BurntBook's Xanga

Coffee and the life of addiction.

Tue, 28 Oct 2008 19:33:48 GMT

I've not written in a while less than poetry (vernerable, I hold it) so this may chop your block a little.

It's just a bit of something that I found out about coffee.

It all started with, as a good many things do, with a friend. Nathan Weller, drinks coffee. His addiction started ages before mine and was some sort of, in the infinite wisdom of God, outcropping of his personality. It fit him perfectly.

My first cup was a spiteful brew, and darkly inhibited by bitter tastes and my naturally dull palate. I don't remember who made my first cup but their dubious skill was what most people peg as "office rat" level. Talking it over with friends, they would laugh gently and nudge each other, sipping on their frothy concoctions and dribbling from the lower lips edge would come a praise or two of the caffiened beverages benefits, one or two heaped on the pile of miracles coffee could offer me.

Much like the benefits I'd hear of mushrooms from my later compatriots, but I was open to new experiences at this point, fresh from my high school's first year, ready to take on a sophisticated beverage that had vices few and not many could take upon themselves.

I reach ahead of myself, though. At my youth, I took upon myself to drink coffee. It was Nathan, mostly. I blame it all on him. This addiction has its roots in his innocent, though persistent, insistence on the benefits of coffee.

Granted, the global media, your movies, books, cd's and rags surely pushed me too drink, but it was Nathan who'd make me my first drink.

He pulsed it up, frothing and grinding, twisting the machine and contorting wands to give me my first cappuccino.

I was enthralled, the process was complex, and his fingers whirled, hooked into the entirety and my first sip had yet to reach my lips? This was my relationship with coffee for the first year, because as soon as that frothy wave hit my lips, I hated it. Couldn't stand coffee. It was a bitter bean, thrown at me from hell, sinking, tip to lung, and burning the whole way. No flavor nor sugar would make it better. Where was the ambrosia, a heaven in head as well as heart?

I sat musing, putting up Rubens finest pose with a single addition. A straight arm to please the athlete with tipping cup, all focused on the sink to pour out that drafted cap. Yes, I dropped coffee.

Not for long. Not for long.

This is part of it, but it is very inconvenient to finish or start the story as of now, so much love to whomever will read this and a continuing blessing to all who love will touch. Maybe I should stick with poetry, I may hide in its vaguerees..

Any addiction?

Thu, 23 Oct 2008 17:47:27 GMT

Years I waited, addicted to food, air and water. I noticed recently more and more addictions, crop's of them harvested by fewer and fewer road's leading to fewer distractions, focus on the few things in life worth mentioning.

Coffee. Delicious, pretentious, utterly caucasian I sit sipping a demitasse or carafe.

The uber of my delicate psyche's menschliness, a bean ground fine and soaked through, small wonder many things can go wrong.

Toss in bit of my heritage and refine, mine it for the only literary meaning.
Fantastic, ruled by the very freedom given. Books you've enslaved me to your mean ennui.
Now, consequently, given to upper class puppetry by lower class beginnings, fraughtless with pure cream and given new blood through aeons of folded or rolled papyrus, lineage anew.

Addiction, not new, only realized. Coffee, you wooed me. Refined taste and escapes, knew a spirit of dreams round the mid of Julius, found in a Peaceful land. Stirred through chocolate and sugar, even besotted milk, speckled flavor, rarified taste, still escape.

Pleasure and pastries demurred
wicker, wicked
Both Seated

Only an awakening (chopinlike), and selfsufficientsuicide

will take my tastes, like all them crackheads, to crystalline proportions.

Oh, what Woe
I sit low, so low.

Out of love, taste, elite, has come addiction.
My dealer, the shelf, a card's swipe away, how low to go, I'd seek without money to find, my coffee's face without the fine taste, but when you go to corners find a whore who'd make your weary mind an instant, find, elated mind, but her taste so bitterly twined, the tinged burned case of chemist's crimes,

Coffee I've betrayed you...
Our past was tinctures, sweet perfumed
Now I've straightlined chem'd looms
A solid cup with time and love
Replaced with teaspoons
Harsh, whipped clumps

Deserved is taste, mired and acrid
Worsened still of sucre added
Again I'll sip another cup
Blinded taste, Instant mush.

