Martin marched forward forwardly as the hall collapsed, leaving the throne buried beneath a pile of pillars.

My ankles tell me it is time for a diet.

I'm lost again, here in the world and following, heading in a straight line

The forgotten narrative of the black geek, blowing up model airplanes for his onlooking friends viewing through movie binoculars, buried beneath all the rest of us.

The bike path covered in rattlesnakes, thick and agitated, threatening death. We stop and look, take out our smart phones for a picture. This is how the story goes.

Dear Train, I wrote these lyrics for you.

I bought a rugged rug and placed on the floor she said, like a bandstand outward bound assistant would...typical. The bars on the plaque were a nice touch though. Is teeth plaque spelled the same as award plaque? If so I am very decorated.

Pleasing people is easy if all you do is say that's fine. that's fine mr. ant. i will have some more green bananas if you want me to. What the difference between bananas and bananus? Its the anus, obviously. Obviously, its u.

Lesser than grain is yardwork. Lesser than yard work is the yard itself, a green pasture for fucking nothing to eat. FUCK LAWNS.

In other news, there are three CCR records displayed on the floor, but two of them are the same. It is not the season for gift wrap, and a big blue book is telling me not to eat this.

What I tried to tag this with: its good to be back, dear train, i love train, train is the best band, i wish train were here right now, maybe you should try listening to train, q: how many train cds do you have? a: all of them, it should have read 'tis not the season for gift wrap

i woke myself up to write this, posted it on anna's blog in my sleepstate, and moved it here

I've made a map of/in my dreams, a place I've been many times now: a sullen road on a mountain cliff, a bank of stores on a soft turn down, taffy and popcorn, baseball hats. Down the road, the moss overtakes the brown on the seaside, but look up to the right, where the ascending hill should be, up is blank.

Farther up the road, uphill, is a campsite where an impending sense of doom resides. I feel anxious i/o/n this landscape, and at home.

lyrics for my black metal band about bicycling

the abstraction of sky
the glance behind sunglasses
foot locked, wide laned

they are actively trying to run me over.

race the train
dehydration
no one cares
no one pays attention

the taste of blood.

If you almost shut your eyes, the world becomes a blur (but not really)

When we were young and on the way home from Joliet from family gatherings (in the white cushioned chair, high backed and gold leafed, up on the carpet like a dry riverbed, I had slapped my aunt for eating my Christmas present candy), the moon would follow us. Peering out of the Caravan window, I watch it stay even with us on the highway because, it too, was going where we were, at an even pace.

Since then, though, it has been held in stasis by scientific maturity.

Congrats on Life Haiku

Yelling through your blue
tooth with your car window down
in a parking lot.