A Pleathora of Gifts

Two things written April:

I am
the Vulture who cleans
the flesh from
the bones of
the Deer, who removes
the heart and
the lungs from
the hole in its
Cavity. Here,
here on this road above
the sea.

Hear above the seafoam surges, the crests, and undertow.

---

From the fire I will wield it. Ashen end and embers touched to the face of a foreign dignitary. And we are foreign to foreigners. We are foreign and faces burned for those from foreign lands. From the fire I will wield it. From the fire they will wield.

This Blog is the Fault of The Pogues

Now when I think of people from the distant past, my first inclination is to look them up on Facebook. Upon searching their names, old faces are replaced with douchebags from Astoria, cockily holding Airsofts with I-don't-care-about-high-school-because-my-dad's-confidently-invested-in-hedgefunds, shit-eating, goddamn grins on their manicured faces.

In that sentence, back there where I typed "invested"? I, at-first, accidentally, typed "infested."

Today on a bike ride, the clouds doubled the size of the hills where Lake Berryessa lay, and I realized that California allows you to predict the future. The clouds pile. Soon it will be summer in Siam. And tomorrow is rain. Tomorrow is rain. Tomorrow is rain.

After a long day Haiku

I wrapped a poem
around my beer, and I called
it my haikoozie.