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The Morning Moon: August 2005
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Wednesday, August 31, 2005. Touchdown Dogs (life and times of spa salesmen). Put your fingers together in the water. Move them back and forth over each other like you are rolling a booger. If your fingers glide nicely over each other than you have a problem. If you can feel the roughness of your skin, with plenty of resistance, then fire up those jets and let the heat heal you. You will pulsate with relaxation. Posted by Jeremy at Wednesday, August 31, 2005. Tuesday, August 30, 2005. I found myself smoki...
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The Morning Moon: October 2005
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Monday, October 31, 2005. When I start to lose it. When the circus music starts to play in slow-mo. I cry out to the Father. I get down on my knees and think about Eisenstein’s buggy. I close my eyes and listen to the wheels roll down each silent step. I see the jitter and the jump. The dust and the scratches. I hear Joshua marching on Jericho. The trumpets spraying fear. Walls falling and Russians crying. In the priestly silent film balance. My prayer answered and grace abounds. Friday, October 28, 2005.
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Airplanes and Indians and Burglars: December 2005
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Airplanes and Indians and Burglars. Thursday, December 29, 2005. A thought from inside the box:. Perhaps this labour to "think oustide the box" is all in vain,. For in doing so, we only create another box in which to operate. Sometimes the very thing we've been searching for is tucked. Neatly under our noses,. The last place we thought to look. That may be the poison in our world,. A search for originality where there is none,. A search for peace where there is none,. Bucking tradition where we know none.
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Airplanes and Indians and Burglars: January 2006
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Airplanes and Indians and Burglars. Tuesday, January 31, 2006. The Sharpest of Letters. I, the simplest and sharpest of letters,. Forcing its way further into my gut,. Hurling curses at every strain,. But I suppose there is little I can do to help. Lose the false front", I call out,. And in beige pamphlets I find a future, they tell me. There are none so cursed as the Romantic. Posted by Ron of Japan @ 5:37 PM. Saturday, January 28, 2006. More Nonsense After Hours, Mostly. My engine jackal burns inside.
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Airplanes and Indians and Burglars: May 2006
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Airplanes and Indians and Burglars. Thursday, May 18, 2006. You may grow tired of me as the winter winds blow long into the fragile spring rain,. Into the torrid air of the summer,. And back into the lungs from whence it came. My eyes have known more hurt than you could comprehend,. And yet I haven't lived. I have accepted the peicing arrows with the grace allowed me,. I have laughed in the archer's face,. Embracing the barbs with quickened blood. And when it called me to sobriety, I made it a game.
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Airplanes and Indians and Burglars: February 2006
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Airplanes and Indians and Burglars. Tuesday, February 28, 2006. Prose for Us to Wear. Come back tomorrow, and I swear,. I'll have more prose for us to wear. I have too little to forsake,. Too little time to make mistakes,. I have no tears, I have no joy,. I'm just a normal living boy,. I have enough to keep in mind,. I may as well be colorblind. Come back tomorrow, and I swear,. I'll have more prose for we to wear. Posted by Ron of Japan @ 5:06 PM. Sunday, February 26, 2006. Back to School at Walmart.
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Airplanes and Indians and Burglars: April 2006
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Airplanes and Indians and Burglars. Friday, April 07, 2006. Burying Something in the Yard. Today I write a novel, an epic of a man too tired or conscious of his muse to go on, and a boy who was too timorous not to follow. A boy too much in a style direct and inapplicable. Burn this goddam blog, chew it up and spit it out, alphabet soup on my lap. Slay it anything but softly, shove it against the wall and cut it off. Posted by Ron of Japan @ 2:02 PM. Monday, April 03, 2006. 2 A story no song could tell.
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Airplanes and Indians and Burglars: March 2006
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Airplanes and Indians and Burglars. Wednesday, March 29, 2006. Sometimes I Scare Myself. I am my own avatar. In the sleepless, glacial pace of time I wait. To throw my presence into the explosion of the day,. When preachers will creep on all fours,. And mountains sweat under the midday sun. I need no mediator. I am my own progeny. In the swollen carcass of culture I fester,. Mixing colors and twisting the simple,. Humming haybales and turning sharply. To cruelly gut the last of the conductors,. Every bit...
