Ten nine eight seven and so forth...

T Minus Six Minutes And Counting

What a pleasure it is to watch the last six minutes of the count
transcending to that July day in 1969
pretending to be sitting in that capsule

Whats for lunch?
What`s in store for the rest of the summer?

So much more idyllically simpler
so much the same amount
of life giving bullshit
between then and now

Lets go to the store for some Pillsbury
Space Food Sticks
and a 15 cent bottle of pop
at the very least a cool drink of water
from the fountain

Though the outcome is always known
the tension is always the same
Ignition sequence started
the tower has been cleared

The best illusions are the ones we create
from ones that have been previously smashed
by someone else

White Bird in a Golden Cage
a free assemble yourself
cardboard Lunar Module
　
　
　

International House of Pancakes

International House Of Pancakes

So much more than a dispensary of syrup and pancakes
why the place was a think tank
it was a nerve center

See the ticking and whirring of world events
much like Mission Control
see the waitresses take our orders
the happy cooks fullfill them

A permenant vacation
on down the road knowing
there is a place to eat
there is a bottle of syrup
waiting to calm your soul

So know matter how far gone you are
the hostess will guide you to your booth
over coffee the brainstorming
can begin

Our best documents are stained with syrup
bacon grease and stains from grape juice
print it and run the story
front page

A new poem

For a winter that has gone on too long

The winter here is a smitten lover
that makes the toes chilly
and the self esteem droop
like boobs without a bra

Where did we go wrong after
an extended tryst through the Indian Summer?

I try to play in the snow
I am too big for a sled
and too poor for a snowmobile
I am some sort of abominable snowman

I have read too much this winter
and it`s only February
rivers and seas, biographies and box scores,
love notes and rejection letters

Where did we go wrong after the summer slipped through our fingers?
Sand through the sifter of our souls!