INSTANT COFFEE IS HELL ON EARTH...if enough people like this, I'll write the story behind it.

Disertation on girls, toothpaste and varying degrees of laziness.

Thu, 02 Oct 2008 19:26:16 GMT

This may take a while to read. It is repetitive and really only consequential to myself and the revelations in my head.

On Impermanence (Or, valid theories on change)

These views held by I are

1. I am a person

2. I have values

3. These things change

4. Everyone changes.

So, due to this, I will be changing, with all my views, changing to suit reality, I change too it. To be fluid is essential so that you may dance. (One can not be inflexible and unchanging(but you can!))

Life is a permanent state of change, but this change is new, fast in this century. The way to dealt people is fast paced and often shallow. The more change you have in your life you must either install 1 New states of mind about everyone, or 2 Impose a variety of forms on various types, or "stereotyping" everyone (doesn't work)

The spirit of impermanence in my life: I don't look to the future or plan, despised education and laugh at the multifaceted approach of planning ahead, because with a assurance of options the future can be winged. there will always be flexible and planning cuts it off.

(I mean seriously, what were those people trying to teach me?) My spitefulness of education has been mostly out of (fear)? for something...I will read to escape from reality and planning bigger better things for my life, as will I spend many hours on things of no real importance instead of bettering myself. I have, in fact, acted as if I hate myself. Do I think I can ignore the future?

future-thoughts of potential paralyzes me at times. I have forgotten that I am capable of anything, or, in thinking that I am so, Choose to not do anything instead of doing something that allows me to stay the same. i will do something if others do it for me, but seeking it out I have not. Why do I not seek change, but rather let it come to me? If you wait long enough, change will happen. I am waiting for my life to become amazing. Which is why I like thrift stores. They may just so happen to have an amazing. I don't need to plan a purchase, work towards it, think about it. I want things to happen without me thinking, I don't want the struggle of life, towards anything, just want to go with the flow and see the views as they pass.

I am ignoring change

How? By letting go. I actually don't control my life. On occasion I will do something.

I am not conscious of the things happening in my life. I do not plan ahead but let my whims control me.

Points: Whims, on them

I don't brush my teeth, do yoga, make meals, balance diet, make money, blog, talk to friends at home, think ahead, plan, except on whims.

So why do I follow my whims? have I seen my plans destroyed? No, I just don't make myself focus? I fear losing my whimsical nature? I look for the easiest route, and since I don't have any wants or needs except food or water, or shelter, I do only enough to work towards this.
Not 100 percent true(I don't even care if I have fun, just so long as it isn't negative, I will put up with it, or, I fear fear)

The future, the future, I've lost all my future!

I am under the impression that all my changes happen in moments, a flash of realization, and never under meditation.

Realization: I have few dreams. Wow.

Meditation:To think on something or to think of nothing. I have fallen out o 0f the habit of thinking for myself, or doing things for myself without provocation. I am very content to merely be. I am in an unfocussed state. But! BUT! There is much to be said of people who plan for amazing but are not amazed or satisfied. (Editors note: Consequentially, The people who do so are simply not amazed or satisfied because they are trying to enjoy their plan rather than their experience, and miss out on the greatest part of life) I find many contentments in many things, or...do I?

Life is about the journey, not the destination. People reach something then are unsatisfied with it. i have done this with the bike. although it's a nice bike, I don't care, because I miss the money so I can continue this/my old lifestyle. (Note: This is called regret, methinks)

So I have established: I am comfortable and do not strive towards anything except maintaining it. No matter where it is.

THERE IS THIS PARASITE, IT IS CALLED MY COMFORTLEVEL

So do I need to establish goals and move towards them, thinking about them and only them the entire day? Or will this focus be the destruction of my acknowledgement of beauty. It need not be. For, the way to know of this beauty later is to write. But I do not want to change, cognisably. I change all the time, so long as I do not think about it. -maybe not true (Editors note: The changes are the changes like your clothing)

Just because there is tomorrow doesn't mean Ignore today. Move today! (Really? Joking?) or, I Ignore things you wanted to do, but obviously not enough...

