Monday, December 16, 2013

you come from day old flour.

Isn't the collar on this jacket just everything? I borrowed it from my ma. Mrs. Thiebaud's got some sweet school lady style. I believe its a Gap number. I really should just go ahead and get rid of these tights. They are so saggy and loose and ripped to shit and no longer do that magical thing a new fresh pair of tights can do which is hold up and squeeze in all that good thigh meat. Like a fine sausage casing. I need all the help I can get managing my leg girth.  These back in Texas home cooked meals are starting to show. But really who fucken cares, just more warmth for winter.

Spent my day off with some of my favorite people, both human and canine. I had one of those rare and fleeting moments of euphoria driving through the heights today. Light Leaves by WHY? came on and the sky was this amazing gradient from yellow to orange to pink to blue and an airplane leaving Bush Intercontinental was streaking its way through all the up there, painting jet trails above an unruly lawn, overgrown urban jungle and three wild headed babies on bikes and trikes and razor scooters zooming through it all while Yoni sang about his sperm dying in the sewer of Cincinnati. 

Currently I am listening to The Drums and conjuring up text poem nonsense and strung together silliness with my Alabama baby, SallyCat. We wrote matching angsty biscuit poems. This may be the first biscuit-centric thing I've ever written with a negative connotation. I just love the word so damn much. 

you are a stale old biscuit
i liked your brother better
he was fresh and warm
and fluffy good
i buttered him in morning light.
you taste of chalk
you come from
day old flour
been sitting on your mother's counter
and dirtying her apron.
i don't want 
to fuck 
your biscuit ass


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