And Schubert. I like Schubert. I think perhaps you do not like Schubert.

hey guys! just wanted to report that i once again successfully employed my world-famous method (patent pending) of getting rid of those cockroach bastards as outlined here. It's simple and fun and totally sanitary rational and highly sane. have you tried it yet? remember kids, only YOU can prevent roach infestations!

ohhhhhhhhhh bloggggggatronix 2000. wherefore art thou blogatronix? man. i've been reading some old posts, just for old posts' sake and gee whiz, kid, my shit it annoying to read yo creo y reconéo. someone still marveled the other day when i said 'i reckon' like ppl really dont say that? come on. and also someone laughed when i said "what's all this aboot" but i think they thought i was saying it on account of the scottish dinner we were having. the potatoes were pretty damn good i gotta say. anyways, its lunch time now, but i figured i'd post a little post for me. jeezus h. beeziebulb, i hate that feeling that reading my old posts gives me. its like a say boi a blas' from the pas' ya, but in a real disgusting hey i'm a douchebag sorta way. i dunno. i like to read it. uh ohhhhh i'm going to europe, everybody! i'm gonna miss your wedding! i'm sorry. i didn't realize at the time. hijole.

man u know how we do. dem boys jus don't know. i figga i betta ill'em fore i killem with dis whack-ass rhyme. my story for storytime!

We had risen before the sun. Now that’s not to say we had risen before the sun because he had the indisputable honor of having risen first. We merely rose while the sun was away. We rose and we swelled, brushed the clouds and fell. We sweetly caressed the earth and tenderly livened the sagebrush, a clasp of promises, a handshake of memories swirled into one.

We had arisen before the sun once, in uprising. It was long ago before the tree matured, before the rock protruded, ponderous and red, to endure the centuries of lacerations and engravings that we fueled. We were then young and brash, our arrogance in our might, brazen in our newly uncovered brawn. After all, we invigorated the swells, the billow, the retreat, the resurge. We pushed it forward, unmatched in speed, in power, in precision. Razor-sharp piercing muscle. We carved those valleys; we shaped the land. We too spread the flame, consummation, rebirth. Landscapes appearing, clusters of clearings. Darwinian dynamics, we played. So you plainly see: Our signature was prominently displayed across this great land, ever-changing, evolving, retreating. Who could blame our actions?

But the sun had stood, for the sun had standing. Long before our time he had waited. He had baked the clay and hidden from the coldest soils, had shifted his position slowly, deliberately, targeting the lands he wished to create his ultimate work of art. The dusty hills swathed perfectly with regal purples, fiery reds, and steely blues. He had waded through clouds and intensified rains to prepare the dough, paternally coaxing the seeds away from their latencies. The vegetation had sprung forth upward and toward in appreciation, receiving from him the warm vitality of life.

The sun had brilliantly shone the day of our uprising. The sun then shone no more. He ducked his head behind his clouds and folded his rays beneath him. The land grew dim and cold without his loving hold. We raced throughout the land believing our time at hand, denying our Pyrrhic victory. We pushed at the seas, but they had waned and frozen. We tugged at the trees, but they had long been charred. Nowhere was a spark to be flamed, and the rivers ran short, sludged near the mouths, brackish by the deltas. With nowhere to go and nothing to push, we had slowed. Our swirling diminished to a gale, pale and obnoxious. The sun had brilliantly shown, the day of our arising, that it was he that even energized the great winds.

We had merely risen before the sun then. We rose while the sun was away, heralding his arrival and presenting him to the moon. We existed this way with the earth and the seas and the trees, in harmony, until the next uprising arose.

hmm i wrote the anti-poem! ha, here we go. tonight's piece is simply that


I have never been so embarrassed in my entire life,
Screw iambic pentameter, what caused it was strife.
Come to think of it, the cause can be traced to something else,
T’was that holy firehouse chili I’d let too long sit on my shelf.

Housed in that can was more than a single bacterium,
But after I broiled it of course I said “OH MY, YUM!”
Why rhyme ‘bacterium’ with ‘yum’ I then thought,
Little did I know that the ‘rium and my tum had just fought.

