Leaves fly
brown, red, yellow.
The breeze, crisp, is in lungs,
the boy and girl
skip, run.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Thursday, September 25, 2008
The Gum
My acrostic tribute to a great Seinfeld episode.
Everyone enjoy some gum!
Institute for the Preservation of Motion Picture Costumes and Wardrobe
Non-Fat Yogurt
Father of Deena
Eyeglasses
Larry David
David Dinkins
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Ode to Home Improvement: A trio of haikus
Tim "Toolman" Taylor
Pot 'neath broken gazebo
Brad learns a lesson
Wilson/hidden face
Arcs wisdom rocks over fence
All Taylors benefit
Heidi and Lisa
O, ToolTime's sweetest nectar!
Skirt forbidden lust
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Friday, June 27, 2008
Sestina
A sestina is a type of poem that follows a strict form, using the last words in the lines of the first stanza as the last words in the lines of seven other stanzas. The form of a sestina can be found here. This is a "walking" poem, which is to say, it will hopefully take your mind on some kind of walk.
His beard is white, and he wears a dirty jacket
His beard is white, and he wears a dirty jacket
he sits on the corner, playing his guitar.
Curled up in the guitar case is his dog.
They are both mangy, but to the dog, the guy’s a friend.
Then some man walks by and throws in some coins
and just keeps walking on his way to work.
That’s what he calls it anyway, he calls it work,
and he hides his cards up the sleeves of his silk jacket.
He collects cars and wives, (cause coins
are just too boring.) But all day the sound of the guy’s guitar
dances in his ear, and he realizes he hasn’t seen his friend
in years. So he goes to his friend’s house. No one’s home but the dog.
He actually doesn’t even know the friend has a dog.
(He knows he doesn’t see his kids cause of all the work.)
He figures the dog’s nice, you know, man’s best friend
but as he peers over the fence it bites a hole in his jacket
and the silk hangs from his sleeve like the strings of a guitar.
He’d throw something at the dog but he gave away all his coins.
It was his daily good deed; handing out those coins.
And it was just trying to play, like any normal dog.
So they play together, (just like that old guy and his guitar.)
As they play, the man thinks about how he hates what he calls work.
He especially hates wearing that silk jacket.
So the man, the dog, and the jacket just roll around, waiting for his friend.
Then he figures out he doesn’t even have a friend.
Over the years he’s gotten rid of them like those coins,
traded them like good baseball cards; the ones you put in those plastic jackets
to protect them, so they don’t get eaten by your dog.
He thinks back to how he hates what he calls work
and he still can’t shake the sound of that old guy’s guitar.
He goes out and buys his own guitar.
Bringing the dog with him, his new best friend,
they go to the office and tell his boss it never was work.
His jacket’s still dirty cause he didn’t have any coins
to throw, and ended up rolling around with the dog,
tearing even more holes in the jacket.
Now the man sits on the corner in his dirty jacket, playing his guitar,
and curled up next to him is his best friend; the dog.
And since cars and wives were as boring as work, he collects coins.
His beard is white, and he wears a dirty jacket
His beard is white, and he wears a dirty jacket
he sits on the corner, playing his guitar.
Curled up in the guitar case is his dog.
They are both mangy, but to the dog, the guy’s a friend.
Then some man walks by and throws in some coins
and just keeps walking on his way to work.
That’s what he calls it anyway, he calls it work,
and he hides his cards up the sleeves of his silk jacket.
He collects cars and wives, (cause coins
are just too boring.) But all day the sound of the guy’s guitar
dances in his ear, and he realizes he hasn’t seen his friend
in years. So he goes to his friend’s house. No one’s home but the dog.
He actually doesn’t even know the friend has a dog.
(He knows he doesn’t see his kids cause of all the work.)
He figures the dog’s nice, you know, man’s best friend
but as he peers over the fence it bites a hole in his jacket
and the silk hangs from his sleeve like the strings of a guitar.
He’d throw something at the dog but he gave away all his coins.
It was his daily good deed; handing out those coins.
And it was just trying to play, like any normal dog.
So they play together, (just like that old guy and his guitar.)
As they play, the man thinks about how he hates what he calls work.
He especially hates wearing that silk jacket.
So the man, the dog, and the jacket just roll around, waiting for his friend.
Then he figures out he doesn’t even have a friend.
Over the years he’s gotten rid of them like those coins,
traded them like good baseball cards; the ones you put in those plastic jackets
to protect them, so they don’t get eaten by your dog.
