sick chicken coughs and splutters and frets bout his own health.
oh woe is he!
that sick sick chicken.
he's barely grown up enough to handle the fact of goin to work never mind the thought of the exertion required for the washing of the dishes. that sacred sacred act.
that sick sick chicken!
sick chicken is not so deathly ill as to be grave. just sick enough to be lame. to be eh. to want to eat the wrong things he thinks will make him feel better. sweet things that go with the many cups o tea he drinks all day. or to try and hide away in the tele-vision, cept he finds he can't even stomach the price is right no more (could he ever?) (oh yes he could.).
that sick sick chicken!
sick chicken's got nothing to say but that he's learnin to get out of the house and his own head. cause otherwise that chicken's one lousy patient, boy! get out the house and talk to some of them people. he needs that. he needs that, and to drink his oj. and to eat more soup. and ... and, more water. drink more water, chicken! and another thing, stop with the sugar and the whinin. get back up on the caboose and start ... (findin a word that rhymes with whinin (dinin? grindin?)
oh woe is he!
that sick sick chicken
Showing posts with label Really Short Stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Really Short Stories. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Sunday, July 27, 2008
panties, pornos and the future
anything i put up here i share. anything i share i want people to see. anything you see i want you to see.
we see more.
today rushing down the steps at yonge station i saw a young woman's panties. she was running ahead of me. it was a kleenex light skirt. a crinkly light thing that the wind took up. a big monroe show. they were red. her panties. thongs.
the other day it was a boob i spotted, bare, in profile. the whole boob, the boob in its entirety, all except the nipple, and that only because said nipple was pressed up against the shirt the woman was sort of wearing. she had her button down shirt that wide open. that few buttons buttoned, i mean. that much boob showing. no bra of course.
a blog is so often where one comes to watch blogger cry and yawn and scream and preach.
should i hold back?
should i keep secrets from you, dear reader?
or should i instead share my perversions, and that cool and analytical and judgmental as i may be now, that i wasn't feeling quite so anything but titillated in the heat of the panty spotting moment? more posting about who did what to who and why? like the water cooler blog extraordinaire?
because really, would you look so much, so often, and share with your friends, if i didn't share my panty colour with you?
my boob with you?
some days i take the subway and feel like i am living in a porno. the panties and the braless ladies. all of it.
if you could turn to the back cover of toronto's Now magazine from this week, dated thurs july 24th, you'd see an ad for american apparel. a collection of pictures of one young girl. her age isn't the issue (this time around). It's this one picture in particular. a view from behind. it's a close up of her bent over in black underwear. the view though, the way her legs are (ie not so tight together), is not just of an ass.
i keep thinking, how long before we're all just walking round naked? that's about as far as it's gotten, almost. it need go just a couple steps further, from showing their thongs to not wearing thongs to just not wearing anything but accessories, high heels and big hoop earrings. and why not?
it'd never work. for 1, cause it wouldn't be sexy. there is no 2. we can only take it so much further. and then what? like the einstein quote about what we'd fight world war 4 with?
sticks and stones.
if Now magazine can print adds of girls crotches, and women can bare their boobs and their panties? we really aren't far from the naked thing. what then? damned if I know.
corsets?
chastity belts?
who's to say? but sex this out in the open has a twin and that twin is violence. so in the comfort of my home and without a pair of panties to distract me, i'll end on this: i think it's more dangerous than we realize. a lot more dangerous.
we see more.
today rushing down the steps at yonge station i saw a young woman's panties. she was running ahead of me. it was a kleenex light skirt. a crinkly light thing that the wind took up. a big monroe show. they were red. her panties. thongs.
the other day it was a boob i spotted, bare, in profile. the whole boob, the boob in its entirety, all except the nipple, and that only because said nipple was pressed up against the shirt the woman was sort of wearing. she had her button down shirt that wide open. that few buttons buttoned, i mean. that much boob showing. no bra of course.
a blog is so often where one comes to watch blogger cry and yawn and scream and preach.
should i hold back?
should i keep secrets from you, dear reader?
or should i instead share my perversions, and that cool and analytical and judgmental as i may be now, that i wasn't feeling quite so anything but titillated in the heat of the panty spotting moment? more posting about who did what to who and why? like the water cooler blog extraordinaire?
because really, would you look so much, so often, and share with your friends, if i didn't share my panty colour with you?
my boob with you?
some days i take the subway and feel like i am living in a porno. the panties and the braless ladies. all of it.
