oh you know it's going pretty good i guess

a band of musicians (Evan Owens, Nick Carpenter, Ray Gibson) played a stellar cover of Rocket Man last night. and it was awesome. and i was like huZZAH THIS IS FAN-TASTIC

thanks guys for the live sHOW! the music is/was/always will be great.

the first portrait tells man to submit to a higher power. he bows under waves of love and gamma and empty space ships tiny, tiny in size. he has a look on his lips. like he just finished saying i have had enough. he is waiting for the sun to come back. he is waiting for his wife to heal. he is waiting for his son to say mommy or daddy or hey! look at those robins in that elm tree over there! he would thrilled at the construction of any word or sentence.

he waits by his wife in the hospital. she doesn't say much. she chokes a faint mumble in her sleep at night; he mistakes the clicks and beeps of the machinery for words she struggles to share.

there are young in-resident doctors betting on the super bowl outside.

he nods off and wakes up. she is still asleep. he turns on the game. she dies two minutes and forty-two seconds into the second quarter.

they rush her out in a swirl of white lab coats and blue and pink scrubs. they pound on her chest. check needles, pinch all the hanging bags. they can't figure it out. they add electricity, water, the elements, metal, light, more water, they adjust the thermostat.

a doctor drops a hand into his pocket and retrieves his blackberry, probably to check the game.

it infuriates the man but still he sits and watches the silvery stuff-of-matter stream in a vertical, anti-gravity parade toward some throne of god.


my spit is orange like oranges. will you please stop laughing, your tv is not funny when the sun decides to show. my spit is orange like bad cigarettes, like cheez-it molar-goo, like dental office carpet, like the outside-in of exotic perfume, like the jewels stitched to your navel, like the center of your tongue, like free willy, like Job, like globs of crystal displays under oily thumbs, like empty beards, like flakes in patterns, like endless loop nights, like extra-dimensional pressure of your senses.