Flowers are red, young man. "A" is to "B" as "B" is to "C." Unless it isn't. There's no need to see genetics any other way than the way they always have been seen.

Month: October 2017

“Be Alright”

First time I heard this song I was on my way out to California exactly four years ago and I wasn’t sure if anything was ever going to be alright.

I remember saying something about how exciting it would be to have another place to not belong.

I remember shrugging and thinking that this, too, would run its course.


I had a dream that I was walking across a prison yard drenched in cum. Total bukkakke disaster.

Everyone was smirking and snickering.
I giggled and told someone “I look like I’ve just been hired by CBS *AND* Fox News!”

What do you dream about?

I was sitting down next to someone in a dream, kicking it and talking about whatever we were talking about.
He wanted to tell me everything that he dreamed about, and it was more or less a normal life with the woman and the house and the two and a half kids and the cars.
He was a nice enough fellow but I was lost in thought as he spoke and I know he could tell that I didn’t relate to anything he was saying.
He stopped talking and I told him it was okay and that hearing about his dreams and what makes him happy makes me happy.
He asked me “What do you dream about?”
I thought about it for a second, thinking, well, this will be awkward.
I started off hesitantly: “I dream that you exist.”
I continued: “And I dream that I exist.”

Sidewalk Slam

Mama when I grow up
Don’t tell daddy what I want to be
A Barefoot beggar
playing my music on the street 

When those train hopping boys stop by
and rest their lazy bones
I’ll put my arms around them
And make them feel less alone

Sidewalk slam
Drink in my hand
A sidewalk slammer

Daddy when I grow up
Dont tell Mama  what I want to be
A traveling gypsy
with tracks under my feet

No one said it would be easy
Life without a silver spoon
Ramen noodles and potatoes
Howling at the moon

Sidewalk slam
Drink in my hand
A sidewalk slammer

Sister when I grow up
Don’t tell Brother what I want to be
A natural seductress
bringing men down to their knees

I cant stay too long honey 
I’ve got more places to roam
I’m a vagabond magic woman, 
Everywhere I go is my home

Sidewalk slam
Drink in my hand
A sidewalk slammer

Brother when I grow up
Don’t tell Sister what I want to be
A nappy headed flower  child 
My van is where I sleep

Dont be mad because i left y’all
To be a no good rambler
I’m as happy as I can be
I fall in love with the weather

With a sidewalk slam
Drink in my hand
A sidewalk slammer
— Cuba Luna, Homemade Bomb

Where Dreams Go To Die

Some other place I don’t know where I am.
Some other place where I don’t know anyone.
Some other place where I don’t have any friends.
Some other stupid hotel room.
Some other gloomy rain-soaked sky.


I had a dream that Tommy (one of our moderators who passed away unexpectedly on Friday) had left a scrapbook behind.

I went to retrieve it.

It was a big scrapbook with a rough red cover and big thick cream colored pages.

I flipped through the pages but I wasn’t sure what I was looking at.

Tommy was in the room with me. He explained to me that it was “character development.”


I’m pretending the rustling sounds are waves of maple leaves gently crashing up onto a beach of patchy and blighted grass and Creeping Jenny underneath my rake.
A really cold beach: 50 degrees.
Let’s pretend it’s Massachusetts, then.
I’m fucking lonely.