I can't die now; I just learned to live...

[kenny]

I can type fast, but I can't type as fast as I can think. No one can. I need a fucking regulator on my grill before my woman tears my tongue from my skull and slaps me with it...

It has been a long 48 hours and only after a weekend of being sick do I now take the time to relax; a blue moon to my side, a butt in the ashtray and the song "Three O' Clock Blues" by B.B. King is off in the distance. And just then - it hits me. I need to type more, this way I run out of words... well I offset the over abundance of words. Maybe this will help to cure this awful disease.

Change of topic.
Change of underwear.
Change in general.

I got some new socks.

The bells, those damn bells, will the Salvation Army ever put a stop to those incessant bells? It's a tiring world when everyone is out to get you. You know?

Lovell, that's what the L is for. You never knew that did you. If you were here I would tell you, but you are not - so you will read it here. It's an interesting story...

After school activities used to consist of comparing Garbage Pail Kids or talking shit on one another or comparing rags that we heisted from the Indian guy up in Nora. Useless activities, but we were little knuckleheads - what else can be said. That evening our conversation was cut short by the sound of hostile rubber and a smashed brow.

The car came to a screeching halt. She was an angry black woman. Her look was stern, one that left you feeling uneasy and the beads of sweat from the mid-west humidity did little to help. His little sister sat in the back seat, staring out of the window with a terrified look on her face. He drug his fat laced Reeboks (or was it British Knights?) on his way to the car and just before he got close to the car I think he realized what was troubling his sister, but nothing was said. What could he do? He couldn't disobey his mother.

Hours later I would fully understand. She was drunk.

The huge concrete barrier met the small car at full speed.

That look, it was unmistakable. It foretold doom.

...but not a very happy story.

Who knows why he meant that much to me that summer. Why after so many years did he pop back in to my head? Was it the crowd of people? Was it how I was living? Was I manifesting my own doom or reminding myself of how quickly everything can go bad. Maybe one day I will cover it up, file that era of my life away in the filing cabinet and move on. Or I could leave it unfinished like the anarchy symbol emblazed upon my elbow. Brad started it, he died before he finished - so it remains incomplete.

======================
Tree: a poem by me
======================

A tree grew in a park,
Many a children played on that tree,
It had a history,
Then one day Wal-Mart bought the park,
It cut down the tree,
It leveled out the memories,
It built hard,
It built strong,
Soon the building was erected,
Even faster it was abandoned,
Expansion,
More building,
Now with more florescent lights, and McDonalds,
Like Starbucks in Seattle they spawned,
They overthrew the land,
Out growing their old stores like shells,
Concrete exoskeletons everywhere,
Too small for big warehouse stores and too big for the little guy,
Destined to remain empty,
I wish the tree was still there,
It was easier on the eyes.

======================

OK, I shall now just stop in the middle of a sente

[kweejee]

good poem

[Rage in a Cage]

I wish the tree was still there as well.

[kenny]

Originally Posted by kweejee

good poem

Thanks man.

Originally Posted by Rage in a Cage

I wish the tree was still there as well.

Aw, I was wondering when my little stoner was going to pop back up on the forums. I am going to go make you a little avatar now...


Aww, so cute. My girl thinks so too!