little feet run this house.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
what a jerk
I watched a girl scold her boyfriend at dinner last night at work for over an hour and a half to the point of embarassment because he answered a text message while they were eating. After being told to leave the table and restaurant by her, which he finally did, he still paid the bill. Wonder how her cab ride home was.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
burned bright
ankles bit, good company kept, embers burning black, goodnight. congrats to sean and carolyn. you deserve it all and cant wait for that wedding. xo
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
one five
today my little girl turns 15 months. we spent the day roaring like dragons and kicking the shit out of the cats in between naps, mac n' cheese and dancing to some Leadbelly.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
stainer
got to see an old friend for a little bit yesterday before he painted some amazing shit at the 518 Prints shop. couldn't have come out better bud. www.chrisstain.com
hank's "poem for my daughter"
i spoon it
in: strained chicken noodle dinner
junior prunes
junior fruit desert.
spoon it in and
for Christ's sake
don't blame the
child
don't blame the
govt.
don't blame the bosses or the
working classes-
spoon it down
into that little mouth
like melted
wax.
a friend phones:
"whatya gonna do now, Hank?"
"what the hell ya mean, what am I gonna
do?"
"I mean ya got responsibility now, ya gotta bring the
kid up
right."
I feed her instead:
spoon it in!
may she achieve
a place in Beverly Hills
with never any need for unemployment compensation
and never have to sell to the highest
bidder.
and never fall in love with a soldier or a killer of any
kind.
and may she
appreciate Beethoven and Jelly Roll Morton and
beautiful dresses.
she's got a real
chance:
there was once the
Theoric Fund and now there's the
Great Society.
"are ya still gonna play the horses? are ya still gonna
drink? are ya still gonna-?"
"yes."
she is a waving flower in the wind and the dead center of
my heart-
now she sleeps beautifully like a
boat on the Nile.
maybe some day she will
bury me.
that would be nice.
if it weren't a
responsibility.
-bukowski
in: strained chicken noodle dinner
junior prunes
junior fruit desert.
spoon it in and
for Christ's sake
don't blame the
child
don't blame the
govt.
don't blame the bosses or the
working classes-
spoon it down
into that little mouth
like melted
wax.
a friend phones:
"whatya gonna do now, Hank?"
"what the hell ya mean, what am I gonna
do?"
"I mean ya got responsibility now, ya gotta bring the
kid up
right."
I feed her instead:
spoon it in!
may she achieve
a place in Beverly Hills
with never any need for unemployment compensation
and never have to sell to the highest
bidder.
and never fall in love with a soldier or a killer of any
kind.
and may she
appreciate Beethoven and Jelly Roll Morton and
beautiful dresses.
she's got a real
chance:
there was once the
Theoric Fund and now there's the
Great Society.
"are ya still gonna play the horses? are ya still gonna
drink? are ya still gonna-?"
"yes."
she is a waving flower in the wind and the dead center of
my heart-
now she sleeps beautifully like a
boat on the Nile.
maybe some day she will
bury me.
that would be nice.
if it weren't a
responsibility.
-bukowski
Saturday, July 18, 2009
the song of wandering aengus
i went out to the hazel wood,
because a fire was in my head,
and cut and peeled a hazel wand,
and hooked a berry to a thread;
and when white moths were on the wing,
and moth-like stars were flickering out,
i dropped the berry in a stream
and caught a little silver trout.
when i had laid it on the floor
i went to blow the fire aflame,
but something rustled on the floor,
and some one called me by my name:
it had become a glimmering girl
with apple blossom in her hair
who called me by my name and ran
and faded through the brightening air.
though i am old with wandering
through hollow lands and hilly lands,
i will find out where she has gone,
and kiss her lips and take her hands;
and walk among long dappled grass,
and pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.
-w.b. yeats
because a fire was in my head,
and cut and peeled a hazel wand,
and hooked a berry to a thread;
and when white moths were on the wing,
and moth-like stars were flickering out,
i dropped the berry in a stream
and caught a little silver trout.
when i had laid it on the floor
i went to blow the fire aflame,
but something rustled on the floor,
and some one called me by my name:
it had become a glimmering girl
with apple blossom in her hair
who called me by my name and ran
and faded through the brightening air.
though i am old with wandering
through hollow lands and hilly lands,
i will find out where she has gone,
and kiss her lips and take her hands;
and walk among long dappled grass,
and pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.
-w.b. yeats
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