Saturday, October 30, 2010
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Monday, October 18, 2010
G Street Pier. San Diego, Calif. I just wanna fish brrrrooooo. Catch me some lobbies.
Two blocks from the shop.
Don't hear any voices on "Commodore Mathew C. Perry and his Black Steam Ships"
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Both structurally, and cosmetically. It's like sending your lady friend in for plastic surgery, to a physiatrist, and she still comes back with that "might be going to jail" twinkle in her eye.
Friday, October 1, 2010
They days get shorter.
The air colder, denser.
The motor; crisper, sharper, in tone and tach.
The first good rain strips the road of everything but it's grip.
Up and away from the things we cling to.
West toward the waves, the hills, we slice through.
The sound and the fury, reach them before we do.
Faulkner couldn’t describe this.
We don’t have time for Bill the buzzard anyway.
The nocturnal scavengers hear the call.
Their nightly search for the neglected and rotting goes into high gear as well.
The squirrels, birds, and smoky bears go into hiding.
The black and blues stay far from here.
Or maybe it’s just easier to push people around in the formulaic layout of old orchard groves, cleverly transitioned into track housing.
Out here the road talks back.
“Hug the line, clear your mind”
Coming back with nothing is what is important.
A stop at the summit to cool the breaks.
Like the incoming tide, the fog slowly creeps in.
Enveloping, the beasts in a cloak to hide their tracks.
A murder’s leather gloves.
The wet air frames the guilty perfectly.
It nips at the bumper.
Warm, rich exhaust keeps it at our back as it chases us back to civilization.
Riding its crest to the shore.
We always come back for more.