I want to impress my girl with my new Gucci underwear.

I race to the bedroom and get undressed before she makes it to the top of the stairs.  She spends a half an hour in the bathroom.  If it were any other night, I would be asleep by now.  Some times I swear she stays in there that long on purpose.

I catch a glimpse of my new Gucci underwear in the mirror.  They are red, hot, and damn sexy.  I think they make my package look bigger too.

She brushes.  She spits.  She rinses, then spits again.  She gargles 15 times and spits.  She flushes the toilet for a third time. Silence.  I hear the bathroom door handle rattle.  I dive on to the bed.  It squeaks and moans.  I settle into the middle of the bed and lay spread eagle.

My new Gucci underwear glow in the dim light.

I hear her footsteps stop just outside the bedroom door.  She gives it a tentative push, then changes her mind.  I hear the creak of the stairs, and then the click of the kitchen light.  A few seconds later, I hear the woompf of the refrigerator door open, bottles clink.  Sloop. The fridge door shuts.

My new Gucci underwear are cool.


She will be up any second now.  I yawn.  I rest my eyes for a moment.  I close my eyes and imagine I am the male model in the magazine I saw my new Gucci underwear in.  The gorgeous blond in short shorts is there too.  She has no shirt or bra on.  She presses up against me.  Finally some action.  She likes my new Gucci underwear.  The smile on her face says so.

“Harold,” she whispers.  “Harold move over you’re taken up too much space.  I get all philosophical on her, “how much space do you need?”  Something sharp pokes me in the ribs.  “Ouch,” I groan.  I roll on my side and pull the covers over my new Gucci underwear.  Tomorrow they will be just another pair of funky underwear.

She smells like onions. It turns me on. I can tell by the way she walks that she has been walking through her daddy’s fields. I had to build up the courage to ask her out. We dated for about a month. Then one day she came over to my flat, and she smelled like roses. So I had to let her go.

A good friend of mine, Tim Clague, tagged me with the song meme.  I don’t usually do the memes, but Tim is like a demi-god so I thought I’d better do it or face his god like vengeance.  Anyway here are the instructions:

Find a song that sums up what you think it means to be a writer and post the lyrics on your blog and why you’ve chosen it. NB: It doesn’t have to be your favourite song, it just has to express how you feel about writing and/or being a writer. It can be literal, metaphorical, about a particular form or aspect of writing – whatever you want. Then tag 5 others to do the same (reprint these instructions).

I have chosen a spoken word performance that I think summarizes my current thinking on me as a writer.  You will have possibly seen this posted on my blog before, but it’s so damn good it can bare repeating:

I’ll think of some folks to pass this on to later.  Right now it’s time for some whiskey.

I had a spell of enlightenment.  I chased that down with a cold patch of dark madness.  I found my head again, but now I am fighting boredom.  I want peace, love, and harmony on the one hand; and on the other, I want beer, battle, and bitches.  I keep thinking there has to be a middle ground in there somewhere, but maybe there isn’t.  Inspired.  Grumpy.  Did I mention bored?  Creative.  Determined. Curious.  I keep searching for the doors that lead between the known and the unknown, but I am tired of all this pussy ˜New Age” stuff.  I want to be a man again – caveman style!  I want to eat nails and shit rust.  Do you know what I am talking about?

She is young.  She is single.  She has no ties.  She could up and leave at a moments notice.  She could travel the world if she wanted to.  Every day she sits in the same coffee house, at the same time, drinking the same drink, wearing the same dark blue colors.  She sits talking to the same elderly woman.  Each day she tells the elderly woman how much freedom she has to do what she wants to do.  Even the economy doesn’t effect her. She knows what time it is.  Each day she returns to the same coffee house, at the same time, and orders the same drink.

I met a girl named Josephine today.  She reminded me of the old army cadence we used to sing about a girl named Josephine and it went something like this:

Hey Hey Josephine
How do you do
Do you remember me baby
Like I remember you

We used to meet out yonder
Behind your old man’s barn
And every time it rained
You used to call my name

Hey Hey Josephine
How do you do
Do you remember me baby
Like I remember you

We used to meet out yonder
Behind the railroad tracks
And every time you came
You used to call my name

There are probably a hundred different versions of this cadence.  I first learned it at Fort Knox, Kentucky during the summer of 1991 while on loan from West Point, doing my summer training as a drill cadet.

I heard the door close on three good friendships this week.

As I listened to their footsteps stagger down the street, I paused to reflect as to why.  Friendships, it seems to me, tend to gently drift apart over the course of time.  Unless, of course, the friendship ends because of some injustice perceived between the friends in question.  Then it tends to end with a bang.  But more often than not, the friendship ends quietly.  They fade away under the guises of a shortage of time, or perhaps one friend moves away to a distant city, or simply each has found other interests that draws the friendship apart.

Of my three friendships, one has been phasing out over the course of several months, lack of time, lack of shared interests.  One has fallen victim to the moving to a distant city syndrome.  Of course there is always good intentions of staying in touch, but we know time and proximity will see the friendship fade.  And the other friendship has probably ended over a misunderstanding and lack of communication and my stupid pride won’t allow me to take steps to bridge the gap that has opened up beneath us.  And soon we will go into free fall and that will be end of it.

I guess I will always be friends with these people, but the intimacy of our friendship will probably never be the same.

Anyway these turn of events inspired me to write this poem.

I am old enough to know
friends come and go
I thought our friendship would last
but like the others, you slipped into my past

No time for goodbyes, I guess
friendship is something you can’t possess
it storms into your life like a monsoon
then drifts away like a cold cup of coffee in the afternoon

Perhaps it’s the beginning, not the end
the intimacy is gone, but you’re still my friend
we’ll have our memories to share
like abandoned cars left on a highway in disrepair

I watch the sky turn an imperial red
and I wonder what lies ahead
on this twisted road for you and I
as the evening spreads out across the sky

(Dedicated to all the friends and lovers who have come and gone in my life.  I want to say good luck and good bye and may our paths meet again some day.  If you’re out there on the road somewhere and you come across this poem, think of me and the times we shared.  If the spirit moves you drop me a line some time.)

her legs are long
her heart is black
listening to her cradle song
is a natural aphrodisiac

into her arms i fly
her cherry bosoms bloom
a dazed alumni
of her secret room

i’m under her wheels now
praying for time to end
if only god would allow
her to find a new boyfriend

I sit here in Starbucks.  I watch the crowd of people make their way to work.  Wouldn’t it be better if they, if we, were all headed to our own Woodstock to share love for one another in perfect peace and harmony?  Or is that too tame?

Does anybody have the game controls so I can stop this game before my head explodes and I drown in a sea of my own thoughts?