I roll with the punches but create no waves of my own. Push not and expect others to make for you, a life.

Every single attempt at change(with schedules, or otherwise) has been foiled because you put it out of your head. Only your addictions and survival techniques lived. What of lag?

So I must become dependent on schedules? What about the lagging times. School, work, such. At school I didn't do the homework, no did I ever care about the quality of my homework. So I don't go out of my way, or anyway to improve my life.

YES! I have no patience with the future. I have infinite patience with the now, waiting it out, but provoking the beast, not I.

Does the level of effort I put into things correspond to...The amount of satisfaction in the case of English work, so long as I got what I needed from the work.

I label as failure buckwheat because I don't go search for the info. I don't go do things in the library, waste time but oh well because there is always tomorrow.

Move to fundamental Base: I want to ask someone else for help. To have them solve it for me.(no, to teach me what i forgot)

I follow?!?!7

Change and Impermanence

I have changed very little and am a solid dependable creature of whom, when you ask will say randomonium, but lives and breathes the state of supersaturated ease and unchanging nature. My nature, which does/has n't changed is to fold, buckle and be nice, to suit everyone and displease few, not living vicariously and not having anyone be able to challenge my views or points. I shy away from confrontations about things I actually have to think about. (?) Not 100% true.

This about me is true. I eat, I sleep, I breath. I follow...myself? I follow myself?!?! I'm not even living my life?Schitzo.

So when I'm not following myself I'm leading, these times are shiners. Times when I do what I want.
Why is it that I have Ideas, but they don't sound right until I say them or write them down? Because I forget them?

The ego is a very big problem. Conquered? Woohoo.

I make an ass out of myself when I follow either Others or Myself

Each situation demands a new inspection.

So it IS about change.

I must know change

Learning your reality

I must know that every moment is different and to act accordingly I must face everything with the thought of bettering?

I must know change.

Comfort is not good! When the nature of the universe is change, and comfort is when everything stays the same...ayah!

Does this mean that sliding backwards is the same as forwards? Unless life is a spiral, not a circle. Learning is the same as unlearning? Learn your reality. I have learned this reality?! I was not ignoring change, I was learning comfort and I learned long ago it is easier for others to control me than to let me control my reality. This is why I cannot keep a journal or pray or do a calendar. it's nt that I am consciously forgetting to do things, it is that I have no one to follow, or that no one tells me what to do.

I make progress like guitars from the 90's. or, to change I don't want to make choices or tell myself what to do or to have to think or to have to go beyond my comfort level.

I am moving beyond epiphany into my own thoughts. THough others trod here before me, I am finding this land anew, like sand fresh upon the waves without its chance footprint, new.

I realize finally what i knew all along and simply had forgotten.

These thoughts did not flash before me, I thought them all alone, provoked by the future, chanced upon by luck. Not whimsy at all.

They plan to go to the Grand Canyon, thinking to be awed by it. They plan for what they might do. But the whim might hand you a different spot.

i haven't a destination. Having not set goals, I move not, plan not, and sit. Surely to sit is a fine thing, but I've no purpose when sitting. I go down the spiral. I seek heaven!

First thought to stun, I follow. Second, I follow myself.

Though I ignore change I change anyways. I am ignorant of myself. I must become self aware.

To embrace the past, future and present all in one.

I may be assuming that others should control my life and thusly making excuses as to why I can't do things. Because my philosophy says if you can't Do it or Push ME to do it, then logically, I cannot. (be careful....)

When I don't sing on a bus it is because I am ashamed for other people, because their fear rules ME! But people crave change, love it, (unless controlled by fear, and many are) Love LOVE!

I don't have: Goals, Destinations + motivation

I don't want to change. I'm comfortable.

i am not 100 % all that bad. I am making changes, it's just that i'm not being thoughtful enough of the future, of preparing for new futures. I am angry because I know a better future is ahead if I change myself, but I will not treat the symptoms instead of a disease. Willpower...

(Note. As soon as I wrote willpower I realized that I can change anything I do, quality wise, in an instant. My hand writing became legible, smaller, and stronger.)

