Sifting Through Idiots

the flour must be sifted

a lot of flour must be sifted

and all you've got is

this stupid rusty sieve you can't plug in

 
there isn't even a hand crank

 
no one's given you a deadline, but
you'd prefer to be done with it
 

you tap against the rim of the bowl
 
you tap a thousand times against the rim of the bowl

your feet start to hurt
so does your wrist 

the flour runs low now and then
you take a break

other times, there are bugs
 
you hear of others getting bugs
but you're not ready for yours
 
you're never quite ready for yours
 
 
so remind me again, what's the point?
 
 
you were told there might be a prize
 
 ...wait, might be a prize?
like a cracker jack box?

no, not like a cracker jack box
a cracker jack box guarantees a prize
 
 
so why am I sifting through all this flour?

because you don't want

a plastic ring
a fake tattoo
a thin red fortune teller fish

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As a post script to this perhaps silly little poem (which was in reaction to some recent 'blast from the past' encounters with idiots and conversations with friends about their dating experiences), I was reading an interesting interview in Marie Claire magazine a couple days ago with a woman who used to sell sex through Craigslist ads in New York.  She is now a teacher but is basically being suspended for writing about her past.  Among other things, she discussed how many of the male clients were normal professionals with nice apartments, and were very similar to anyone she would meet when she later tried online dating.  However, the two experiences were quite different... She made the surprising declaration that online dating was "much worse than prostitution".... 

summer

It has been the loneliest of summers.

One feels the weight of the heat and the sadness some days like avalanches.

And the sweat.

Sweat makes a man feel like an animal.  And animals don't tend house, or fold clothes, or mind dirt, like a man should.

The loneliness is violent.  A quiet, violent loneliness.  The pain of which can hit anew, a surprise attack.  Some formerly insignificant sight or occurrence becomes a jarring reminder; some slight awakening, a little shake, a little nudge, and the dull film of time and forgetting, of carefully orchestrated habits and distractions, scratches off, and reality glares back in familiar, stark lights.  You look in on yourself as if through a window, or from a box seat, not only a participant now, but a spectator.  You look in on yourself for the first time, once again.  

Beginning of a story...?  Only time will tell.

Plug

My friend designs and draws and graphicizes/graphicates/graphically creates neat shit.  You can now find her totally neat-o offering of custom invitations and such here:

Thattiagirl on Etsy

In fact, she is the one who took the idea for my blog banner and made it way better than I ever could have.

So, for all 1.5 people who read this, wherever you are, pass the word along! 

Portola Valley, RB's House. June 8 - 14, 2010

She’s over the idea of killing the roosters, it seems, but what she’s nervous about now, she tells me, is slicing open the asshole to pull out all their guts once they're dead. It should be done properly, so as not to ruin the meat...

Click to read more ...

Big Apple, small bites

I like to think new beginnings are a chance to get it all right.

An opportunity to do it perfectly, this time. 

But all they really mean are that you're open to change.  Which is the most important thing anyway.