Sunday, November 22, 2009

Moving On Up


Your rise is a crime.
Behind bars of this rhyme
Seeking reprieve
Forced to take leave
My words lost, out of time.

Half filed in a drawer,
Half talk to the floor;
Your method obscene
Like a misguided teen
On track to simply Produce more.

Never a word found in kind
Slumped by the wheel of this grind.
This exchange has turned petty.
Dear God I am ready
To leave this brown box behind.

names have not been changed to protect the guilty

Monday, November 16, 2009

Friday, November 13, 2009


Alan Bean. Astronaut. Artist.

Moon Marathon. Yeah, moooon marathon. That's what HE said. I like the sound of that Bean. A marathon. On. The. Moon. My joints collectively say, aaaaaahhhhh.

I can see it now. The runners' Shuttle. The start line. The newly discovered water station. The finisher's medal. Moon rock on a tether. Come to think of it let's make it a double. A double marathon. 52.4 moon miles.

Oooh, but think of that entry fee. Steep. And what on earth (ha) would you wear? How could you possibly dress for that weather. Temperature controlled space suit anyone?

Thursday, November 5, 2009


Ordinarily not a problem, but I wasn't sure how to lug an entire tire to the tire store via bicycle.
Give me a second, I'll figure it's round for Pete's sake.
Cuz you know I want to lock my bicycle to this sign!