:roblog:

(composed on boat home après HL2 open-bar-at-Chapel party)

my love is a raft. a rag-tag glad-hand raft made of what, let's say glad bags filled with nitrous injected bear semen, sewn together with lanyards made by the sons of wealthy immigrants from the jersey shore. imagine orange, the kind of orange that appears nowhere in nature, and some strange blue redolent of robin's eggs mashed up with seat covers from 80's-era AMC vehicularisms, criss-crossed and expanding to account for the weight of my love. the girth of my love. riding on top and hilarious with giddy hum-drum droppings. imagine my love raft cresting a monster tsunami surge—the kind of wave you only encounter in deepest anxiety dreams, forever building, rising, towering while you flimsily adhere to its burgeoning flank and god damn will it ever fucking crest? will this agile mountain ever get on with it and spew full seas of white foam? no. my love just skates over that shit like a clap eraser bobbing on a wading pool at the ymca.

tiger woods: once golden, now just brown.

apparently, human growth hormone makes you horny.

(gratz, c-bell — now ADDRESS THAT PILE.)

speaking of harbingers

saw this in dallas, and thought the juxtaposition of section elements was hilarious. now i see that it was prescient.  

glad harbinger from niloc, the bad-ass mother

Begin forwarded message:
From: colinredding
Date: December 16, 2009 3:48:18 PM PST

 

belated, misguided halloween shenanigans

holy futurama: get yer google goggles on, y'all

via www.google.com

welcome props on a soggy, sicky tuesday

--- Forwarded Message
From: Autumn Arbury
Date: Tue, 15 Dec 2009
Subject: Eric M.

Said to me on Friday night… ‘whenever I’m having a bad day at work,

I just read Rob’s blog.’

------ End of Forwarded Message

[big up de gratz, eric "formerly known as e-tern" m.]

a poem, when it arrives

 
shows up like an old friend —
one you haven't seen in a long,
long time.   ever, really,
when it comes to that.
 
all the same
you know why it has come
and that it likes a single cube
in its single malt.   you know,
when it opens its mouth,
what it will say
 
and it says it.
the time goes by
most amiably.  
but then — inevitably —
a silence (like this one,
actually) roams the room
 
and you stare at the poem,
wondering when it will
go away
so you can get back
to your green tea
and the last few pages
of a good book.
 
finally, the poem stands
and looks for its hat,
then lingers a moment
at the door. "all right"
you say and turn out
the porch light,
once it has gone.
 
upstairs the cat murmurs
in his sleep and your wife
wakes just enough
to ask you
where you've been.

 

[something from the vault, as i am feeling shite]

he sees you when you're sleeping.

 

i miss the golden era of madness