Wet Ceiling, Bad Walls, Pederast Poem
Saturday morning and all is quiet. Jack is asleep on the couch behind me as his side of the bedroom ceiling began sending showers of water down on Thursday. Plumber is supposedly coming today. Just checked on the girl whose bed has so far escaped soaking. She is sleeping surrounded by every stuffed animal she owns and a scattering of crayons.
Jr. has sold her bed stuy apt. to an acrobat! Weehawkin is now in my holiday future. Actually probably my more immediate future as Jr. has confessed the house pretty much needs to be condemned and she needs demolition help. How she thinks I am going to be able to swing a hammer hard enough to bring down a wall is beyond me. Apparently this house is so bad I am not allowed to view pictures of the inside of it. I have told Jr. I can hear our construction worker father cursing and yelling from the great beyond. Jr.'s determination to rewire the house herself has me extremely nervous.
In other me me me news, a local law office and big competitor of Blunder and Blunder has expressed interest at looking at my work for possible "work from home" appeal writing. And the child support enforcement bureau has begun to garnish BFI's checks. Doing the happy snoopy dance (come on Jr., dance along!)
Reading Alan Ginsberg's White Shroud this morning. Poem about boinking an 18 year old student pissed me off. If that was my kid, Professor Ginsberg, I would hunt you down and kill you. There was a poem called Brown Rice Quatrain that I was going to post for Jack, but after reading boinking poem, I have changed my mind. White Shroud is signed by Ginsberg, with date of reading held at St. Marks Church, and the word "AH" after a poetry quote on fly leaf. Wonder what I could get for it on Ebay?
My Little One
My little one whose tongue is dumb,
whose fingers cannot hold to things,
who is so mercilessly young,
he leaps upon the instant things,
I hold him not. Indeed, who could?
He runs into the burning wood.
Follow, follow if you can!
He will come out grown to a man
and not remember whom he kissed,
who caught him by the slender wrist
and bound him by a tender yoke
which, understanding not, he broke.
Tennessee Williams
Saturday morning and all is quiet. Jack is asleep on the couch behind me as his side of the bedroom ceiling began sending showers of water down on Thursday. Plumber is supposedly coming today. Just checked on the girl whose bed has so far escaped soaking. She is sleeping surrounded by every stuffed animal she owns and a scattering of crayons.
Jr. has sold her bed stuy apt. to an acrobat! Weehawkin is now in my holiday future. Actually probably my more immediate future as Jr. has confessed the house pretty much needs to be condemned and she needs demolition help. How she thinks I am going to be able to swing a hammer hard enough to bring down a wall is beyond me. Apparently this house is so bad I am not allowed to view pictures of the inside of it. I have told Jr. I can hear our construction worker father cursing and yelling from the great beyond. Jr.'s determination to rewire the house herself has me extremely nervous.
In other me me me news, a local law office and big competitor of Blunder and Blunder has expressed interest at looking at my work for possible "work from home" appeal writing. And the child support enforcement bureau has begun to garnish BFI's checks. Doing the happy snoopy dance (come on Jr., dance along!)
Reading Alan Ginsberg's White Shroud this morning. Poem about boinking an 18 year old student pissed me off. If that was my kid, Professor Ginsberg, I would hunt you down and kill you. There was a poem called Brown Rice Quatrain that I was going to post for Jack, but after reading boinking poem, I have changed my mind. White Shroud is signed by Ginsberg, with date of reading held at St. Marks Church, and the word "AH" after a poetry quote on fly leaf. Wonder what I could get for it on Ebay?
My Little One
My little one whose tongue is dumb,
whose fingers cannot hold to things,
who is so mercilessly young,
he leaps upon the instant things,
I hold him not. Indeed, who could?
He runs into the burning wood.
Follow, follow if you can!
He will come out grown to a man
and not remember whom he kissed,
who caught him by the slender wrist
and bound him by a tender yoke
which, understanding not, he broke.
Tennessee Williams
posted by MJ at 7:34 AM
5 Comments:
Oh my God, that picture you posted looks exactly like the house we are buying in Weehawken!!! Oh Sr., I know you can swing a hammer, just picture BFI in your head and swing!! I'll join you!!! I figure I was never destined for great things in life so it won't kill me to reside in a dump for a while. Anyway, just imagine how pretty it will be when we are done demolishing it! Pot roast in Weehawken, yippee!!!
Oh no, I thought you'd angrily denounce picture as exaggeration! You are certainly destined for great things little sister...you already paint like an angel! I want to see a copy of the engineer's report Jr. Are you going to breathing in asbestos?
GARNI$H: it's not just lettuce and a pickle any more!
Not to worry Sr., this house isn't insulated so asbestos isn't an issue! The only worry is the lead paint while we are bashing walls(dust isn't good for you), but I'll give you a respirator to wear!!! Just imagine Mint Juleps in the garden when we are finished!!! Afterwards we can walk to the spot of the famous duel between Hamilton and Burr, or if you please the house where Claribell the Clown used to live!!! WEEEEEEHHHHAAAWWWKKKKKEEEEENNNN!!!!!
I wish there was a way to garnish BFI's arrogance too. Garnish his arrogance until he is shivering in a corner with remorse and shame!
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