I, Johnny-come-lately, this mêlée uncovered,
As I fastened my tie standing next to my brother.
Then, standing on the altar a trickle did tickle,
The side of my leg plus the ire of the people.

Soon a gush comes from me and a shush from the crowd,
And my flitting discomfort exposed rather loud.
Then the changes in color from the whites to the browns,
Soiled my pants and her dress and the priest’s sacred gown.

At just eight years old I knew mortification,
The kind stemming from nasty bowel irritation.
So I wept when this actually happened to me,
On this day of my wedding at age thirty-three.

here we go once again wit dat what da hell kinda right-ing. yuck i gross myself out when i make fun of somebody jk jk i kid..... you not.

A single tear ran down his face as they lowered the casket into the ground. Utterly astonished, I dropped my trowel, crushing a few of the blush carnations decorating the giant concrete slab of remembrance for one Mrs. Odessa G. Arnette: mother, daughter, sister, lover, probably. Noticing that I’d caught on, he sheepishly turned to me and tried to keep a straight face, failed, then slowly let his frown dissolve in that familiar smirk followed by teasing chuckles as he brought out from behind him the bottle of water containing his forged tears. “Jesus, Maryandjoseph, stop fooling around. You really creeped me out. Help me finish up this sorry excuse for an ‘adios’ so we can plan for tonight. Did you see anything good on the old fungo? Family looks like they could have stuffed the casket with bills just because,” I rambled at him, still a bit embarrassed from his stellar performance. “And also, when did you purloin the late, great Gable’s acting talent stash, anyway?”
“Only ‘stache I wanted from him was on his face,” retorted Joe. “Anyway, yeah, something nice is going into that grave. I’m about holding my breath to see that coffin again.” This pleased me, as I had been struggling lately to make ends meet, so I kept on working, forgetting about Joe and continuing my mental debate on how it was that v-i-c-t-u-a-l-s came to be pronounced “wittles”.
As the ravens livened up the dead of night, I made my way back to the graveyard, noticing how the hair on the back of my neck still shifted every time I came here this late. In a scene straight out of the most clichéd horror flick, I looked up near the hillside to see a silhouette shoveling dirt as the moon, nearly hidden behind the sinewy moss-covered arms of a grand Southern Live Oak, glistened on his shoulders. “Maryand, you look like a sexy beast, with your bulging muscles and your stupid cross-scar tattoo,” I called out to Joe, taking a second to notice the so-called tattoo that ended in a tiny bump on the skin across his left shoulder. In a rare moment of solemnity, Joe had opened up and told me it was actually a scar from a beating his dad once gave him, the wooden cross of the rosary not only marking him permanently, but also breaking off and leaving a chip of wood inside his skin. I joined him in digging the grave, and in the tranquility that ensued, I realized that in the six years I had worked here, Joe and I had pilfered and plundered at least a hundred times, and in no other occasion had he ever told me much about himself. I was a regular blabbermouth, telling him all about my past and my presents and my meager plans for the future, but he had always remained aloof, never giving me advice on life, just tips on how not to get caught when selling my loot.
Joe was digging especially quickly today, so that the hole was actually lopsided and he had to come over to my side and help me finish. He not once took his eyes off the casket, and when we finally opened it up, I could see why. “Like royalty,” was all I could stammer, chest heaving from the digging, mind hindered by the image. The casket, lined in a plush purple silk, encased what appeared to be all his possessions. Apart from the shining jewels on his rings, cufflinks, and bracelets, the coffin held several relics and small golden trinkets. There were antiques from all over the world and even family pictures framed in diamond-encrusted ridiculousness. Wide-eyed we both stood. I so-cleverly began, “Too bad the only crown he’ll wear will be from the Kingdom of Fu—”
“Yeah, yeah, the fungus among us,” he cut in, distracted and immersed in whatever thoughts were running through his mind. In all our years of working I had never seen him so amazed by our spoils, but then again we had never had a heist so big. “Go do the, uh…I’ll start the…” he directed. I took this to mean our security check, which really just meant giving Old Sammy his bottle of bourbon. I trusted Joe enough to let him gather the loot since he had never stiffed me before. As I walked to the other side of the cemetery I was impressed by his nimble hands; there was no jingle-jangle noise coming from all the necklaces and jewels.
Upon my return, however, I immediately realized I’d made a terrible mistake. Joe was already half done covering the casket with fresh dirt. I didn’t see a full duffel bag anywhere. I rushed at Joe and kicked the shovel out of his hand. “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing,” I shouted, ready to tackle him to the ground and beat the jewels out of him.
“There was nothing valuable in that bloated memory box,” he said casually, with a firm tone strong enough to deter my attack. “Nothing.” He shook his head, and as he did I saw the only item he found worthy of taking with him that night. Joe’s broken rosary swayed from side to side as he picked up the shovel and handed it to me. Silently, we finished burying the casket and left.

