When you’re a kid everyone asks you what’s your favorite color. This is a silly question. There are too many colors to choose from. Like it is fighting over green yellow and black. Because I like all of them even other colors. I like black because it’s dark. If you press hard it looks dark and nice and pretty. I press my pencil hard to get that color. I like green because it’s so shiny and my tongue is green right now because I got a green lollipop.
…
After I had my breakfast, I snuck off to the bathroom for a snort of my instant coffee. As soon as I entered the bathroom, a cloud of steamy methane gas hit me right in the face. I heard moaning coming from one of the stalls.
My rental car stalls on a country backroad. I turn the key, and it chugs away helplessly. I get out and start walking down the gravel pathway. The sun is shining pleasantly. I soon see a small farmhouse in the distance. The grass along the road is tall, and amber colored, it whips along with the wind. Behind me, I can hear what sounds like rainfall, or popping corn, only faint, as if at a distance. I turn around and see the undulating blackness of a locust swarm. It was coming my way, like a filthy blanket…rolling.
Bob recently fractured his femur and wrist while in the Bahamas during his latest money-making scheme, The Bob Hudson Poetry Cruise. He was whisked from the cruise ship to a secret underground medical facility where they rebuilt him and made him better. His collections include the majesty of the past, into the cold wind, the train, women not my wife, trance of paranoia, she lets me and no gunshots right now.
Under pressure of an impending deadline, Gabacho gets to work Gabacho and the Gutenberg
“Hearing other parents’ stories, I suppose we were lucky they didn’t lock him up in a closet or restrain him.” (from my Thursday post)
Huge ragged holes open the knees of my jeans, deep crescents of shadow banding my spindly legs. Bulky engineer boots, comical fat-soled knob-toed Frankenstein feet sprouting from calves as thick as my forearms.
Toss on my leather jacket and trench coat on top. Its cold outside. West Texas cold. Fonzerelli scarecrow shivering in the darkness.
Footsteps echoing along the concrete walls of the underground parking lot. Sounds sharpened by the chill.
Hey, look at that ad. Cute girls in my area want to meet 42 year old men! What a coincidence, as I am 42 years old!
Some mornings, I know right away. The drift is already sideways by the time my bare heel finds the belt buckle on the floor beside the bed.
When your first word of the day is an expletive, and you must then check for bleeding, it is a sign.
All my silly human plans are about to be derailed. Embrace the suckage, for it is nigh.
“This is an important message from NCO Financial…”
That is about as much of the robo-message I listen to before hitting the delete button on the answering machine. Then I pause for a moment to think to myself that this is a really stupid way to try to collect on a bad debt.
Before you get the wrong idea, I am not a deadbeat. That is my girlfriend.
Negative connotations of sunglasses after dark:
1) Person is high
2) Person is blind
3) Person is a liar
4) Person is “trying to be cool.”
For the last week, I have been thinking of what to write about for my first post on an internet blog. Since the practice of blogging usually seems personal, I decided to write on experiences that contribute to the thinking process that promotes the art-creation process. I’m intrigued by creativity: where do ideas come from? I thought that by blogging on readings, exhibitions, and other input that spark thinking, we might shed a bit of light on the output.