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Do Do Wap is Strong in Here

Saturday, July 31, 2004

That's My Dago 

well, it's all over now. no more dago love by the glow of the moon for me, at least for a while. dom's probably in san francisco by now, in his little den of a room, his humid wop musk drifting out the window and mingling with the fog of the frisco night, making all the fellas convulse and crawl toward his door against their flimsy wills. i guess i could try filling the gaping chasm in my guts by smoking crushed aspirin like i did as an infant. oh, but it just won't sassy-fy like a robust romp through hill and dale with my lttle guinnea furball... it's raining now. strange how it seems to have started the instant his plane screeched along the tarmac half a continent away. cars coldly whisk by with soft sibillant breaths, like secrets proffered by the grinding gears of the clock at the center of the earth, and each one seems to whisper "dom........ dom........ dommmm....." what good will crying do? i could bathe in a barrel of my tears and never feel as renewed as i did whenever i felt his rough hewn cook's hands glide along my girthsome shank. i can only hope to maintain through the winter as well as my shrivled heart can muster, until we can gallop into the frothing ocean, hand in hand, and resurect the cathedral of tenderness that time and distance have conspired to demolish. dom, whenever something you can't quite identify pulls you to wander along the wharf in solitude, and you hear the crestfallen call of the sea lion, know that somewhere behind his sullen eyes i am watching, and i am with you.

peetq@hotmail.com
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Monday, July 26, 2004

Keegs and Some Other Nice People 

so few words to great effect
imprecise but not indirect
where the lines of sight intersect
the shifting light too slight to detect
with misconceptions, there is no need to correct
because by building it, you make it perfect

peetq@hotmail.comÏ
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Saturday, July 24, 2004

I Swear to God the Nazis Put a Radio in my Teeth 

you should smell my kitchen right now. it smells like the michelin man ignited a fart and used the flameball to boil leather in a wok full of goat urine. yeah. probably time to do the dishes. or at least scrape the moss off of them and try to use it as some kind of joint compound for sealing up the stinking crack in otha's ass. or maybe i'll smoke the big rancid moss ball and decorate my room with whatever my neighbors have left by the recycling bin this week. most recently it was a shredded, sooty three wheeled stroller and jagged pieces of plastic.

man... i must've eaten too much toothpaste or something, i'm starting to feel like one of those street corner hucksters who dress up like giant hot dogs to pimp for some new greasy spoon with sandwiches named after dead comedians. i think what i might do is suck on some dandruff until i black out, and see if i'm still in the hot dog suit when i regain conciousness. then i can more effectively discern how to tackle the problem in yon kitchen. maybe i can rope it off and give it a title like "lucid machine of lugubriousness in microcosm, stage one" to justify it sitting there and festering, and if anyone asks why the paint on the wall behind the sink is sweating and bubbling and turning black, i'll say something like "why dont you ask the fucking whores at 1600 pennsylvania avenue, man!?" then shit on the floor and sculpt it into an easter bunny.

peetq@hotmail.com?
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Thursday, July 15, 2004

Sofa King Super All-Stars 

dodgeball you bastards! i joined a co-ed dodgeball league yesterday on a whim. our team is called the sofa king super allstars. say it fast a few times. we played some team of eight foot tall samurais with tattoos of severed heads on their arms, one for every victim. they palmed those giant, old school rubber dodgeballs and bounced them off our heads like we were ducks in a damn carnival shooting gallery. we scrambled around on the floor like shrews and granny tossed the balls back like we were trying to play a nice civil game of catch. the sofa kings then nursed their goospimpled welts with nachos and alcohol at a local speakeasy and talked strategy. more dodging and better use of the ball was the consensus.

we lost, yes, but oh! the envigorating, reverberating pang of the big rubber ball hitting fleshy thigh! the echoing grunts and howls of ardor! the somehow metallic scent of misty perspiration...

we may well lose again next week, and the week after that, but maybe we can manage to look fucking cute doing it in our matching cosmopolitan pseudo athlete on the go motif, which should be forthcoming from the sofa king design team. and really, the glory here is not to be found in winning or losing, but in how many icepacks you see the opposing team applying to their genitals.

peetq@hotmail.com
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Tuesday, July 13, 2004

Maybe Your Butt Stinks Like Burning Tires 

updating from the abbacus in the living room again. it's been a pretty productive day for having no real obligations... well, i did write an essay for composition, but it didn't take all of the seven hours i spent in dinkytown, wandering down alleys and sweating all over myself.

sparkling news, ladies and gennlemens! we are getting new upstairs neighbors come sep. the first! what with all the griping we did, the rental company decided they werent going to renew their lease. all i know so far is that it will be three college age women. one of them came to look at the place a few weeks ago and signed a lease. jordan d. burns, when pressed for info as to possible disposition or speculation on the general lifestyle of our neighbor to be, said "i dunno, she was wearing a sweater, and then i got scared and ran to my room". so there you have it! a sweater wearer and her friends move into the place upstairs.

i bet i can post more often if i dig deep and strive for my best acheivement. birfins day coming up. my parents promise me the sweet stench of hot horse poop and lopsided green billed wicker hats on purple haired, purple veined gambling addicts with a trip to the racetrack on sunday. horse racing always reminds me of a charles bukowski poem about enduring a violent beershit out at some horse track, and then accidentally dropping his wallet in the toilet and placing a bet with the wet, stinking money. an inspiring associatin to carry with me on a familial social outing.

shit, it's late in the night times. tomorrow i will plunk my face into a chocolate cake and have some lemon merengue with a heapin side o' love.

peetq@hotmail.com¯
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Monday, July 05, 2004

They Confronted Me with a Pile 

wowee...

some very eventful and fulfilling weeks lately. i've been hesitant to post, because i'm afraid it would just turn into a lame, mundane listing of the itinerary for the weekends. but dangit, they were good times. i love the days when i relax or sleep because it's the only time i can before there's something else i have to do. friday, i woke up at 8:30am and didn't get home until 4:30am the next day. i shoveled pizza into my head, and then saw a goddamn great movie by name a napoleon dynamite. the boom mike dipped into the frame in almost every scene, but insanely gorgeous nonsense transcends imperfection. rode some big rumbly rollercoasters and further enabled my cheese thing, the rollercoasters jamming my stomach into my throat wasnt nearly as bad as safety bar after safety bar to the crotch. i failed in three attempts at winning my sweet farmin' faux paramour boy love cody bruce a slinky neon fuzzball caterpillar at the break a plate booth, but insanely gorgeous fake boylove from one farmer to another also transcends imperfection. afterparty in the serpentine suburban streets. i laid on a giant trampoline and let the intermitant cool breezes graze my hot face. the next day, i tooled around town in big brown bonnie's temporary and wholly inadequate replacement, corky, kicked it in a hunting lodge style basement complete with beer lamps, and then once again ventured out to watch soused bar people pass by in blurs of hairgell and spray on tans. then it was back to the lodge for naptime, a brekfast of stale kix and soy milk, a giant plodding parade, a gory water balloon fight with casualties by the score, paper plates, sody pops, sand boxes, smoke bombs, bug spray, sun block, and a fireworks display that took a big soft-serve shit all over columbia heights' white trash ass. today was a perfect day to not exist for a while. lope around doing menial necesities and gear up for a new week. i noticed earlier that the back porch is much cooler and more scenic than the muggy buggy house, so despite the shards of glass, and various other shrapnel from the neighbors, i'm going to go out there, prop myself against the railing and stare at the rainy street for awhile.

peetq@hotmail.com
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