Because I Really Hope No One Ever Tracks My Googling

I have returned for a brief respite before the Major Road Trip I shall begin tomorrow, and have returned to the happy news that someone found our blog by Googling (it’s a verb. O, it’s a verb) the term “dirty mother.” What is more fashionable than that? Nothing. Nothing more fashionable. I have little other to say as a poemlogue other than this: if you’re sitting in a tent, dear reader, and it is cold in the tent, as the tent is full of shade, and you decide that, as a way to get some warmth, you will put half of your chair outside of the tent and therefore outside of the shade and in the sun, do not be completely overwhelmed with horror and shock upon returning home, preparing for a shower, glancing at the already-terrifying vision of your haven’t-worked-out-in-three-months body in the mirror, and seeing that half of your body is tanned, whilst the other is still lily pale.

That is all.

Desire

Is a fabulous song by Bob Dylan.

They crash and burn. They fold and fade so slow.

Dear Reader: I just spent hours singing along with Axl Rose. Whew! That was exhausting! I don’t know what makes my throat hurt more: singing along with Courtney Love or singing along with Axl Rose.

My entire day has been exhausting, so I shall leave you with a poem. A poem that needs a little more glitter thrown on it. And when I say “a little,” I mean “three or four tons or so.”

and the high

school boys [made me cry too many times to count!]