...Willpower is an issue, though I've enough, in weak spots, what to do? I must have a shift. So it is. I am NOT comfortable sitting around playing video games, reading or riding buses. My goals are not to be comfortable. They are, rather, to enjoy what I do, to be free to create, to enjoy friends. To love. To advance my reality/perceptions. To do it by my own will. To live and think independent of other provocation, to escape slavery of comfortability and unchange.

So what is this change I must make?

Or, are somethings better left unplanned?

Maybe to simply acknowledge that appreciation is better when savored, diced, thrice mulled over and written of. Maybe to do this bores you, but, you say, "I need someone else to talk of these things with." You, my friend, contain multitudes. Remember what learning is.

From this point on, I wrote approximately 14 pages of smaller fonted musings. They can be compounded, because most of their repitition is due to my head not being able to get around concepts until I thought about it from either a reverse angle or moved on and asked the same question later.

However. The main points are that, though these thoughts are mine, and the revelation deeply relevant to myself, Everyone is plagued. Others, wait for others to push, motivate and move them beyond where they are. I don't in particular have answers for myself, and am still working on reconciling the flaws in these thoughts (i.e. 14 pages and growing) and I amd finding that the changes I must make only I can make, and if someone else where to try to change me and tell me the things I've discovered, that I would shut them out. This is just where I am.

So I love you, but I have to leave you.

David, from the short internet time slot land.

nooooope

Mon, 08 Sep 2008 20:02:04 GMT

So here I am again. I'm a little confused and a lot of happy.

Just made a few jars of whatchya call jam, took a while but i slammed em in and no one's content like a man with sand in his toes from a dancing stand.

Hope you all are doing well, no time for me to talk to you, love you all but so much to do, I got to go and get some juice. Waited all night for the phone to wring but no one answered at the great divide tween one day and the next so I just tired and put my head to pillows edge. Wouldn't you know it life is grand it's up the clouds dropping sand from the booth in past times filled with sand, the sleeping sand. I moved today in stranger ways than a man who makes his time in shoes, walkin around to kill the blues wouldn't it be nice, to be with you, but instead lets talk, with dots and shine, computer pipes.

Some people I love, others I rate, hope to god I can get a date but comes a time in my life when I think of you and it's all a shame that no one else is good enough to thick in the head to beat it up but the gathering of wool is in town and holds a meeting to close me down. For good its sounds, til I'm a clown.

None of this should make anysense because if it did I'd be a worried ant for you and the hunger that makes me queen over a day to day, my hunger isn't for food or fight, isn't for the daytime or the blight, I hoped to God we can still be right come the day it stands still, and you'll be filled, somethin other than swill, it'll be your fill.

Until that day lets dance a heart to burst from the sharpest light and harken of a dawning day when all my life is still, feet won't move and hands will swing slightly in the gaining breeze but hearts will stop and my veins might stop from other than cholesteral blocks.

I hope that day reasons of past come to my head and that be dashed upon the sidewalk til I can talk and come to be myself...cause right now I call me David but truly it's a shameful haven of light jazz filled with blues...

Yesterday wasn't this way, I hope to you, sway today, clouds are out of view,

Make it two,

Thinking of thats the way the world goes round, it might've shown with a pendulous sway when the words come swingin round...but who cares for now, its just a round.

Feelin groovy.

changing so you know where

Sun, 18 May 2008 03:06:43 GMT

I'm moving to Washington. My blog is moving. I like Xanga, but I'm moving to a blogger.
I know. It sucks. I'll see if I can still post. Whatever.
http://mindstake.blogspot.com/

Waking to a Science of Sleep

Sat, 19 Apr 2008 14:10:54 GMT

Rolliofetta: Well Hello to you all my children!

El children: Hello back you dashing Rolliofetta!

Rolliofetta: Bonjour, bonjour, have you a nice day to give to me or shall I have to delight you again?

El children: Ah! The fine day will come on its own you silly chimpanzee, let the sun be the bringer of delight.

Rolliofetta: MAGNIFQUE! Fine, fine day come on your own then. Shall I at least call it into existence?

El children: OUI! OUT! OUT FINE DAY AT OUR SHOUT!

(enter fine day, sprouted out of the enormous egg that the two are sitting upon)

Fine day: What wonderful sleep!

Rolliofetta: BONJOUR

El children: HELLO!

