Tender eyes and hearts close and pound,
silence deep enough to drown,
Proud words and turning ache
swearing just for swearing's sake.
Wrong turns and blinking blinkers
taking place of abandoned winters,
Shorter skirts and warmer hearts
begging for this to start.
Glasses sweat and empty out
fears and hopes and loves and doubt,
No equal level and no familiar gauge
to finally feeling one's age.
Glowing blue and yellow days
now batting, Willie Mays,
Your father's face evolves
to fit all of us involved.
Still some smoke holds on
to the horizon at dawn,
And visitors leave flowers crossed
where the innocence was lost.
We count the paper for it's worth
and pray it stretches over earth,
fills our every need today
or makes us hate to run away.
Friday, June 27, 2008
Tender eyes and hearts close and pound,
Thursday, June 26, 2008
i'm smoking cloves, drinking beer, making a mix.
i leave to go back to work in 5 minutes.
i have no insurance, no smog, no registration.
i have 2 bucks in savings, 100 in checking, 40 in my pocket.
i'm out of gas.
i get paid in 10 days.
i work 45-50 hours a week. I don't get paid daily overtime. i get one day off every seven.
i'm in love. i'm in a great band.
i miss my families. i miss some of my friends. i miss my moustache.
i've never been happier. i've never been lonelier. i've never been so low. i've never been so high.
i love music. i love life. i love you.
have a great day.
i'm trying too.
A taped up 12 pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon was purchased the other day. Last night while watching a scary movie in the dark I was drinking said beer and eating Oreo cookies. The second beer tasted strange. I thought it was the cookies. It was the beer. It was actually club soda. I was pulling the "beers" out of the box in the box and putting them in my koozie without looking. VONS, you got me!
Friday, June 06, 2008
So me and Frowning Bill are making a mix blog called The Crapulent Jukebox. His first mix is up, mine is being made as we speak. So add it to your blogroll and readers and things you tell your friends about. In the mean time, my breaks don't work and a burrito purchaser heard me call a co-worker a mother-fucker.
Happy times indeed.
Thursday, June 05, 2008
I fold burritos for a living. I do the other stuff too. I put meat in them (yup), I put dairy in them, and rice, and beans, and sauce (yup) and good times. I also make tacos, tortas, bowls, enchiladas and the dreaded taquito.
Oh Yes sir, dreaded.
Yesterday a lady asked me if the taquitos were hard or soft.
Wait, the place I work at is like subway, but mexican. Actually, it is more white-boy-mexican, but whatever. So I'm on one side of the sneeze guard and you are on the other, and we move down the line and put the things you want into the thing you ordered.
Actually, I'm a lunch lady. No hair net, but a hat, and gloves.
So this lady asks me if the taquitos are hard or soft.
I say "Umm, they're taquitos."
Then I say "Uhh, they're hard (implied DUH)"
She let me know, angrily, that in MEXICAN FOOD taquitos can be hard or soft, and that she was MEXICAN. She also called me an asshole. Or rather implied I was an asshole.
I told her I didn't know that, and that I wasn't mexican, you know, in case there was any confusion or anything.
She might still be mad.
She had a taco instead. You know, the soft version of a taquito.
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
Folding/rolling burritos fills my days. I spend less time with my friends. I don't stay at their houses long enough, or try hard enough, or even show up enough. I go to work while roommates sit on the couch and come home and they are still there. I smell like burritos. I feel like a burrito. I don't hate my job. I don't yell at anyone or punch boxes of frozen fries. I'm just there all of the time. I can't find time to write, I can't find time to post blogs, I can't find time to write songs. I can't give all the time stephanie wants from me or all the time I want to give to her. I don't cook. I don't read. I don't take baths. I don't walk anywhere. I don't have any money. I get on the wagon. I fall off the wagon. Everyday is a blur, but not like it used to be, when I would work 5 hours, make 20 hours worth of money, and have a great time doing it. Now I work 11 hours, make 11 (or less) hours worth of money, and don't know where it is or where it goes. I'm on my break from work right now. I'll go back in 20 minutes. More burritos. More tacos. More people not saying please. More headaches. More calculated breathing. More. More. More.
I want less. Thank you.
Tonight: Bill's birthday.