Dead people gifts

I guess someone's grandfather died. This time we all got hand towels.

Today

The only fixed gear bicycle in Cheonan.

Lips

Larry Chancey

He liked to leave his own handwritten poems and proverbs on random household objects. Like in Sharpie on your DVD player. I remember a really good one he put on the dryer when I was a kid. I think it was about how to clean the lint filter. It might have also had something to do with song birds. Here's one I just rediscovered while looking through a bunch of papers I'd thrown in a folder when I was moving out of the house on State Street. He wrote in on the back of a poem that Rye had written that was tacked to the wall in my bedroom.

FRONT:

BACK:

Squonk

Most of January.

People here are funny.

YOU DOWN FOR GEEKING IT OUT AT CARLS PLACED... FOOD.. TV.. BEER.. XBOX..
i"M STILL UNDWINGING FROM THE WOEEKENDS

And the same dude an hour later.

I'm bringing my work with me me to the bar. I'm thinking a couple drinks at sbar... I'l warn you know... I'm no the crizpest cracker in the box.,, I'm keeping a pretty good buz today.. some sticky icky.. keep on d low.

Obama to Iran

"Let's squash this shit, yall."

man

What is it with this song?

Is it in a movie?

I feel like I've been hearing it my entire life.

Cheonan

Birds in hallways.

Sap

I walked home from school today sweating a little. It's the first day this year that if I didn't have a stapler tattooed on my arm, I could have gotten away with wearing a t-shirt to school. I got home and looked out my window at the exact scene that I would see when I looked out of that window six months ago. And it's strange. The emotions, or maybe the perceptions of emotions, that can come rushing back to awareness from where they've been tucked away since late last September. Ones that you can't be aware of the first time you experience, that can only be retrieved by certain sounds or odors, sitting poised on the brink of consciousness like some dream that you forgot to remember. The old men are back in their gardens outside my bedroom window. They're mixing manure in with the dry soil and burning off all the grass that died months ago when winter came and killed everything. Together it all smells alot like the cheap pot my dad would smoke when I was a kid. When they're not digging or burning, they walk leisurely, hands clasped politely behind their backs or they sit squatting down in small groups smoking cigarettes, not talking much. It reminds me somehow of part of an essay I read today about how when you lay on your back in the grass and you can smell the dirt and bugs underneath you and you can see the sky and the trees above you and you consider your own mortality, it doesn't seem all that scary. I've never tried it.

Your boy.

Sindang

Deacheon

Seoul