Fine day: Fine day, how do you do Rolliofetta? You are wearing again a dashin cape over your matador costume, what is the occasion?

Rolliofetta: Today, a (nods at fine day) fine day, I am to woo my love.

El children: Ah, love, I know only the love of everything, how lucky you are to have such a defined love.

Eolliofetta: (shakes head and coughs) You, my children, are the most prime puddings I know, and my love will love thee as I do, you will love her as I do!

El children: Is she pretty?

Rolliofetta: If one were to take this prime, fine day, (takes fine day by the arm and lifts his hand over his head) then one would compare, the sun would judge them both to be better at being themselves than anyone else. El children, you will see her and say ‘AH, what a wonderful woman, she is better than sweets, though we love sweets, and better than puppies, though they are more enchanting than a spring flower, we do so love this woman!’

Fine day: I am particularly good at being myself aren’t I?

Rolliofetta: Yes, most particularly.

Fine day: It is my honor, good sir.

El children: The NEWS IS IN!

Rolliofetta: To me! To me!

El children: When will you teach us to read, Rolliofetta?

Rolliofetta: El children, you are a curious creature. The sadness of reading is only paralleled by the joy of reading, let me only tell you good stories, of the daisies in the field that will sing the infinite praise of fine days that bring it soft light, good soil in the ground and that their dance with worms is more slow and graceful than any other.

El children: If our lives are as short as you say, we have already known sadness, but the today is so wonderful that we shall go to dance with the daisies! I’d rather see something delightful than interesting anyday!

Fine day: What a delight!

Rolliofetta: Delighted to know, delighted to be, delight delight!

El Children: Chickens!

Chicken: Por que?

Rolliofetta: Into the egg, your child awaits!

(chicken swan dives into the egg)

El children: Delightful! To the dancing daisies! (El children prances off)

Rolliofetta: Today, with this fine day, I shall have pancakes and climb the mountain of whipped cream to conquer my love! But not that silly stuff from the store, real whipped cream made from my mothers beautiful hands.

Rolliofetta’s Mama: Rolliofetta! My son!

Rolliofetta: MAMA, sweet peach of my life, you are a fine cream whipper. Love, Rolliofetta.

Rolliofetta’s Mama: Such a good boy.

Fine day: My life is filled with such moments, I see not how one could end life before seeing a mother and her child.

hitchhikers destined twixt lunch time travail...

Thu, 17 Apr 2008 20:53:18 GMT

a passion that one can fear
one can hate many things
love is a difficult thing
but hate comes to the heart blinking at me
and it roars, it screams, it smiles in wickedly fiendish delight
OH, OH, I love you my passion

waiting on a sandwich filled with grease and fake animals, substitutes in a world that'd be better without
I pass my kin
the side of the road and without his hair, a harmless but passioned muse
courage without boundries and a step beyond you and I
where is life
the road
where's his fife?
on the cardboard, a future sanctioned and fated

I've done this before, I stutter, wistful and wishfilled at just the site of his mangy, two dollar to euthanize dog, hoping a storey'd drop off his lips into my ears,
I am the theif that isn't, the washed and cleaned adventurer who lives for his dirty ditches and pristine, idyllic christening to travel...
where do you go when you don't have a place to sleep but the road, where is the road but a place to go on, do we ever stop the journey?

10 dollars in a palm and a questioned eye line, but lips smile to find that i know his life and regail him, even as we swap our bones, my stories of the sea's and his of an america lost in the past, beat's and hippies who swagger stiffly...
a hitchhiker, is the more glorious position, the kill worthy man would be a hitchhiking guru, a life taking, gut stabbing, unbathed, hero, of america.

black nation and what poem.

Sat, 12 Apr 2008 03:07:28 GMT

long time. haven't talked, and don't know. Made a wonderful mistake that for the first time, doesn't really matter to me.

What was it about his eyes. They didn’t see me as a threat.

I tried to be a threat. I sat and stirred his girl up, her sister beside us, ignoring the finer rules of mancala. He opened his eyes like I eat grapes, halves and split the sides, chew and swallow. He’s black, partially Nigerian, but we both grasp life.

