moon –
entombed in this Pacific Northwestern Khartoum.
please Stargate rights-holders, don’t sue!
the waste paper basket is in full bloom
from all the other times the sacred rheum
once every thousand years was blew,
filling the air with its spume perfume.
the city won’t come around until the sun hits aground
so it’s too early still to exhume.
i exhale…
theory of a daskeman 