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Wow. Somebody threw strands of toilet paper through the trees in front of Jesse. In its own way, it’s really pretty. Like streamers of garland. That are supposed to wipe asses.
I was a Ninja for Halloween. Black pants, a black t-shirt, and another black t-shirt to make into my mask. There was this other guy in a ninja costume, but he was wearing a long sleeve shirt (with a logo!) and a bandana for a mask. I was so much sweeter than he. We did Trick or Eating, which meant we went to the Davidsons College and got a route, then went door-to-door collecting canned food. We got two bags full, which is a decent amount. Then we watched a late-night screening of The Shining. Interesting flick. So much so that I want to read the book.
I got some books at the library, thanks to Carrie. an Amiri Baraka treasury, Dave Barry’s Complete Guide to Guys (A Very Short Book), and Stephen King’s autobiography/work about writing, On Writing. I’m about thirty pages into each.
So I’m slowly collecting another album’s worth of material. If all goes well, I should record it over the Thanksgiving break. This album will be my most acoustic yet: acoustic guitar, piano, and few electric guitars. It has some of my strongest stuff yet, though (I think). “Starting a Religion”, a slow, hymnal number; “Double Take”, an offbeat song about the similarty of the two ‘opposite’ political parties, and “Danse Macabre”, a visual, piano-driven piece.
Left Hanging
Nobody wants to explore anymore.
All we want is a copy of National Geographic and
a bologna sandwich, preferably with Super-Size Fries.
Can you blame us? Who’d want to leave
the serenity of a newspaper floor, our own feces
floating in a water dish, and pretty, shiny bars?
Thank God for the bars. If we squint and look
with what little imagination we’ve got,
we just might see a menacing cat staring us down.
He’s got mange, he’s missing an eye,
and a gleam in his good eye like a madman’s watch.
Watching the birds outside the window, we laugh nervously,
dismissing what we fear most. Let them live on the edge each day,
just outside the cat’s cracked paws. Let them live.
At least they don’t have to read old issues of National Geographic until they die.
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