Kitchen Memories

i'm not always sure if a story in the archive is a memory or a dream

xerxes, fried baloney, cleopatra click click, powdered eggs, slimy chicken in #10 cans, the toaster fire, the burnt cabinet, slicing a finger while slicing bread, plastic radio on the shelf, "at beneficial, you're good for more," tang, "chock-full of nuts is heavenly coffee," "up, up, and away," the phone 617-528-5248 (why can't i forget that?), having to call and apologize for lying, lining up juice glasses on the counter to match the levels (ocd), FAKE BRICK LINOLEUM, carrying my plate to the bathroom (dippity doo) so nobody would eat my dinner, the screaming, the yelling, lysol odor, the shouting, american chop suey, the anger, the dreaded red medicine, lava soap for swearing, the funny black and white photo of spaghetti on his head, the hair brush, the fucking stiff bristle hair brush, puke, knocked out of my chair into the corner by a fist, kraft macaroni and cheese, perry mason (no, that was the living room), waking up screaming with no idea how i got there, the tick tick tick of the black plastic clock

nothing significant ever happened in the kitchen

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Kitaro, The Dead, and Queequeg Walk Into a Bar

Kitaro, The Dead, and Queequeg Walk Into a Bar

Peak moments. Lucid moments. Insight. Understanding. Clarity. Enlightened moments. What fun.

Math and Aftermath

Who of them will come to be? How many of them are you and me?

the view (from here)

screaming motorcycles encircle my house triggering a fear of the dangers of daring to be young again on top of that all the birds a round here are refusing to co operate i remember leaping over the handle bars and painting the street with several inches of my fore head

It's All One Story

I am not a disciplined writer. I don't even like to call myself a writer. I don't get writer's block. I get writer's fright. I've said this before. Why does writing frighten me? Because when writing, I can't lie. I can't hide.