Thursday, October 10, 2019

2 Minutes. Go!


Everyone talks about the wind, but you only feel the wind if you’re an idiot or you have a death wish. I want zero part of me exposed to wind, because I want zero part of me to be left on the asphalt if I crash. And it’s not about engine noise either. That’s just something guys with big bikes say. Sure, I like the sound, but it ain’t about the sound. I’d have an electric bike if I could afford one.

It’s not about the brotherhood, sisterhood, bikerhood. That’s nice. I’m not knocking it, but all the guys I rode with decided that they couldn’t ride with a liberal, so now I ride alone. And it’s fine. I rode alone for years. Never bothered me.

It’s not about leather or fashion or music or rebellion or disenfranchisement. And it’s probably different for everyone. Some folks do get off on a loud throttle. Some folks do want their mullets behind them like a sail. But most of us just like it. And we don’t really care about analyzing why. And we certainly don’t give a shit about explaining it to you.

I’ll explain it to the hawks as I swoop through the wetlands.



It tastes like grape bubblegum and suicide. Not the suicide that breaks your mom’s heart; I’m talking about the kind you get by mixing every soda into one cup and pretending that shit tastes good. Hint: go heavy on the Orange.

It feels like a doctor’s office where once every fifteen minutes you get a cookie. Only sometimes you don’t get a cookie. Sometimes you have to sit there and watch without doing anything. Doesn’t  matter what’s happening. You just sit there.

It is too damn long, man. Way too long. There is not a thing in the world I want to do for five hours.

I like having beer spilled on me as much as the next guy, but you’re crazy if you think I’m paying eight bucks for a hot dog. And a sunburn. And lower back pain.

Do what you want, folks. It’s an amazing thing to have to choose. I choose not to go to the dentist, not to read Ulysses, and I choose pretty much anything over baseball.



It’ll be over before you know it, and you’ll wish you could do it again. Not because it was fun, but because it was fucked and maybe it would be less fucked the second time? It wouldn’t be. It would be just as fucked. But you’ll feel dirty about the whole thing. Touched. Uncomfortable like that relative who kisses you on the lips. It’ll twist you up, like when your teeth bite metal.

Win or lose, you’ve lost the second it starts.

I know some people do it for fun. You cant account for the tastes of some folks. Some folks tattoo their eyeballs and split their tongues in half. You want to do it? Of course not. So, don’t go thinking you’re meant to be a brawler if you’ve never tried it. There are fewer folks with the taste for it than you think.

Fair fight. It is one of the biggest cons in the history of cons. This idea that on one side are the honorable rogues and on the other side? No accounts. Hoodlums. The kind that will take every opportunity for a sucker punch. The problem is that the suckerpunchers are assholes who don’t fight fair, but go ahead and take the moral high ground.

Personally, I don’t want any part of it. I don’t like it. I need my hands not to hurt. 


There is a patch of soft brown grass in the green field behind the house. It looks out of place. Not right. Or TOO right. The way a six year old draws a picture of a field, with a smiling yellow sun watching over it. Small eyes see what big eyes don’t. Hey Mom. This looks weird. Come look at it with me. It happens. The two of you end up staring down at this clump of brown in a field of green and neither of you want to touch it and you don’t know why.

Little boys are stupid or brave or they want to prove themselves or something. New worlds should be discovered by small boys. They’d probably be nicer to the natives.

Underneath is a small hole filled with something brown and then eyes shift, light changes, and the hole is full of baby rabbits. Perfect. Impossibly small and delicate. You don’t touch them because you both know better. You cover them fast and get the hell out of there and hope mamma rabbit doesn’t ghost them. But she doesn’t. And you go back to the house for dinner, then to bed, to dream about the treasure buried out back.



There is a trickle of light through the blinds and it falls, tumbling, through shadows and wisps of sleep. There is no sound but the regular ebb and flow of light breathing. This is sacred and this should not be disturbed. You sit quietly and silence your own body. Here is the solace some find in music. Some find it in sanctuaries. They think. They are wrong. It lives in her hair, glowing with morning light. It also lives in trout streams. Wake her gently, it is very early.

She will sleep in the car. She won’t remember anything, and it will be like she’s waking up at the stream. She will yawn and stretch and shake the sleep from her arms and hands. She will smile at the morning sounds. Birds will roust the frogs and they in turn will wake the beavers. The stream will come to life, and there will be a moment of synchronicity, a soft, pleading moment. You will catch your breath, your eyes will meet, and the past and future will drift away with the smoke from your coffee fire.


Thursday, October 3, 2019

2Minutes. Go!

Use the prompts if you like. 


You better put your phone away, brother. This is why I don’t touch other peoples’ phones. So, when you ask me to take a picture of you and your daddyuncle and I say no, well, sorry, but stop talking on your phone in public bathrooms. Or playing games. Or checking reddit. Whatever. If it takes you so long to shit that you need an antidote to boredom, then check your diet, homie.

You want to brush your teeth? OK. Weirdo. I get it. I guess. But you really got to brush them for the dentist-recommended time? You can’t just bust out a quick brush to tide you over til you get home? C’mon, man, some people are waiting to pee in the sink.