His eyes are innocent and startling, colorless beside his skins deep tones, if he were blue I couldn’t tell. A german talks beside me, sloshes coffee into the cup and whisks his way over the floor, putterwalking the way broomhandlers have long since perfected, but seriously he isn’t my focus. I stare at the black boy, and he looks back at me, closes his eyes and takes his square, chimpanzee, black fingers, and takes away all the thoughts I have. It’s amazing, the types of things that fly through your head when nothing is in it, you can smile and sway, and watch the soft spoken pact of a man with a guitar.

Later I sit at home and wait for the watches hands to pass me into my nightly haze, BANG Castor and Pollux. Wait for them, watch them, get a fleece and ruminate, wait for them some more, then puzzle out a word or two of greek before you see it. Castor, Pollux, your brothers eternal, Bullfinch you say, I say perfection in a metaphor, eat what you can and say this to me because when my words come out of my mouth, my joy comes with it and laughter is not a word when it happens.

So Castor and Pollux, Immortal, are you and your songs. What.

So you think of me now? Puzzle, I say, Puzzle and see this, one without the other, one may die but come back and say to me that you don’t understand why death must come, so Sing and Play together, apart from one you are halves, your song is two parts, words and music, and seeing it isn’t what matters. Come together, one part begs for the other to be with it, cannot bear to be apart. Come out together? No, come out on separates, and be a balance brothers, balance each other and answer the things that you think you should say. Eat the words you make and have the passion that you thought you should’ve lived but held back, don’t ever hold back again. Your brother is here, and begs of you to forget the past.

Pack a bag with guitar and strings, its all we need in Spring travels.

So he sits across from me. He never shrugged, just shook his head and said thank you, I could be better, knows the loneliness that guitars are played with. I know him now. He doesn’t know me, but he has a pretty voice. The girl he came with makes her short Italian fingers move a mancala piece, and I laugh as she laughs just to make her feel better about the move, even if I can’t see it, no one knows I’m blind. I wish to myself that she was an Italian mother for me, even if she is younger than me, a cook is a cook and Italian food is served in heaven. When Gabriel rings the dinner bell, there stands your fat mother serving pasta al dente with the perfect sauce all over her perfect white apron.

This is life, this is the passion that you happened upon with me as I sit my feet upon the black laquered cabinet, staining my bag and making you laugh. Friend you know not how the singing effects life until its to late, then you have to surrender to the warriors that will kill steadily into the night.

I pack the free CD and plead to go, begging to stay but knowing that fro, words will dance. High fives, shakes and last flirts goodbye. Take my word for it, we all have to leave now Manfred, let us go.

peace, heres a poem with your song stories, don't read it to children.

What’s an open ended question and where is its solution

Find the answer and give trust a illusion

Pact with the heart

Pact with my signs

Fingers twist and we twine

Wide eyes trust everything

Wide hearts are broken

Girls have no prudence when a soul plays the guitar

What kind of person plays the guitar?

You don’t know, you just strum a little to a hearts beat and make me move faster than my feet

Don’t stop, don’t breath, I came not for your specious crowd, come along and move me faster, make the fingers dance of Castor, crow out Pollux and complete it for us all, don’t give us a half when the whole is so sweet, dance dance says yo Caribbean flow, stop not lets go go, stop not, yield me not, stop stop, drop the beat and speak your mind but pick it up and widen our eyes and the beat keeps goin on and on and on…

Love like yours always reminds me of an Ice cube

I hope it doesn’t melt, but it does.

lovely night for a walk. Always wished someone would walk beside me who smelled like flowers and moved like a cat. Goodnight all you grown up children.

fantastic sandwich

Tue, 11 Mar 2008 18:15:22 GMT

I cook. A lot. I cook so much I frustrate myself from escaping into something that is legit, and helpful.

Because of this I now cook less. However...
Today I made a sandwich.
I found some crusty aberations of nature in the freezer and decided to eat one, and it was, at best par. Slightly ok, more like a McDonalds grade than anything, which is saying something since McDonalds tries do things to draw the consumer in. My freezer sits there and waits for me to come to it, ever waiting, getting the subtle revenge of white frost on EVERYTHING.

