Ramble. On.

The math involved with figuring out what size to buy my Levi’s 501 Shrink-to-Fit jeans escapes me with a huge laugh.

The reason why people stop at green lights and blow through the red ones also eludes my little brain.

I sat next to a great English kid at the soccer game today. Probably about 10 with a thick Manchester accent, at his first professional football game he’s seen in the States, he was impressed with the fans, not much of the play. His dad was happily drunk and his mom was keeping an eye out for both of them. We had a good 2 hour relationship and every minute was well spent, showing up alone to places where you’re bound to make friends is a great thing about this world.

Plantimals are my new little passion, got me a sundew, butterwort and a pitcher plant for good measure.  

Despite popular rumor, summer’s making quite a pleasant appearance in Portland, perhaps the season will drag its feet into autumn and damn the calendars and clocks.

If the women in my neighborhood don’t start staying home instead of strolling around and distracting my driving, there may be citations, the swapping of insurance information or, most likely, an ambulance coming to take me away, ho ho, hee hee, ha ha.

Eff Zee One

Forever alive on the back of the bike forever a child in this hot black night.

Bombing through the gorge at 2 in the morning with hands raking up legs and thighs squeezing like a vise, actually more like a vice. Adrenaline wires the blood and hers becomes hot like burning snakes, shaking and melding into the tuck, eventually shooting back over the Fremont Freeway and down into the city like a blazing missile on wheels.

Rocketships ain’t got nothing on bikes painted black.

Universe ain’t got nothing on this woman on the back.

Endorphin Blast of Rashness

In my endorphin blast of rashness
I’m plagued with romance and past distractions
that make my twin’s knee-jerk reactions
come across as crass or maybe lacking tact.

My diction reveals my addiction 
and predilection for vixens smitten
with the passion of what’s written
who are the same little monkeys still on my back.