rob and eamon begin working nights at the geoduck farm

and i find myself in olympia, not knowing what to do and doing a fairly decent job of doing just that. what a strange, strange day yesterday was...


drinker with a writing problem

Rob and I rock the fertile cradle that is Walla Walla

and we drink beer instead of wine goddammit! screw these out-of-town yuppies and their bourgie taste buddies. if they spent one twentieth on books that they spend on booze they might one day have IQs to match their egos.

Rob and I work a bit for my pops, don't talk a whole hell of a lot (at least not about stuff that matters, but, then again, maybe that's the glue that holds it all together), drink too much [shocking].

Being banned from my mother's house is... forcing me to be creative and "hardcore"... so we camped at my dad's bookshop two nights in a row. Of course, Rob dear gets the sofa, I the hard linoleum floor of the History room (don't know why the hell I chose that spot, I bet it's softer by New Age). It's almost six so I think I'll go kick him and get some coffee.

As usual we don't get a whole hell of a lot done for my pops beyond just getting shit out of his way... but I guess that's all you can do for a big, fast moving locomotive that won't quit plowing ahead.

Back across the state today to Shelton and Olympia, Books and Babies and mundanity and routine and croquet and women who like us for who we are and showers and better coffee and somewhere else to go and someone else to be when you don't want to be where and who you are and no one's around to tell us to behave [except each other honey]. I love that be-all fuck-all armpit of a town.

actually i love life, i just enjoy bitching sometimes. that and no one really knows me very well. that kinda sucks. you know me i suppose, is that why you treat me like shit most of the time? i love you you big goof. let's keep getting drunk. not right now, i mean just in general.

sir yes sir
signing off


blessed by past transgressions

we waffle and wait and time bides us

drinking our fill from the waters of slaughter
reading our regrets too deep for our hip waders

the follies of fashion haunt these specters upon which we hit
damning us to an interminable inimitable hell below our own ethics

but we have Tom and maker's mark to wail our sorrows out upon
a stage of our own making, a page we both have taken
ripped out, collated, shredded and forgotten
like last night's phone number ridden beer coaster
like tomorrow's dream, spent and not invested,
deferred yet not despairing

my main manic man struts pride down the sidewalk smoking forevers beneath his lapel
I talk tales tall and pretend towards humility while pocketing my daydreams
unbeknowst to fate and her terrible tunics