Friday, December 12, 2008
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Friday, November 21, 2008
I hear the trumpet play, I see the flag fall, and I weep.
I hear the trumpet play, I hear the guns fire, and I weep.
I hear the trumpet play, I see the casket fall, and I weep.
I hear the echoing scream, I see my friend fall, and I weep.
I hear the blast ring, I see my sergeant calling, and I march on.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Friday, November 14, 2008
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Sunday, November 09, 2008
Saturday, November 08, 2008
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Thursday, October 09, 2008
- Maybe he was trying to cheer up drivers with his antics. They were amusing to see, and after the episode of confusion had passed, I laughed.
- Maybe he's trying to distract drivers and cause an accident. Wouldn't be an impossibility.
- Maybe he's actually a hitchhiker and doesn't actually live at the house at the end of the driveway and this is his best method for getting people to pull over and give him a ride. A bum on the road with his thumb up? You might pass him. But a bum on the side of the road playing a guitar with so much energy and just hoping to get a ride to his next destination while playing "Stairway to Heaven"? Oh, very possible indeed.
Sunday, October 05, 2008
Friday, September 26, 2008
Thursday, May 01, 2008
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Firearms clack, face-down in the brine
I hear my sergeant calling, screaming for a man
The mortars are a tolling, killing the little lambs So I'm joined up in the stack, pass along the tap
Enter the room and crack! Fallen for the trap
Caught up in a crossfire, shooting at the dust
Fallen in the mire, this battle is a bust And now a trumpet trembles, wailing like my mother
The recruiters, they just scramble, to try and enroll my brother
The people begin to protest, say "the sacrifice's a waste!"
As our freedom's put to rest, and our country's lost it's grace But this war is here to stay, a fight like any other
Extremists in drug addled stupor, killing my sister and mother
So I take my rifle and gear, and head for the door
To fight with my peers, against the insurgents war They say I am an infidel, I call them little beebs
Monkey's with Kalashnikov's, I fight and begin to seeth
But the war will never end, a pity, what's the more
They've no sense of time, and wait to settle the score So even when I'm old, unable to continue the fight
Their kids will take up arms, to kill off us infidel blight
Monday, February 25, 2008
Goodbye, so long, farewell, auf weidersehen, adieu and all those other little pesky miscreants intended to convey my complete departure. And depart I must. Taking my leave, jumping the fence, hitching a ride. No so much downtown but out of town. I'm gone the way of the dodo in the most lackluster of ways -- but not extinct. Been fun and all that jazz. But I must go participate in the most amusing of hijinks this side of crazy Saturday Morning Cartoon antics. I'm deploying, and heaving off like the dickens. If this leaves you with a sour taste in your mouth, it surely wasn't me that made it that way. Honest.
However, if you've got a bad case of the evil juju riding hitchback on your shoulder giving you the nasties in terms of emotive feeling (or even your intuition's gone afoul of some wave-breaker out in the ocean and it's shipwrecked), well, let me put that at ease. I will be back. I say that with utmost certainty. I'm not gonna bite it. No buying the farm. No relegation to the underdog position. No pink mist or being a Bottoms-Up-Barney finding my ass upturned in the dust. This guy is coming back whole. Of body, yes. Mind, well, that's for the courts to decide.
So, yeah, I'm off. Say your goodbyes if you have any. See you all around...in the world of tomorrow!
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Friday, February 22, 2008
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
He was the proverbial badass. The scum on the bottom of society's boot, feeding away on the lower lifeforms. He was Demon, and he was the greatest monster this side of a B-rate horror in a theatre without popcorn or soda pop available. Nothing enjoyable to be found. And he was so good at what he did (he was an outstanding swordsman, but since losing his sword had since switch to a butterknife, but it still had the same effect he assured himself), which was robbing banks. Just recently moved to this new city. He'd heard great things about it. Oh, how he would be the greatest terror this side of Godzilla in Tokyo. Entering the Smith & Smith Bank or Piers and Jaunt Ave, he pulled out his butterknife, and menacingly, demanded all occupants hit the deck and that the clerk begin giving him all cash or he start cutting. Then, oddly, nobody complied. In fact, he was so blatantly ignored he thought this might be reverso land or something. "I said, hit the fuckin' floor! This is a bank robbery!" Then it happened. Ninjas...one of them? He dropped through the ceiling with an explosion of plaster, dust and a fit of coughing. He also hit the floor like a slab of meat dropped from fifteen stories up and with all the grace of said. In his racking fits of coughing, he pulled out an inhaler, put it to his mouth, pressed the button and inhaled deeply. He was dressed all in black, except for his face, he got up, ripping his katana from the scabbard with a nice little ringing noise that sounded like an ear infection waiting to happen -- then he talked, and it was worse. "I am Kiori Hayabusa," he said, "you attempt to rob my bank -- prepare to die!" Even after he finished talking, the ninjas mouth kept moving for a moment in