I will be in Nash-Vegas this weekend.
Through a zoo, a 5K. Jesus, please, let a lion, an angry Pizza Hut manager lion, hunt me down, maul me, I pray (new PR!). I’m at the age where I admire, advise to, will urge (thought not yet will pay for) a mauling.
Don’t expect fast times in the 5K.
I’m old, out of shape. And I am training for Boston. This 5k is a yawner and a way for me to get outdoors. But I’ll run a little fast because of genetics. I don’t take races off, I’m too neurotic. I have fast running genes, but not sure why (I don’t actually know my biological father). I just know I often run faster than I should run.
Also in Nash-Vegas I will disc golf. Maybe pics, but often I forget to bring a camera.
(Bringing a camera when you have fun is a disease.)
Been there (and why i don’t cheer for Georgia)
ME got some new groove at KORA.
It’s a lam-ish prose poem but I happy to see it pixel. I am happy to see the first issue because later the first issue will sell like a comic book first issue. Or whatever I am trying to say. Why won’t you dance? (Carver title–frack him.) Sometimes I think we all dance to a music we don’t understand, or maybe even hear that well, but yet we dance.
gee that’s profound. Fuck off.
(I remember once this company tried to bulldoze the tiny woodlot behind my childhood home, to build more houses. So my neighbor, Walter, and I, in the wonderful fog of night and distracted parents, pulled up all of their survey stakes and spray-painted the Big-Machine tires (sorry, god) and even placed nickels in all the light sockets of their cheap-ass manager trailers (flip the light switch on–BAM! Fuses blow). Youngish kids were we, yes, but we HAD TO. Even then, the woodlot was sacred, an obvious moral vision, though we would never have said it that way. It was just where we built forts and trapped crawdads and discovered bee hives in hollow logs and waded through flowing streams. We had to pull stakes three times, surprising even then, as they (Destructors of Megaverse?) had a tendency to replace survey sticks, bright pink flags in the breeze. But they went away, finally. Gave up, somehow, someway. The woodlot survived. A creek runs through now, as then. Maybe even tomorrow. Our veins and arteries are creeks (rivers flowing, both). 75% of the planet Earth, water. 75% of our human bodies, water. But I don’t want to get flaky, don’t feel the need. And I’m sure they quit trying to flatten the earth for whatever financial concern. It wasn’t two rangy kids. But listen now: that creek in Memphis is real, so full of bluegill, bullfrogs, water turtles, oil filters, memories, bottled water bottles, condoms, a vibrant green mallard drake, a paddling drake, a quivering wake in my synapses today. I said Today.)
Dude publishes the way I send rounds downrange, a-many. I have a new stock on my 10/22. What does that mean?
Why Molly would ever take the JA man on in a publishing contest is still a mystery today.
Dude is a locust, Molly. Scorched earth is his middle name. I toast (pun) him.
My fav in this issue was by Brandi Wells.
This: dream to eat
I have this recurring dream where I am teaching a kid to ride his bicycle and his legs get tangled in the bike chain and his foot gets cut off. When I wake up, I’m hungry.