It's Sunday, and I

feel that I have no ambitions, nothing to offer.

I'm a sucker for texture in my art. I love those thick, clean lines taggers make their characters out of. I love the weird expressions, alien I guess, that comic book villains have. I like the furry, the fat, the ugly, the cartoonish, as long as its bold and almost edible looking, really.
I like spheres. Fat, misshapen spheres. I like expression lines. I like crunchy, crisp, brittle letters. I like sticks and veins. I like things to be very very tangible, even if they're completely nonsensical.

Words from My Father

1. On Cookies
"This needs more ketchup."
2. On The Same Cookies, About Fifteen Minutes Later
"You know what would go great with these cookies? Guacamole."
3. On His Will.
"If you do that, I'll disinherit you. You won't be receiving my extensive Sharpie collection."
"I didn't even know you had a Sharpie collection."
"You'd be surprised.
4. On Diapers
"What is this about 'for fifteen pounds?'. When you were a baby, your diapers burst after one or two."
5. On Appropriate Morning Food
"You want some Coffee with Tomato Juice?"
6. On Sibling Rivalry
"Is your sister making you uncomfortable with water-boarding?"
7. On Showering
"Oh you took a shower? No wonder it smells like wet dirt."
8. On Toenails
"Your toe-nails have gotten so long they're scratching the floor. I could hear you scuttling here all 'chssh chsssh chsss'. "
9. On Just About Anything Edible
"Oh, you're eating _____. You know that'll make you poop."

I love, I love, I love

I love!

A statement rather than an incomplete sentence and good golly gracious I'm-
I am.
I am.

And this year has given me nine more weeks and and the air is brittle and quiet under my feet and my burrow of blankets just gets deeper and I'm so

excited!
invigorated!
cold and honestly I like it this time around
for the very first time.
I use it to sweeten my coffee and line my boots, and paradoxically,
keep me warm as I wait
for nine more weeks to see you again.

I am.
I am. I am so happy.

Sometimes

You yearn for unfamiliarity,
the stranger in reading maps and squinting at street signs,
or the dishes you eat off of in a diner,
the sheets you just have to trust
in a hotel.

You want some one to give you an insincere, free with purchase "have a nice day"
to be somewhere where kids point at your license plate, how'd you get all the way here?

You're a long way from home.

I am not clever

original, or new.
I'm a liar, a dumbass, inadept.
And in my world full of mistakes, I glad you're here,
to smile at me and forgive things,
make me laugh,
and give me chances.

Porqueeee....

I'm sitting in a car with a smoke hanging out of my hand, mastering the technique of dashing it out the window for a super quick flick of the thumb, pop off any excess ash before it flies back into my eye, or even worse, out of my hand entirely.

I'll take it back to my mouth, you know, shave off another five minutes. There's nothing about smoking that's remotely cool, but your little roll of dried leaves and cyanide won't say anything about that until you've been at it for a few months.

And it's all, E minor, G, C, A and there's waves of heat making the road wiggle, and you look out the window just in time to see some kid on a skateboard eat it while his board flies out from under him and into his friend, what a hilarious disaster.

3 Months Without A Moment To Breathe

And 13 days until Colorado.

I have this belt, it was my father's, it's a wide and leather with a big brass buckle and it's older than me by far. I had to poke a new hole in it with a jack knife to make it small enough for me, but it's the absolute perfect belt. They never make women's belts like this.

Today, after graduation, I went to Village Inn with two carloads of friends. My 9th grade English teacher was there. She'd gotten fired for being too controversial; the woman swore like a sailor and gave it to students bluntly whether or not they could handle it. She said, while eating a slice of coconut cream pie, that she had been throwing away her graded papers and she'd come across an analysis paper I'd written on "The Secret Life Of Bees", in which I said the honey in the book was a metaphor for religion, and she'd kept it rather than throw it out. This was a higher compliment to me than you can imagine.