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Anonymouse, Episode Thirteen

I don't know about that.
London to Paris?
Yeah, that makes sense.
Well, London to Paris
is a lot different than
Here to Paris.

Ever Have Those Weeks

where everything goes wrong and you don't get any sleep and your car, your poor damned driven car dies while you are moving into your new apartment and your new apartment isn't new and doesn't have water and your relatively new queen-sized bed that you love and spent good money on not more than a year ago won't fit up the stairs and so you have to sleep on a futon provided by your landlady and you step in a puddle in the middle of the night because the water that isn't coming out of the faucet is apparently coming out of the pipe below the faucet and your car is dead and the strange greasy man that was recommended says, This is what's wrong and when we fix that we have to fix this and this and that and while we're in there we really recommend doing this too and that'll be fourteen hundred dollars please?

I told the strange man that he had plenty of grease so it shouldn't be a problem getting enough lubrication to stick that estimate up his dirty coverall covered ass.

I fixed it myself, with the help of a genius mechanic friend who is currently laid off. It took me a week.

After I fixed my car I went on a first date. This is the third first date that I've had in two years.

The first first date was a disaster, because I didn't realize that it was a date.

The second first date was a disaster just because.

They say that the third time is the charm. There may be truth to it. My third first date lasted forty-eight hours.

That has to be some kind of record.

Is This Guy Writing About Postmodern Poetry?

Because it's pretty much the same complaint that I have. Here, speaking of using common language, the language of the masses, so to speak:

Accordingly, such a language, arising out of repeated experience and regular feelings, is a more permanent, and a far more philosophical language, than that which is frequently substituted for it by Poets, who think that they are conferring honour upon themselves and their art, in proportion as they separate themselves from the sympathies of men, and indulge in arbitrary and capricious habits of expression, in order to furnish food for fickle tastes, and fickle appetites, of their own creation.

But who wrote it? That is the question, and the rub. And the prize.

I have wished to keep the Reader in the company of flesh and blood, persuaded that by so doing I shall interest him.

I Lost My Keys

Luckily, because I locked my car keys in my car three times over the course of three weeks last summer, I have a spare set of car keys in a magnetic thing somewhere under my car's chassis, close to the ground. Locating it, however, requires much searching because after about two days of driving everything turns the same dirty snow salt gray. Which just happens to be the natural color of my car. I like to call that sort of coincidence a coincidence. Convenient, even.

I do not have a spare set of keys to my apartment. This requires that I use my credit card to open the door. Frightening is what I like to call the fact that it is so easy to break into my apartment. Farcically scary, even.

I say that I lost my keys. What I really mean when I say lost was that the same person who stole my phone and my alarm clock and my blanket also stole my key. And my laundry money, which consisted of exactly ten dollars in quarters.

Anonymous, Episode Twelve

This is for breakfast.
This is for me and Becky.
This is for lunch.
This is for vodka.

France The Hawk

According to Financial Times:

Although Mr Chirac conceded that the country's nuclear arsenal could not deter fanatical terrorists, he said it could help prevent states sponsoring those terrorists.

The leaders of states who use terrorist means against us, as well as those who would consider using, in one way or another, weapons of mass destruction, must understand that they would lay themselves open to a firm and adapted response on our part," he said. "This response could be a conventional one. It could also be of a different kind."

Highway 69

buzzed driving is drunk
driving. follow god, he is
the way. stop ahead.

More Haiku

the leaf isn't green,
as it used to be; my white
bedsheets not as white.

Haiku

You know how I like the haiku.

broast chicken catered
255-5566
perfect for parties