Climbing hand over hand down a 50 foot span in the silo, I boasted to my father. Pardon me God, I am a proud man at having the capacity to push buttons.
My father, always witty to a subconcious pointing jab, suggested I make him one.

I pondered and pondered, pondered again, looked at our house and pondered some then, what should I make for lunch but a sandwich for HIM?

...
It WAS lunch time...and I was still hungry as well, but I certainly didn't want to just reheat another. My foolish pride had got me far to much bad karma from microwaving, (never knew that one before) so I would make one fresh.
Clean...
YES.

So I went in, and whipped up some bisquits. A few months ago, I figured out that stews go well with bisquits. It is only a natural thing, bisquits and beef, bisquits and cheese, bisquits and stew, sometimes gravy (OH GOD YES GRAVY) and so...I happened to go through several 5 lb bags of flour...and can make some bisquits that are disquietingly good.

Takes about 8 minutes to make them, and 13 to cook. I made them larger so as to hold the stomach, intestine and gall bladder of my creation...but ever futile are mans attempts at sanity.

Frozen bacon was the oldest ingredient in my freezer, but this bacon wouldn't twice be cooked and a twice cooked meat is leather. Straight up. Gross, but useful to all shoe repair fairies around the world. What do you really think of those payless shoes now?

Sizzled bacon swirled off as quickly as it was on, crisp with white strips of fat to bounce back the taste buds, frying eggs in the grease, a spot of pepper, some of salt and second thoughts of cheese fresh sliced...

Pat the grease off, turn off the ringing buzzer and cut open a bisquit to find it hasn't cooked quite yet, flesh soft and gooey, delicious but UNACCEPTABLE for a sandwich yo.

Throw some more bacon on, take it off too soon, make some eggs in the grease with salt to the peppers aid, toss bacon back on to finish its top, cheese fry and buzzer sounds "SECOND TRY!"

"Rick's here. I have to go" Dad stands at the door looking moderate, conservative, and slightly perturbed. I do this to him. Promise lunch, deliver an hour after he needs or wants it. Usually he eats a bowl of cereal, typical Americana Art of the Body would be the exhibits name, Case File YEAZEL...

"30 Seconds and a tooth pick. Just a minute dad..."

I pop out the tray and stick a tooth pick in. Clean out as it came in, we are ready for business....
Cut in half the biscuit steams into my face, fogs the glasses and I pile two eggs, two rashers with the slice of cheese mixed in, melted to perfection...stab it all together using toothpicks and hand the plate to him.

Tis massive. The sandwich piles over the twice sized bisquit...bacon comes with each bite too big to eat, savor each one to put it back in...then to swallow the massive concoction. OH THE TASTE. It fit, all of it, each taste building, I put some Thai Hot Sauce on, that fit too, it was...a wonderful wonderful thing. Bite after bite, tender with dough and crusty outsides, crisp bacon like a commercial that actually delivers its product beyond satisfaction...

The entire product.
Satisfy your senses.

Dance

Wed, 27 Feb 2008 03:02:15 GMT

Swing, the cantaloupe round and round and round
pass around the circle
wide swoops
tighter
tighter...
till more than dance
almost almost almost almost
even without music
to learn this primeval
(the 40's, so debonair and classy in it's time, now primeval!)
premeditate the moves or make your moves
eithers a dance
eithers your chance to make the waves of bodies
fragrance!
WHAT a fragrance!
you sweep my arms about in a circle
apologize not and demur, you supernal
take my eyes off of my feet and gradually
meet
inside of circuler motion
take off your arms and lift up my hand
the heat is getting more than my head

partake?
Peace, we both slip into moves
Back and forth
tide or wake
either state is not the stake

Aloof i dance out the doors,
partner is gone
dance with the dark
keys dance less now
feet do their score
home and throw off the coat
until...
never have i smelled a scent again so merrily
never will i again fear my palms to sweat
for holding a scent is more satiating than ever a time to wipe my palms

i'll never wipe my hands when dancing again
i'll slip and slide across the floor
but my what a scent that can't I ignore
a palm to place on my hand here
no matter here, no matter where
i'll hold it still and smile to dare
you dance with me and i'll make you swear

dancing.
thats all.
i've already lost it. later when i dance again will i give you a more singular repertoire.