Tag Archives: food

Gratitude: Part 23

Today I am grateful for:

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Journal – Legwork

Last night I rode to my love’s house (she lives just down the street), and together we took a night on the town. First we went to the Erotic Heritage Museum (where she has worked, and where she still holds instruction from time to time) and heard a fascinating lecture on prostate massage – fascinating and informative, particularly considering my new line of work.
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Protected: Feast – NaPoWriMo #24

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Today’s post,¬†Devour, features a prompt from August 22nd: No dialogue. ¬†Feeling under the weather still: have not slept much the past few days and my body’s rebelling against me, so I needed and easy task, despite starting on a different play for today and beginning tackling 31of31, which is going to be a bit of a process and could probably use a month (at least) to get right. Keep tuned here to find out what it is!

Bastille 2.0 – NaPoWriMo #2

They made being tortured a job-description but didn’t list it in the posting,
Who would answer such an ad – “Must be able to stand the sound of footsteps and gunshots for hours on end”.
It’s safe enough, this world’s a simulation, no stray bullets or knives in the back,
But how should a mind react, made paranoid and over-shouldered jumpy, desperately seeking brief reprieves and how many customers have there snuck up on me?

There are two rooms you’re ushered into where the boss decides your fate, and there, also fake but more serenely in the waiting harbors…the sounds of a harbor: tugboats, seagulls, bells on a buoy, cars passing in a distance, some light construction, beeping of a forklift. It sounds like the Brooklyn Shipyard in fall and even has that bite to the air, the only thing it’s missing is the sea-salt smell, but that’s hard to simulate in Las Vegas.

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Beauty Bar

While Pray for Japan plays Pauline, who is frying, undoes her lumberjack shirt, revealing her red bra as she revels, the only girl dancing.

Too many dicks on the dancefloor during a love-song,
The girls sitting it out on stools,
Or are off in a corner getting memorialized by a photographer with all the trimmings, a flash on his camera, two umbrella’d cans rebounding the light about.

At the bar, another photographer places his triachnid tripod on the top and photographs Melissa, the bartender, as she takes his order;
A collector, unabashed until he sees me staring:
His face turns red and he doesn’t make eye contact again, embarrassed at being made, unaware I’ve been doing in a different medium the same.

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Neither Nor

Somewhere ’round the dime store there was a kind shore, when poetry paused in eloquence and practiced what it said in store,
Bored beyond the musty surface and wondered at a purpose.

The more you grow the more you know you don’t know shit; shrugged shoulders go,
Carrying six plastic bags stacked and packed with who knows what,
He didn’t have three bucks for a hot dog,
And the way he shuffled along you’d know his days were long.

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