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deep red bells

Deep Red Bells

Who led you to this hiding place 

These lightning thread-spun silver tunnels 

The red bells beckon you to ride 

A handprint on the drivers side 

It looks a lot like engine oil 

And tastes like being poor and small 

And popsicles in summer 

It always has to come this 

The red bells ring this tragic hour 

We've lost sight of the overpass 

The daylight wont remember that 

No speckled fawns raise round your bones 

Who took the time to fold your clothes 

And shook the valley of the shadow 

Where does this mean world cast its cold eye? 

Whos left to suffer long about you? 

Does your soul cast about like an old paper bag 

Past empty lots and early graves 

Of those like you who lost their way 

Murdered on the interstate 

While the red bells rang like thunder?

holidays

portrait

truth

"Trust not your heart nor your head, but your gut."

allen

"Allen"

I was thinking about how sick I was of the white walls in my living room the whole ride home from work on the subway. My Grandfather owned a painting business and somehow, I believe this makes me a superior painter. So, I got off at Lorimer and went to Klenosky Paint Shop to buy 'Barren Plain' in a flat finish. ('Barren Plain' is my 'Sig-nah-chuh Kuh-luh'). I walked all the way to Bushwick and Grand carrying two, gallon paint cans. I got home, thanked the Lord, and started taping off the molding.

Luckily my friend Katie called and I convinced her to come over using wine as my lure. Soon my living room was a disaster and we were deep into paint mode. With the inspiring and invigorating musical stylings of Bon Iver pressing us on we decided to paint my bedroom as well. Unfortunately 'Barren Plain' doesn't look the same when painted over 'Shit Eggshell Brown' in a room with no windows. After 30 minutes we were exhausted. We collectively decided to abort mission and concentrate solely on the living room. And then (as usual) I had a fantastic idea.

I called Allen for "Ukulele Lessons". Allen arrived within five minutes of my phone call. (Ever since I read him the poem I wrote for him, I feel as though I get special treatment). Allen was not at all surprised at the state of my living room. The last time he had come over I was making a cape, and the time before that I was having a party. So I'm pretty sure by now, he knows what type of stoner I am.

Allen unloaded his bag of tricks, and I continued the improvement of my home. My Father works in construction and somehow, I believe this makes me a superior home improver. I had installed dimmers in most all the light boxes all by my lonesome. Now that the walls were painted, I was ready to relish in my accomplishments and put the 'face plate on the cake', if you will. As Allen was saying that he watched me walk to the Subway while I was on a date; there was a spark, a zapping sound and I accidently broke my apartment. NOTE: You not only have to turn the electricity off to connect the wires when replacing the light switches with dimmers, but you must also do this when putting the 'face plate on the cake'.

After I screamed, Allen said "Shank what happened?", (Allen calls me 'Shank', and that's another story). I then called Ryan (my downstairs neighbor) because he is a man, and I believed he could fix my apartment. He couldn't, so it seemed I would have to wait until the morning to find out what I had done. Luckily I have a fireplace and candles. Allen rolled us a sympathetic and generous joint, which we smoked in jest.

I then heard a soft voice coming from the door and realized that my roommate had been home the entire time. She was very upset with me. Initially becuase I broke the apartment, but primarily because she could smell the weed and as a devout Catholic was involuntarily sinning. I apologized for taking her weed virginity without her consent. With the closing of the door Katie, Allen and I bursted into a fit of uncomfortable, and uncontrollable laughter. And I'm pretty sure my roommate heard us, loud and clear. Ah, middle age.

dynasty