Sun Is A Tank On Fire

She was always telling me about how her father would go out into the woods behind their house and stay out there for hours at a time. When he'd finally return there'd be a remote look on his face, as if the the forest and the animals living there had special secrets meant only for him. He wouldn't talk much after each of these journeys, he would just sit in the den near the fireplace and watch the logs crack and whistle. Mother would bring him potato soup and set it near him, but it would mostly go unnoticed unless the cat came over to investigate. Then he would swipe and hiss and the cat would run off into the dining room to sit beneath the dinner table and watch as father finally ate the soup. She told me about the time she decided to follow her father out. She gave him a two minute lead before sneaking down the trail that wrapped around the back side of their property. After an hour of steady walking he stopped at a large tree with thick, low hanging branches which cov

sensimorical by Mick Tomlinson oh earnest lover, squelched and fastened to drought, you split apart and both halves make me stupidly happy. this frail thing, indigenous and hunted by spirit, cloaked by our love and tricked by the hues coming in through my window. I think I may be bordering the edge of narration, talking more/loving less while I cushion these gills with water. listen lover, I am your property finger by finger, hollowed chest, four arms worship the moon.

Christmas and New Years came and went, and just like that America feels calm again. Well, as calm as one country can be in the lull between recessions. Did I just pluralize "recession"? Yes, folks, I did. You think that first one was bad, just wait until the next one hits. I hope you know how to set snares and field dress a rabbit, dear readers. Just promise me that you will blog about the experience when it comes! Speaking of snares, I just finished reading The Hunger Games by Susan Collins. What began as an interesting story set in a cruel futuristic totalitarian North America, turned into a semi-conscious love story between boy and girl. Ugh, really? Something tells me the author, Susan, at some point in her life watched Battle Royale and thought to herself, "Hey that was a great movie, there needs to be a book about it!". And away she went with those hungry little fingers, pecking away at the typewriter with a genius story idea in her head (completely stolen

It's New Years Eve in Stumptown. The rhythmic sounds of a live band can be heard for an entire city block. The music bounces off walls and tunnels its way through the busy Portland streets. The city is alive and the sidewalks are jammed with people, young and old. Everyone is having the night of their life in their own unique way, and I am dodging puke puddles in attempt to get near the action. The girls have dressed themselves whorishly with their make-up, skimpy see-thru blouses, short skirts and stiletto fuck-me pumps. Everywhere I look I witness the sexual hustle of the female city dweller seeking a mate, willing to show the goods long before the sale is even made. This is their town, their prey grounds.. and all the combined tits and ass are merely flotsam, and the city is their sea. The men have a feral look in their eye as they stagger across busy streets, cursing traffic and howling delightfully at anything or anyone of interest. Hipsters, punk rockers, emo's and