welp if they ever found it out i'd have to deny deny deny!

anyhoosters, aqui viene my story for tonight. i think this story is absurd! mua ha he ha hi ho hu. just kid, i do. i would never be so arrogant.

I returned to the grotto 20 years later intent on fulfilling my promise. It is imperative to first differentiate between my promise to a dying woman intent on fulfilling my promise and my promise to a living son intent on disavowing himself completely through his meditated inaction. It suffices just to note a difference between the two, knowing that imperatives blow away like superlatives, meaning little more than a slight modification of the intent and not the outcome. Regardless, ire regardless, the old man sat there in his chair, summoned by a ghost, a memory of a moment frozen forever in the indignant recesses of his righteous membranes. They would say there is no love lost between two fierce competitors, but such generalizations only affect, after all, the shrill and weak. The love was never lost in him that never had it. So the old man just sat there in his chair as I walked in with my gait, unsure and aloof.
“Good evening, father. How was your day,” say I, with a monotony that resurfaced mechanically, a cracked and ancient aqueduct suddenly dusted off, again put to use, and flowing perfectly, duly reactivating the passive subservience demanded once and given perpetually. The bow, the lean, the superficial cheek to cheek, once meant to imply a satisfactory final adieu, but all too soon come to emulate two cold and distant planets drifting across convoluted nebulae to collide and consequently adjust orbit slightly, unharmed, unaffected, uninterested.
“Good.” The old man just sat in his chair. I waited. I stood half-turned away from him, facing the western setting sun, comparing it in my mind to my current conversation. I tried to remember anything before the setting of our relationship. I recalled a question about football standings and a joke about my inability to jump high enough to block his shot—soccer, nothing else.
“Good,” I replied. “It’s been… a long time. What? A good…”
“Twenty,” he replied in the stern voice, fraught with respect for respect, fraught with a scalding scolding for the disrespect my ignorance showed to my mother. I recalled now, our relationship ceased to exist when she did. The silly conversations I’d had with lovers here and there who meant nothing to anyone all ended the same. I, in search of propriety and infiltration, always outwardly declared I would fix things with him in due time. Within, however, I knew and fastened to the conclusion that things would forever stay the same. We could continue this façade indefinitely, unable or unwilling to read the words in the other’s mind. Surely from him I learned that in order to change such an abstraction as human relationships, one must change the very core of one’s convictions, and after such change one could not claim to be the same person. And I chose not to become my father’s merely adopted son.
“Right. Listen. I was thinking I’d come around here more often, maybe. If you need any help. How are the crops doing? You need anything? You getting by?” The lugubrious game continued. Buried deep in his proud chest was a cry my proud chest was not willing to answer, and my tone carried outright the icy disposition he knew was reserved for him.
“Weather’s been nice. Look how the papayas are doing this year. It’s fine. I’m doing fine.” His austere demeanor showed no cracks. As he was prone to do when nearly confronted, he changed the subject quickly. “How’s that son of yours? You teaching him anything around the house?” He muttered under his breath about my not having anything useful to teach him. I wanted to tell him all about my son, and I said nothing. There was nothing to be said. I could try, but he would not accept. He would try in his way, and I would not accept.
“If you’re sure,” I started in my low, abrupt slur. He cut me off with that most imperceptible movement of the hand that had always brought out the worst in both of us. “I’ve got to get back. Let me know if you need something, you know?” I would fulfill my promise: I had no intention of ever seeing this stranger again.
He said nothing.