Doing drugs in the bathroom? Shit, I don’t care as long as it doesn’t smell. Once the stall door is closed, that shit is yours, G. If I don’t like it, I’ll hold it.

Now just chill. There are like 43 OCD rituals I need to complete. Weirdo.


I’m getting a little tired of meeting so many people got shit all figured out – but they don’t agree. I wish I could punch your Mom in the face for every time someone has told me that all my problems can be solved by essential oils, abstinence, or 100% fealty to a made-up sky-person.

Don’t get me started on writers. Please. You know how many sad, emo idiots want to tell me about how they’re writers? If you write you’re a writer. It’s called language. That doesn’t make you Shakespeare. I know hundreds of writers who can write brilliantly but are too embarrassed to identify as a “writer.” Cause of you, turtleneck. You and your pretensions.

I don’t care what your Grandpa said. My Grandpa said dumb shit, too.

I don’t think sugar is going to kill me. I think stress is going to kill me, and you’re generating so much of it. I just want to sit by a stream and read this book and then go play with my kids.

Call me simple-minded.


There is an African boy with no hand, and he sits next to an old, dusty barrel. He is healing, but soon he will be back at work. There is a woman in Los Angeles who is crying because her boyfriend cheaped out. He didn’t embrace his love debt.

There is a thief on the balcony. He will kill you if he has to.

There is a manufacturing plant where they make drill bits that can cut through anything. There is a curse on the house that houses hope.

There is a teenager destroying his teeth for more flash when he smiles. There is another scratching herself gently with her ring until the warm blood drips from her fingertips. Her Dad will buy her a necklace to make her happy.

The necklace won’t make her happy. She will die wondering how she could be such a mystery to the people who claim to love her. Their distance will push her away and away. Nevermore.

There is a guilt trip and a dream. There are false idols. We have so many pedestals, and many of them shine like diamonds.


When it’s cold enough outside, you don’t feel cold. It just hurts. Your skin aches and your tears freeze on your eyelashes and everything becomes pain. If you don’t acknowledge the pain, it doesn’t hurt as much. But that’s a questionable lesson to learn.

I’m a wimp. I’ve lived in California half my life. Over half my life. I’m cold when it’s sixty degrees. I don’t leave the freezer door open when I’m scooping ice cream.

I like the cold warriors. Like: It’s gonna be forty below! Want to go camping? I don’t understand how this became your measuring stick. I guess I’m not much of a man; I like being warm and comfortable. My penis is just penis sized.

Dead bodies are cold. So, I’ll be cold enough eventually. In the meantime, I’ll keep sitting in the sun and smiling.



We did good this weekend. We? Who’s we? The Niners?  That’s them. Didn’t see your uniform, pal. Must not be paying y’all too well because you look like a human wet fart and you smell like an amusement park. Or a cheap carnival. Beer, cigarettes, and vomit. The trifecta.

The coaches are idiots when they lose, but you’re always right. Commentating in hindsight is a pretty slick con.

Those fans? They’re not fans. They didn’t grow up on this shit. Not like you. Niner faithful. Wonder how many Heisman trophy winners will be at your funeral?

Me? I’m gonna be at an under twelve soccer game. They don’t flop. They don’t fuck with the clock. They play. And that’s all I want to see.

First Love

She is a pain in the chest and panic. She smells like toffee candies and pipe smoke. She is sitting beside you and you can’t breathe. Can’t move. Her foot touches yours and you throw up a little. The beads of sweat tap dance on your forehead. Your brain is screaming, but it is screaming too many things. Talk to her! Shut the fuck up! Don’t move, you’ll fucking ruin it.

She is calm and put together. You are dying. You are fucking dying and you will be dead on the schoolbus and she will lead them in their mocking cries. Died embarrassed with a hard on hastily hidden under a transformer backpack. This is what they will put on your tombstone.

You will sit and quiver. She will not notice. She will get off at her stop. You will spend the next thirty years of your life wondering what you could have done differently. But at least you didn’t die.


I am under the table, and I am staying here. The tablecloth’s cascade will protect me. I have no use for you and your living rooms. Your bedrooms. This, this here, this space under the table. This is all I will ever need. As long as these cookies last…


I’ve never understood it. Like, I really don’t get it – it makes absolutely no sense to me. I’m a teacher. Dig it. I don’t get much money so I don’t spend much money. I have lots of friends make lots of money and I don’t even know what they do. Real Estate. Tech. Like that’s supposed to explain how you literally spend your life between meals, sleep, and shitting.

Nurses make jack-shit, but Jeff Bezos has more money that I can even think about. What does he do between shits? Honestly, I really want to know.

Trump is the poorest rich man I’ve ever seen and now he’s president.

Jesus was poor. They crucified that fool. Mitch McConnel is rich, and I don’t see anyone building crosses.

I don’t understand it, so I won’t worry about it. I’ve lived with it, and I’ve lived without it. The most satisfied with life I’ve ever been? The most sense it all made? I had zero money and slept on the beach. The world hasn’t made so much sense since.