if you could turn to the back cover of toronto's Now magazine from this week, dated thurs july 24th, you'd see an ad for american apparel. a collection of pictures of one young girl. her age isn't the issue (this time around). It's this one picture in particular. a view from behind. it's a close up of her bent over in black underwear. the view though, the way her legs are (ie not so tight together), is not just of an ass.
i keep thinking, how long before we're all just walking round naked? that's about as far as it's gotten, almost. it need go just a couple steps further, from showing their thongs to not wearing thongs to just not wearing anything but accessories, high heels and big hoop earrings. and why not?
it'd never work. for 1, cause it wouldn't be sexy. there is no 2. we can only take it so much further. and then what? like the einstein quote about what we'd fight world war 4 with?
sticks and stones.
if Now magazine can print adds of girls crotches, and women can bare their boobs and their panties? we really aren't far from the naked thing. what then? damned if I know.
corsets?
chastity belts?
who's to say? but sex this out in the open has a twin and that twin is violence. so in the comfort of my home and without a pair of panties to distract me, i'll end on this: i think it's more dangerous than we realize. a lot more dangerous.
Monday, April 9, 2007
Love in the Franchise Cafe
A nerdy looking father takes his little girl to Starbucks for a late breakfast on Sunday morning. His daughter so sweet but not beautiful. She won't be the beautiful one in the classroom. But cute, of course; she's little, maybe 6 or 7, and she's loved. Oh my God she's loved.
They were sitting there, father and daughter, at the table next to mine, he with latte, she with her small hand round what for that little hand was a very large plastic cup of what looked like apple juice (or was it cold green tea). She also got a sugar donut that even for an adult would be considered big. She had to two-hand the thing to bring it to her mouth, wide open, and when she did she chomped with excited little teeth.
Ai often tells me I'm staring. I do. I was. Eventually I returned to my own table, to text a message, to text a message of love from my keitai (cell phone) to Ai's - the aftermath of a fight. The love goes, you gotta bring it back.
And then I look over again at the table beside me. The little girl is across from me. I see her smiling in her father's direction. A big winner of an honest smile. Nothing asking or selling about it. Simply the truth in happiness of a smile, and she's holding her two fingers up peace symbol style. And for the briefest moment I cannot figure it out. Because for that moment I don't want to. It's her smile, the warmth of it. And when I break out of my trance and turn to see dad holding up his keitai to take a picture of his little girl, the whole thing, it's just the loveliest scene. And yet though they aren't remotely aware of me just then, I find I have to turn away. I find that the joy of their moment, a moment I've snuck into to feel so deep down it's to my feet I feel it so deep, I find it's just almost too much to bear. Like I want to cry. Like the palest pink popcorn that are the cherry blossoms on the sakura trees outside our apartment - and across this country in early April - that not ten days after they bloom are already starting to fall. The prettiest things. Want them to remain as we might they will not last. They cannot. Which is of course what makes them so precious. The Buddhism in the blossom. The love in the franchise cafe.
They were sitting there, father and daughter, at the table next to mine, he with latte, she with her small hand round what for that little hand was a very large plastic cup of what looked like apple juice (or was it cold green tea). She also got a sugar donut that even for an adult would be considered big. She had to two-hand the thing to bring it to her mouth, wide open, and when she did she chomped with excited little teeth.
Ai often tells me I'm staring. I do. I was. Eventually I returned to my own table, to text a message, to text a message of love from my keitai (cell phone) to Ai's - the aftermath of a fight. The love goes, you gotta bring it back.
And then I look over again at the table beside me. The little girl is across from me. I see her smiling in her father's direction. A big winner of an honest smile. Nothing asking or selling about it. Simply the truth in happiness of a smile, and she's holding her two fingers up peace symbol style. And for the briefest moment I cannot figure it out. Because for that moment I don't want to. It's her smile, the warmth of it. And when I break out of my trance and turn to see dad holding up his keitai to take a picture of his little girl, the whole thing, it's just the loveliest scene. And yet though they aren't remotely aware of me just then, I find I have to turn away. I find that the joy of their moment, a moment I've snuck into to feel so deep down it's to my feet I feel it so deep, I find it's just almost too much to bear. Like I want to cry. Like the palest pink popcorn that are the cherry blossoms on the sakura trees outside our apartment - and across this country in early April - that not ten days after they bloom are already starting to fall. The prettiest things. Want them to remain as we might they will not last. They cannot. Which is of course what makes them so precious. The Buddhism in the blossom. The love in the franchise cafe.
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