5 years and she'll own the place; mother will be very disappointed.

They don't serve SANDWICHES in HELL, JACk!

She slammed the french-dip-daily special so hard on the counter the plate cracked. A few straws shuddered in their glasses. Au jus everywhere. As she clomped her shoes-for-crews regulation heels to the room's end, Jimmy the cook started a slow clap. Alfonse turned from the order he was taking and nodded. More claps as Jack balled his fists and swivel-headed to see where to swing. Half the room was in applause. Defeated, he dove mustacheward into soggy meatbread.

Everyone had pegged her as summer-breeze slight; the sort of pixie-do-ed flower tattoo cranked out yearly in the thousands by creative writing and graphic design programs. No one thought she had it in her, so they were surprised when next she headlocked Mary, and with a . . . we're going to finish this TONIGHT, bitch. . . dragged her outside.

Wang, dang, sweet poontang.

I like to think that this blog can help further the cause of the great minds speaking today.

Sleep through the winter, awake in Spring-- adjust your eyes to the state of things

This morning Wood loaded up the car with kids and myself and we took a brief trip to the lovely Llansamlet retail park, where the Big Post Office is, and a letter I needed to sign for but wasn't In yesterday for, yes, you see where this is going, that letter, from a certain Home Office in Yorkshire, arrived.

They said "no." Like, in fact, I knew they would all along. I tried to communicate this to everyone, that Mozarts in fact does not and couldn't/wouldn't get a certificate of sponsorship which is sort of a vital fact when you are being sponsored. Granted, I didn't want to jinx myself with negativity or post the raw facts on the internet for obvious reasons, but I always knew it was a long shot. I knew that if I was granted leave to stay, it'd be Divine Intervention of some order, because the Home Office isn't given to leniency.

But any time I'd so much as imply impending departure, the person I was talking to would do that "Butbutbutbut. . . you MIGHT stay, they CAN'T kick you out" thing, which is sort of the grown-up equivalent of sticking ones fingers in ones ears and shoutsinging LALALALA. Or there was the (far worse) response consisting soley of immediately watered-over eyes and a quivering lip.

Which is all to say, there are a few quick decisions to be made and then lots and lots of explaining those decisions and whether its a year or two weeks before you know it I'll be gone.

Rucksacks

They left their bags in the ice cave when
they were too weak to carry
they stuffed remaining foods in pockets
tried to trace where the compass had failed
and eventually starved
or froze, the rescue teams
couldn’t tell which.

Some of us die like heroes, or so go
the news reports.
A list of essential wilderness survival materials
is something every American boy has memorized
by nine years old and forgotten by eleven,
a lingering sense of what-if-I-had-to--

Some of us “do what we must” to survive, or
so go the narratives to countless westerns,
the excuses made by anti-heroes of my favourite films.

The man who hitchhikes across America with
just a knapsack, his thumb and a bottle of something
is an image that doesn’t
quite transfer overseas.
But the idea of a well-packed
bag does.
So when I say I left my bag up Constitution Hill,
it goes without saying I’ll be back up to get it;
leg-ache be damned.
There’s important stuff in there.

A good rucksack has what you
need to survive anything short of an apocalypse,
if you know how to pack it right.
My daily bag has a couple books, an in-progress
letter to my sister and my ipod.
I fear the apocalypse less than boredom, apparently
and should I ever get trapped in an elevator
I’ll have to resort to cannibalism.
_______________________________________________________

this feels a few drafts away from completion, but I like what I've got so far.