Thursday, September 26, 2019

2 Minutes. Go!


Eyes locked to the ceiling, feeding on insecurity, the eyes have it … they see you, they track you. You can’t escape them, and you flounce in front of them, smiling – you have not seen the brutal reality that you stumbled into. You sniff deep, smelling burnt blood. You are immune to human reason, and you are drifting away, untethered.

Used to be, you could see past the end of the tunnel, imagine a bright something. Used to be, you slept when you were sleeping, and craved your consciousness. Now you dig down into the muck of yourself, and you think that this is progress.

Watch the children play. They are preparing for adulthood. The assholes are busy assholing. The cheats are looking away furtively. The stupid are loud, and the wise are few and far between. No one cares about you and your sensitivities. They said they did, but that was a trick. To lure you into the woods.

Friday, September 20, 2019

2 Minutes. Go!

I know there's extra kool aid, but I'm not thirsty. I know there's ways to placate the rage, but I don't have a television. I know that fucking a supermodel will make me feel better until I come, but I am a premature ejaculator. I know the president is a fucking crook, but some folks really like him.

I know we've come a long way, but I ain't black or trans. I know the system's broken, but I'm a simple man.

I can think of only simple solutions, and I'm not there yet.

I know that you didn't mean to do it, but you did it. You weaseled your mask through the forest, and all you got was scratches. Bleed. I don't give a fuck. I didn't lead you there.

I know you got diplomas and lots of other reasons you think you're better than me. Hell, your Moms would agree. But I'm into three dimensional people, personally. But maybe that's too much to ask of you; your eyes are tired from rolling.

I'm tired of political reflux. Keeps me up at night. Makes my brain tweak out on guilt prophecies. So, we'll keep it simple. Fuck yourself. Fuck me. Fuck climate change. I'm down with driving this hunk of bullshit right into fire.

Thursday, September 12, 2019

2 Minutes. Go!

The wind came gently through the low, dry branches and the dogs were light and liquid. The water suggested swift currents and deep eddies, soft entreaties. Jack, tired and lopsided, spit into the water and smiled - the air smelled of fish like he knew it would. The dogs knew. The wind and the trees and the beckoning evening. It was all right, and it was within Jack - he breathed it and his heart beat with it; he could feel the blood throb on the old cork handle. He smiled again, spit once, and cast into the loamy froth that he had seen in dreams, now revealed as he knew it would be.

The line slipped through his fingers as Jack worked the ideas and riffles and logs right through his mind, unconscious. Jack was part of the river and the river knew it. The river, which took only what you were willing to give it, but gave so much back. Jack gave himself to the water, let it carry him, there in spirit only as he became silk, flowing night.

Smells on the wind. Smoke from a fire. Good smoke, clean and fresh - Jack felt the warmth of the stranger's fire and nodded his head, matted grey hair stuffed under a red, woman's hat. Spit in the water and smell of the good night, Jack. Smell and breathe and you are the river, Jack. See what the river can give you.

And hours passed in tepid lifetimes and fish were caught, released, killed and eaten. Jack turned into stories and legends and ways to fool yourself into thinking things used to be better than they were. Jack doesn't care, nor does the river. Drought or flood, the river adapts, and it will outlast us all. Even when it disappears. Because rivers cannot die. And neither can anglers and storytellers.

Friday, September 6, 2019

2 Minutes. Go!

You can’t see high enough to know any better. You don’t know enough to duck, even. You’ll stare right into the face of everything, and you’ll wish you hadn’t. Sometimes. You’ll wish you were one of those stumbling adults in the corner. They are so big and they are so loud and they are not scared like you are. At least, that’s what you think.

Adults are free. They have agency. No one tells them to go to bed and not eat cookies and hug people they don’t know very well.

You sit in the backyard and promise yourself that you will leave and never come back. You hide in attics, under cars, in the abandoned lot behind your house. You scream at the trees and set fires just for the sake of watching things burn.

You get hurt and you cover your face, and you can keep it covered for years. Sometimes it takes years to learn to be childlike in the sense that we romanticize it. Sometimes, you never learn how and you spend your whole life running. Or cowering.

Maybe they’re the same thing.

Friday, August 30, 2019

2 Minutes. Go!

You tap into it and the whole world turns brown, man. Like that color you get when you mix all your paints up. A thick color. A heavy color. That brown is like heartache. That brown is pulling you down. When you were a little kid and you didn’t understand? Straight, gloopy brown. You know that brown; you grew up choking on it.

Yeah, it’ll change you and it’ll spin your brain right out your skull. Set yourself free. See Jesus. Don’t look him in the eyes or you’ll turn to stone.

My eyes are dilated on brown, man. My pulse is racing to the sound of the brown. I ate the brown, rolled in it. The brown dripped into my eyes and healed me. I set up a tent down at the revival meeting. Brown is the body and blood of Christ. Brown is hope. Brown is killing you slowly but you don’t know it.

Some folks smoke brown. Some snort it. Some carve it into the insides of their thighs. Some find it in a church and some in a bank and some in sport and some in solitude. Don’t touch my brown, man. I don’t have enough to share. You’ll get too much light on it, light it up. You’ll break my brown and then I’ll kill you. That sound extreme to you? Sounds extreme to me, too. Almost God-like.