a fast paced action like he was saying more. Man did the dubbing suck. Should've just subtitled his speech. Even before he could move, half the bank exploded inward. Rubble splashed across everything. The patrons continued to ignore everything, as though what was happening really wasn't happening in their reality. He couldn't even have time to duck when the flash of artillery flew overhead. Someone was outside yelling, "For the Imperium!" He looked about and saw troops running through the bank. The ninja ignored them. The patrons ignored them. Hell, the army guys ignored him, the ninja and the patrons! "What in the hell is going on?" Demon demanded. Then a piece of the ceiling fell, landing on the ninja and flattening him forever. Only he kept coughing as the dust overpowered his previous use of the inhaler. He wanted to find answers, and fast. Good things about this city? It was a nuthouse! Demon's search didn't last long. He found a man dressed somewhat elaborately and encrusted with insignia while carrying a dao-like sword in a stately scabbard at his waist. He was flanked by guards and looked ominous. Demon thought he was THE MAN, up until he took a closer look. For all his stately grandeur, he had a clown nose. Demon, sighing, found himself walking up to this, this prince clown and demanding to know what was going on. "The Fascintern army is attacking the city!" "Uh-huh. And you are?" "Vakarro Anstruth." "So where are these...Fascintern's anyway?" "They're right over there! My men are engaging them as we speak." Demon looked over. There was nobody but the troops in the street. Who were making lively attacking noises. Who were also making lively dying noises. Who were actually...playing dead? No, no, wait. Back up. They were dying...to an imaginary enemy? What kind of nonsense is this? Demon asked Vakarro. Vakarro gave the kind of curt reply that said it was stupid that Demon couldn't see the enemy out there and see them slaughtering his men and the women and children in the streets. Only...the women and children carried on with their day completely ignored by this imaginary foe and the army playing the game with the imaginary foe. Then Vakarro fell over, clutching his chest. "I've been shot!" he was screaming again and again. The guards flanking him tightened in around them, looking about for this enemy. Not wanting to wait and find out what was going to happen, Demon started running. What in the hell was wrong with this place anyway? --- Demon found himself actually...scared. The proverbial badass was having a hard time assimilating the completely out-there-ness of this city. People fighting imaginary armies. Ninja's with asthma and unable to sense falling debris. What the hell? What was next, floating warships? And what was that massive ... shadow ... tracing ... ground ... yeah. Yeah, that definitely wasn't good. No, there was no need to look up, but he did. "You've got to be shitin' me," Demon said. --- "MAN THE HARPOONS!" Tier Bladesinger cried like a banshee from atop his high pedestal of his new warship, the Prometheus X303. "Sir, this is a spaceship. It doesn't have harpoons," Verdugo said. "Dammit, then fire the fricken laser beams!" "Firing the fricken laser beams!" Bright lances of coherent energy splashed out into the sky and struck against another ship that was playing gracefully along the air currents. Then everything ground to a halt with a screech like a man had just come along and pulled the record right off the player. The jarring sensation sputtered into reality, which then reasserted itself. Tier Bladesinger was rocking back and forth on the quarter horse outside the supermarket, yelling and screaming, Verdugo holding on tightly behind him. "MAN THE BLOODY HARPOONS, MEN, OR I'LL GUT THE LOT OF YA!" Demon could only stop and stare. "This...this can't be," he found himself saying. Two, no wait, THREE grown men were riding the quarter rides outside the supermarket. Two on the horse, one in the helicopter, knees bent up to his chest and flailing his arms frantically screaming about how the Tesair would destroy the U.R.F. "WE'VE HIT HIM! WE'VE HIT HIM!!!" Verdugo was yelling at the top of his lungs, hurling spit balls at the helicopter. "MY SHIELDS ARE HOLDING!" Guardian Anubite yelled back, throwing rocks he was picking up from around the quarter helicopter. A rock careened through the air and struck Verdugo right in the side of the head. He fell to the ground with a thump and began to wail. Tier looked down at his stricken comrade and jumped off the horse. "Verdugo,... Verdugo!?" "I'm, I'm hit, Sir." He coughed. "I don't think I can...I can go on." And then...Verdugo played dead. Throwing a dramatic pose in Tier's arms, arms flailing about with such spastic spontaneity that it looked like an act. Only, the guy holding him didn't look like he was acting. Tears clutched at the corners of his eyes, his face trembled, his lip quaked. He arched his head back and screamed. "VERRRRDUUUUGOOO!! I'LL AVENGE YOU!" Then he jumped back on the horse and rocked back and forth even more frantically than before, yelling the whole time about harpoons and lasers, and his opponent in the quarter helicopter kept throwing rocks back at him. "I need a coffee..." Demon wandered off. This wasn't getting any better.
Monday, February 18, 2008
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Friday, February 15, 2008
When the winter night ends
And you begin to pretend
That that light is the sun up high
That morning is braking
As the stars are shaking
And the frost turns to summer spry
With soft breezes blowing
The summer storms flowing
But the rainy ground soon is dry
You live for the moment
And seem all hell-bent
On never letting summer die