The pastor would sit at the lunch counter,
And wallow in his badtime ways.
He liked to order the pigloaf,
And pray to the sun’s deadly rays.
We mold and change yet get nowhere, and the ropes are binding us up real tight. We can smell someone cooking an awful pie out of the northwest window. The smoke is rising up real fast and getting deep into our senses quick. The pie crust is low-quality – we can tell that – and it is Betty Crocker brand crust but it is changed from the off-the-box suggestions/instructions slightly; too much two-percent milk has been added – we can tell that. We are not in a trap. We are making the trap. We think about having sexual thoughts as our lasts thoughts, for fun, but we don’t. Somehow, accidentally, against our will, our last thoughts our related to pie crust. We may not be religious men, but spare us judgement, lord, for we are clean…
Secret to Success
Feel sorry for yourself and secretly buy Sonic Colors for $10 and play it while no one knows.
The pipes in the house were frozen, and the wintery coldness swept through the mountain violently and thoroughly. Davey emerged from the house in his thickest tweed coat, with his largest rubber boots, pipe-fixing equipment in hand. The pipe-fixing equipment was contained in a small green box, not unlike a toolbox but slightly larger and more prominent. Davey carefully removed the tools from the box and placed them in a spot on the ground where the snow wasn’t as thick as it was in the rest of the yard. Davey had to try extra careful to not think of this moment as poetic or meaningful or “whimsical” – this was a simple job that required practical skill and intuition, and even though Davey’s heart didn’t work right, he was skilled at math and logic and reason, and this was a time when these things were going to come in handy just fine. Davey grasped one of the pipes with his gloved hands, swallowed hard, and mentally prepared himself for the task ahead of him.
Davey heard his mother coming up from the side yard, and he knew she would immediately be disgusted that the pipes had not yet been fixed. Davey sped up his task, skipping the important-but-not-vital step of cleaning the pipes with a 2-ply industry cloth. That was cosmetic, and this was a moment of practicality and desperation.
“Davey, did you fix those god damn pipes?” Davey’s mother said.
“Not yet, mom,” said Davey.
Davey’s mother sighed a familiar sigh, a sigh Davey had been listening to since his crib days. The sigh was half-phlegm, half-saliva, and all pain… the sound of a woman who had given up.
six-threetimes-deactivated20170 asked: Cool beans! I like your work!
Thanks a million!
girlcouch-deactivated20200618 asked: thanks for following! your illustrations are crazy awesome and they make me happy
Thank you… that is nice to hear! Maybe if I make enough of them and stare into the characters’ eyes long and deep enough, they will make me happy, too.
We built our shanty by hand on the border between Vermont and New Hampshire, using only our very good intentions and very out-of-place know-how. Ya’ll are all invited for suppertime to celebrate the trying economic times we all currently struggle through, a 2012 Not-Great-But-Grand Depression Dinner of Nehi soda and whatever fare the gas station down the road has to offer. We may not have electricity at the moment, but we mean well, and we’ll always leave the candles on for you.
(Source: sessileblossom)
The Professor’s Song
When dust runs down the pretty pipe
And makes a brand new dream,
There always is a rustling sound
In the pipe’s most pretty seam.
The pipe pulsates and twitches twice,
But never will it bend.
Tomorrow is a dreaming day
With enemy and friend.
The dreams will get into your throat
And make your eyes feel thick.
You will feel like a captain’s goat–
Elegant, yet sick.
And spring will come soon and thee
New flowers shall bring catastrophe.
Whoever said dreams had no seasons or weeks
Never lived up to their valleys and peaks.
Dreams are like paper inside of a tree.
They are not real yet, but soon they will be.
It never hurts to pray and hope
That the person you love is made of love soap.
“Jeez-O-Pete”
I have never heard anyone but my mother say this, and I am glad to know it’s real, and that it truly comes from my homeland. It will probably sneak its way into my comics sooner than later.