He thinks back to how he hates what he calls work
and he still can’t shake the sound of that old guy’s guitar.
He goes out and buys his own guitar.
Bringing the dog with him, his new best friend,
they go to the office and tell his boss it never was work.
His jacket’s still dirty cause he didn’t have any coins
to throw, and ended up rolling around with the dog,
tearing even more holes in the jacket.
Now the man sits on the corner in his dirty jacket, playing his guitar,
and curled up next to him is his best friend; the dog.
And since cars and wives were as boring as work, he collects coins.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
You Ever Seen Dog Puke?
Forward:
This story is inspired by a true story. I don't know who it happened too or when or where it happened and I do not know the reason it happened, but I do know that it did happen. I saw it with my own eyes... on America's Funniest Home Videos. The sound was turned down a lot so I couldn't really hear everything that the people were saying but the video was so funny, I just had to write this story. So if you see the video that this story is about you can call me a plagiarist or whatever if you want. I don't care. I don't even know if this is considered plagiarism but I am just saying this so you won't think bad about me or anything. This story is not original. But I guess no story is original, it has to come from somewhere. Like actual events for instance. Any way this story is based on actual events.
April 24th, 2006
So yesterday, Grandpa called me up and asked me to come over to do a couple favors for him. I drove to his double-wide over in Springmont Heights, which is a few miles away from my lake house on Lake Fletcher.
He is obsessed with these guns that he owns. Most of the guns he owns are big ones like shotguns and rifles, but he has a few that are handguns. He loves going to the gun shows that we have in town twice a year. One of the gun shows is put on by some charity called the NRA. I don't really know what it stands for but Grandpa has a hat that says NRA and he never takes it off so they must be good people. They probably work with poor, starving children or something. The other gun show is just one that Grandpa's friend Mike Hamburg started. His nickname is Hamburger. Not many people, maybe a couple hundred, come to Hamburger's. The NRA fills the county fairgrounds completely. It is insane.
When I got there Grandpa wanted me to fix his new DVD player we got him for Christmas. We also go him a video camera that records straight on to DVD. He doesn't know how to use either of them yet and I don't think he ever will. The older you become the less connected with technology you become. It is weird, my brother, who is only two and a half can use the internet and he can't even talk in full sentences yet and my Grandpa, who has been here 73 and a half years more than my brother can't even work the TV. He wanted me to get out the video camera and I did. He went to his gun cabinet, unlocked it and took out a few guns. I tried to count all his guns but he has so many that I lost count. He sat in his La-Z-Boy and started fidgeting with one rifle. "Aight now boy," he calls me boy instead of my name, "ware gunna make a production here, ya see? I am gonna sit rat here and yeer gunna stand o'er next to that there table with the camerla." he also adds unnecessary letters, usually Ls into the end of words, like 'camerla' instead of camera, or 'chimley' instead of chimney. "This is for Hamburga's show and I ain't gunna be there on account of being bedridden from my hip surgrely next week. Hamburga said I could show off my guns on a video, so ware gunna make a production." I took the camera to the table and stood there facing him. I turned on the camera. "Now boy, I'm gunna count ta three, and then yeer gonna started recordin' me, kay?"
"Okay"
"Aight, 1...2...3! Action!" I started recording him after three and accidentally got him saying action on tape. He didn't say he was going to say action, but whatever. "Now this babe here is my precious Smith and Wesson Elite Series Gold Grade. She is a twunny gauge semiautomatic with a anglish style stock that is beautiflee hand carved..." Jerry, his pet beagle came and sat infront of his feet. You could tell Jerry wasn't feeling good. You know how dogs do when they are about to throw-up? How there belly starts to contract and they just sit there looking at the ground, probably thinking, 'please don't puke please don't puke please don't...' Well that was Jerry at that moment in time. I could tell that was about to barf so I put zoomed in on him so I could get it on tape. "Now boy, I'm up here! Don't look at the--," that's when Jerry let it out. I promise you have never seen so much dog puke. It had to be a gallon but it was so chunky that it was almost solid. It reminded me of fruitcake. "Aw, dammit Jerry! Aight now boy, go get a towel." I just sat there laughing. "Boy, don't make me tell yeer mama that you was being unobledient over here." I got the towel with one arm and kept the camera on Jerry. Grandpa wiped up the fruitcake and I finished recording him showing off his guns for Hamburger's gun show. There weren't any more chores to do so we talked a chatted for a while and I came home and made dinner.
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