Kelsey Grammar as Winston"Well dude i know a guy who knows a guy where youcan get some deep fried bitches over in cook countyjust get up n' get inem' s'all i say to ride it like it justdon't matter to you no more, and when that lonlinessis there just buck up and do it agin till ya cant rideno more like it just don' matta cause that's when itgon' ta get' ta' matter boy... well i here ma cookedup some nice apple pie i think it's restin' by thewinda' sill there and i'd just like to get a nice slice athat while it's still warm, yeah, heh, that is yoursthere boy, you don't tell your momma or you're justgonna have to buck the fuck up on outta here boyand i mean it, you dumb fuck, but then agin', wecould most sincerely poach the peach pie and slitherit all the way down the lane through our endless works..shit this peach pie makes me want to shit a brick orsomething... what's that? oh yeah.... muttley... he'sbeen real down n poor lately... he been sick and heain' wanta eat nothing...hey wh
55 -Resting endlessly stresslyIs some thing I dig.Resting stressing and endingIs something I do not.If you're driving alone on a darkWindy road &, facing the slope youAre ascending, when two red lightsCome out of the low, this isNot another traveler on the road; thisIs merely the first stop on theRoad.
Horror Story, or, SermonIf you have never taken a step backward, my youngest son and Imostly hebut now only Irecommend confidently never to take a step backwards. I suppose it wouldn't have taken more than a simple prayer in the right direction. Supposing to do this, though, is trying painfully to land right, but still landing awkwardly. I mean my son stepped on a nail. Now, to pray backwards means to have neglected God and daily prayer, and then trying to pray when you are only in urgent need; certainly this won't land you any grief. Just a lick of pain: rusty nail, oak wooden board, back lot at the Christian Center where I park my car at night; our problems started with that bloody nail.Well, I confidently say, his problems. My problems aren't solved. Not in the chalice on Sunday morning. Not even on Sunday afternoon, dependent and suckling on a bottle. It feels good to make yourself completely vulnerable, to be out of harm's way, and rather, to be in control of harm. That's the time I spend cruising de
Metaphor for LoveSnow never thought it would melt: the collective flakes, fallen, never thought they would fall; the gently sloping mass would not have thought to flow had the sun not come out: the fish that live under the tumbling waters would never expect to fall from the sky.
refined and delicate palatesIt bothers me to feel like I only have 8 years left to live,And then, at 27, where will I be;Will I write this poem then, later, that I would arriveDead; or undead: the coincidence of errorAnd of ever having thought it and wroughtIt? Will that bother me too? Maybe? And you?No well who would but would they.This thought is life! Unbearable, all distraughtAnd unchangeable, excitable tornadoes!Would I make a plea to this? Would I apply,I, dare make a plea to god?There he is!Or is he?There is a thing called bullshit,Its most of what our parents tell us.When I was 13 years old, I metA lot of bad luck; there is a thing called timeand itIs only one thing: aging; I'd like to take the liberty and time inSaying this is bullshit.Thisthis is where I met the old wives:And every day sooner did I shave,Then doubly the hairs grew againThey must be dead by now; yet as did they,Will I live long enough to see them made grey?Would I dar
The Tragedy of DamaskusDamaskusMine are the dead oaks and exhausted vineyards,Black of suffocation, left to tired soils; dry asNewborns suckled from their mother's powder breasts;For arms to cling, where fortunate arms would have, nowUnfortunately rest as vulnerable asFlowers wept of the elements, droughted,Wailing helpless agony under black sunlight. TheBlack oak roots, such grown are they in my heart,Akin to artery and vein like engraved steel,A crest in shield and sword, erect for security:Cover for the forbearance of time,Whimper like dandelions, soon wither to the last.Coal roots, here, of the investment be allotted dead dirt,Rest contorted and constipated, straining eagerly yetUnfulfilled left, aborted, utterly of disgust andContempt. In the oaks pitch and pitch blackBe stuck for death. In burls of redwoodThey grow together, groves of innocence be torchedBy fire and fueled by the parches of drought. Proximity be theDeath of them; my dead o
MoonsThe clocks turn apathetic to consider Indifference toLower the spirits of a floods funeral hymn.Postpone composition opinion or belief or trivial matter.Rupture the prepossession of the wood pulp rhythm.Lonesome through the endless holy sky surrounded on mountaintopsInto the ghostly velvet amnesia ofDreams, rain, oblivion, Time, Eternity,The darkness the harpsichords & the sunsetAs heavy as the moon on the pavement.