I was listening to Piebald and the lyrics trickled down that said "Gotta stop swearing, gotta stop swearing." The drip kept dripping until it found its way to my able and working heart, and now I've vowed to doubly bolster my vocabulary and save swearing for Suns games (I don't wanna talk about the game).

I was listening to Tom Petty and the lyrics gang raped my ears that say "Sometimes, I don't know why, but this old town just seems so hopeless." Caught between a thought and a consideration, I let the lyric linger on the crossroads for one long second, then rejected it in favor of my love for this my City.

Recently, I've begun to get paid to grocery shop. I'm a card-carrying member of the Restaurant Depot Club (albeit not by name but still for all intents and purposes), and thus am able to heft large fifty-pound bags of flour, stacked boxes of avocados, and white bread (apparently these skills are endowed to anyone holding the card in his/her wallet, for Karl T. experienced similar phenomena). Today, as I browsed the aisles, I was beset with the burning need to go number 2, and as I consider myself a bit of an amateur bathroom connoisseur, I jumped at the opportunity to investigate the facilities of the Kings of Wholesale. It was at this moment that two facets of my character collided: I love bathrooms, and I love writing poetry, so as I am always looking for a muse, I decided to write a short poem on my grocery list describing my experience. It went something like this:

Brown, Yellow
Escape route
Headed toward
The Burning
Flame and for
The expectant water.
Now sail away
In paper boats
And get lost
In white cotton clouds.

This is not the greatest poem in the world, no, this is just a tribute. For upon simultaneously finishing the poem and the poop, and while delighting in the parallels I found therein, I realized to my chagrin that there was no toilet paper left in this particular stall. In a fit of problem solving and creative thinking, I, without second-guessing, promptly tore up my paper and wiped my butt with my poop poem. I praise my upbringing and genetic make-up for not letting the hilarity and coincidence of it all be lost on me.

I hereby endeavor to write Whitman's History of the Intruiged,
So named to guard off misnomer,
As Uncle Walt,
Sooth-sayer
Stood patiently to be seen by Generations of Gentiles
Through self-portrait,
Soul-searching and
Self-Singing,
The mirror-produced scene of wide-eyed amazement, of
Marveling, Brain-
Teasing, Freeing
Self discovery.

Chapter one: Ship-born shaman stands on cedar wood and allows reflected
Pigmentation to
Connect the dots
Of all previous epiphany, this is the first of many to be divorced from meaning
And wed to the
Aesthetic.

Object lesson philosopher, Bill and Ted's toga test-study, showed the world that he
Defined the artistic merits
of Death.

Turtle-necked forefather, archangel, sky tickler, cloud toucher,
Reinvented heaven
And captured it in a moment
of Lucidity.

Walden's son, Boston's Heir, glorified isolation and in
The midst of observation
Put old codgers
In their respective places (Hell).
I wonder what he thought when he became antiquated?

The age-old art of artistic perception never ages.