this man is playing snow speeder with the cats. by snow speeder i mean: he swings the bit of fur at the end of the twine at the end of the miniblind rod -- he swings the bit of fur until the little man catches it with his claw. then he circles about the little man, wrapping the twine about his poor little orange tabby legs. and then he brings the cat down in slo-mo, snow speeder on at-at style. nica joins in. it's as if voltron has rushed in to battle for the rebels. or, more likely, voltron has rushed in to stop this passe star wars reference. i'll do as much for my true love, as any young girl may. i'll sit and weep down by his grave for twelve months and one day. something tells me, my scalp is highlamped and geesed. there are dogs barking in the distance. i'm fondling a green-eraser mouse. there is a new addition to the zoo. a chinese water dragon. possibly a male, though it's hard to tell at this age. beautiful crest. beautiful little guy. i just ate an english muffin with three types of jam smeared on it. before that, two pieces of raisin toast. before that, a box of lima beans. everything else is expressly implied. i'm waving my dick in the wind... i'm lost in the sauce once again... should have see ol' jimmy wilson dance. someone ... tell me ... how much does it cost to get your chance? i've got a real good feelin' about ol' jimmy wilson. -oh yeah help me now- i'm waving my dick in the wind. a child without an eye. this is all the shit. THIRD SHIT: honey & peanutbutter on toast. goddang. mopazoa. mo'pazooUH. latomoova. OHVAH. they would pay a pretty penny for a lump of that shit. he said so. he said it through me. i was full on that december morning. we had shot two cows and carved out their bellies all morning. dogs at our sides. summon the queen. there is a fire in the eyes but there's no one home. the house is burning down. she's so close but still his hand is not there for her. love vs. hate. they're falling together towards the end of the line. the house is a pit is on fire. there is nothing left for the billies to pick up. so the mist on the fields, mounding up around the hillocks and our ankles. i'm running, but my buddy is just standing there "hey that's r___, HEY R____." but they're all on motorbikes inthe crik and suddenly they're throwing rocks. but i was already running. and i started yelling "run a____ run!" and he starts runnign. then we stumbled on this field i hadn't seen before. jackrabbits flirting with the fog. this one green bump on the ground and the red flower was talking to the sky. that was my first real spiritial experience. i was probably in third grade. i felt different in that place. safe. like nothing could go wrong. i knew peace. they flattend the whole place. i remember i cried. they built a line of duplexes. they fucked the whole field. and the jackrabbits. and the red flower. and i have never felt peace like that again. even when i wake up in the morning i can compare my now with my then and feel the tension. my shoulders always ache with burden. never again will there be the place where the red flower was. motherfuckers. shortly after that i became hardcore on the enviro tip. it culminated with the building of a fish hatchery on my highschool campus to save some endangered run of steelhead. i remember walking out while they were putting the thing together. there was all sorts of scaffolding around. there was this guy sitting on the scaffolding all by himself. i walked up to him. i says "whatshu doin?" he says "contemplating blue." so i climbed up a level above him and i says "i'm contemplating puce." so he climbs up one more and contemplates plaid. and i climb up next to him. and this chick walks out. --watchu doin? --we're contemplating plaid. --can i join? --yes-oh. so she climbs up. she has an old fashioned lunchbox, one of them black metal kinds with the industrial feel to them. i once told her about my gi joe lunch box. how the milk would always be warm. i told her about how my last lunch box was my favorite, but the year was ruined by almost everyone else brown bagging it. she said you're never too old if your lunch box is black. but it doesn't matter what she said then, because right now i was looking at her tits. but she was opening her lunchbox. she had a peanutbutter sandwhich and a little holstered snub-nose .38. she opted for the sandwhich. i caught a glimpse of the pistola as she closed the box. nice box, i said. she gave me a dirty look. she started eating her sandwich. our instructor came out. says, whatchu doin? buddy and i say "contemplating plaid". she blows him away with the .38. 1968. i'm standing somewhere on van ness, trying to thumb a ride north. i've just ducked out of a bar i'd earlier ducked into to avoid the fuzz. the day isn't going so good. i've got nineteen bucks in my wallet. after a few too many dirty looks i decide to blow off heading north for now, and start walking in the direction of broadway. well, needless to say, some shit passed between here and there. to be honest, i woke up behind a dumpster and realized it was a new day before i hit broadway. but i did hit, and i found a club, and i entered the land of breasts and honey. and there she is. but ass naked save for pasties and a g-string, the chick with the .38. nice haircut, she says. nice shot, i says. you remember that? she asks. sure as hell do, i tell her. when's your shift over, i asks. right as hell now, she responds. i give her a curious look, and she ends up driving me north. the haircut, she was talking about, high and tight. i'd just finished going through the corp's forced recon demolitions training. some special trade with army special forces, we train some of them in air drops and they train some of us in demolitions. anyway, i was on a 2 week before heading back in. i had intended on making it all the way north that week, but we ended up holed up in some millionaires palace in ross. marin county. usually i say fuck those assholes, but there was plently of amp. i got big time railed on that shit in special forces. then not a touch of it throughout training. imagine withdrawls while you're trying to fine tune the timerfuse through wetsuit gloves, the sound of the props gearing up. anyway, that's neither here nor there. so i spent some time there. actually, the rest of my leave. then off to cambodia. er, 'nam. whatever. so last night i get a phone call. 31 years ago? what did you say your name was? who? your mom? she died? i'm WHAT? and now he wants to meet me. and i'm thinking, what do you want? a father? i'm no father. i thought i'd resurrect this message board without reason.

with a down, derry derry derry down down.

A bird the size of a leaf fills the whole lucid evening with his note, and flies. the red flower's still talking somewhere . . . hear it?

Nate, what happened? You ok, man?

No, No, this is perfectly normal behavior for anyone who has donned glow in the dark "Bob" boxers. i figure the muffin, lima beans, ween playing in the background and probably a few bowls are behind this wonderful bit of prose.

two roaches from the mixed greens we smoked monday night (one during the intro of each That 70's Show, youbetcha.) and a ball of resin the size of a pearl onion. those were also behind the muffin and lima beans. i'm so pleased you know the ween. goddamn.

ween is the most talented band on the planet