I trashed musical ambitions for college
I trashed college ambitions for adventure
and I trashed romantic ambitions for romantic adventure
and trashed those romances too
I trashed adventure ambitions for employment
and I trashed ambitions for ambitious self loathing
just to be sure
none of my ambitions could head
too far in the wrong direction
I stayed in the garbage,
like a former billionaire in jail
I'm smug
weighing the infinite wealth
I've trashed
28 October 2010
26 October 2010
11 October 2010
05 October 2010
Installment the First
There was a general lack of interest in the execution of the task, but its COLORS, or consequences, gave light to the most extraordinary of possibilities.
Requiring both lather and polish, the dog, after the task was done, would shine like a brand new 1993 Ford Taurus.
The dog, named Dave Breakfast, was a mongrel whose particular pedigree gave him exactly the proportions and appearance of a Dachshund, but in scale the beast was at least triple that breed's expected mass and volume.
Dave Breakfast was polished once a week, on time every time. The polisher was no less than one Mr. Herby Stones, who resided just down the street, two doors to the right, up the stairs, in the room next to the kitchen.
"If I could," Herby proposed, "I would lacquer you, Davy, so that your polish might keep."
At age 21, having moved to the larger area of town, Herby had devised a business plan, which today, at age 27, had resulted in the largest dog decorating business in the region, if not the universe.
Herby's lonely green eyes narrowed. The dog was done, wasn't he?
He removed the IV tube from behind Dave Breakfast's left front leg, broke a capsule under the dog's nose, and, after a few failed hurls of the thorax, the beast successfully righted himself and looked up at Herby with a look of resentful understanding.
"It's fashionable, Davey," explained Herby, " but you may yet get used to it."
After work, Herby hailed a rickshaw, even though he resided just down the street, two doors to the right, up the stairs, in the room next to the kitchen. The reason Herby hailed a rickshaw was that, as a novelty business owner and operator, Herby Stones despised passing up an opportunity to patronize another novelty business.
The rickshaw driver, accepting a handsome gratuity, agreed to carry Herby Stones up the stairs, and gently lay him down at his stoop.
Requiring both lather and polish, the dog, after the task was done, would shine like a brand new 1993 Ford Taurus.
The dog, named Dave Breakfast, was a mongrel whose particular pedigree gave him exactly the proportions and appearance of a Dachshund, but in scale the beast was at least triple that breed's expected mass and volume.
Dave Breakfast was polished once a week, on time every time. The polisher was no less than one Mr. Herby Stones, who resided just down the street, two doors to the right, up the stairs, in the room next to the kitchen.
"If I could," Herby proposed, "I would lacquer you, Davy, so that your polish might keep."
At age 21, having moved to the larger area of town, Herby had devised a business plan, which today, at age 27, had resulted in the largest dog decorating business in the region, if not the universe.
Herby's lonely green eyes narrowed. The dog was done, wasn't he?
He removed the IV tube from behind Dave Breakfast's left front leg, broke a capsule under the dog's nose, and, after a few failed hurls of the thorax, the beast successfully righted himself and looked up at Herby with a look of resentful understanding.
"It's fashionable, Davey," explained Herby, " but you may yet get used to it."
After work, Herby hailed a rickshaw, even though he resided just down the street, two doors to the right, up the stairs, in the room next to the kitchen. The reason Herby hailed a rickshaw was that, as a novelty business owner and operator, Herby Stones despised passing up an opportunity to patronize another novelty business.
The rickshaw driver, accepting a handsome gratuity, agreed to carry Herby Stones up the stairs, and gently lay him down at his stoop.
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