What having a job should feel like.

I'm employed. And it feels great. Kind of like how this feels.

I wish that was my job. Although, I can't complain. Mine's pretty sweet.

Business acquaintance

Outside a man sits in a wicker chair

with his legs crossed at the knee

flicking ashes from a cigar. 

He thumbs through an address book.

I'm preparing brownies for a party.

The chain tethered to the ceiling fan

spins in a flat oval. My wife has her nose

buried in a checkbook.

She's thinking about the man outside

and his address book. She's thinking about 

calling him a business acquaintance, 

saying something like, "I met him once.

At a tech meeting in Buchel." This would

be an excuse to go outside 

and talk about their jobs 

until their cups of coffee get cold.

My wife gets up from the table

and I notice she's wearing my slippers.

I tell she feels bad that she's wearing them

and she knows it upsets me. She's more upset

about the unbalanced checkbook. 

This:

Plus this:

Equals a happy person! 

My friend Mark hooked me up with a bare head for my Golf. This'll let me start on a an engine build without having to park my car and remove the head from my Golf and buying a cheap, crappy daily driver while I work on this engine. Like I had mentioned yesterday, I'll be going into FedEx Kinkos Monday for a discussion about preliminary employment stuff. This break from everything has been nice, but as of right now, I'm kinda' missing work. 

But see, that stuff doesn't matter today, because my two friends Mike and Deanna are getting married. Weddings... GREAT!

Congratulations, guys.

New things today.

On Monday, I have a meeting at FedEx Kinkos, presumably to talk about my new job. Awesome. Yesterday night, Brianne and I ordered some of that new pasta from Pizza Hut and watched the NBA Draft. The Bulls selected Derrick Rose with the first pick, and that got me excited again for basketball.

Today around 2, I'm heading over to my buddy Mark's place, and we're going to work on his Caddy (Volkswagen truck) and also do some stuff to my Golf. It'll be nice to spend time with friends again, it's definitely something I missed in Muncie. Also, Brianne and I are heading back up to North Indiana tomorrow for our friends' wedding, Mike and Deanna. This weekend should be busy.

I want this guy to bring me a championship.

Things will continue to happen even if you don't make them happen.

I have a job interview today at 1 at FedEx Kinkos. This is exciting. I've made chapbooks there before. Working there probably isn't much different. If I get hired, I think I'll enjoy it a lot.  

I keep seeing commercials for The Dark Knight and it looks pretty bad ass. I'm usually not into the comic book adaption films, mainly because 95% of them are just boring, but this one carries a different vibe. 

I need to eat lunch before my interview. Working on a poem, I'll post it later.

What I'm doing right now.

It's about 10:30. I'm laying in bed getting ready to play some game where you pop balloons and win prizes. Better than a carnival. Brianne is sleeping, and she has three freckles on her arm that make a smiley face. That makes me happy.

We're both stressed out because being grown-up isn't fun and being in this super-cold bedroom isn't necessarily fun, either. I was growing a beard today, but I decided to shave it even though it made Brianne upset. She likes when I have a beard. I do, too. Only not during the summer.

I miss a lot of people in Muncie, not the city itself. Louisville is a lot more fun. Not that there's necessarily more to do, it's just a much more immersive environment. But... I should remember there are really cool people in Louisville just like in Muncie. Even though most of them don't write poetry or even care about poetry. There's nothing wrong with that. A lot of them do like Volkswagens, which is just as exciting.

Which reminds me, I ordered a few things for my car a couple of days ago. I went into Grossman Tuning and talked with John and Matt. It's nice talking to people who are enthusiastic about cars, especially Volkswagens. Most people don't seem to care about their cars. I wish they understood that cars have feelings, and they definitely get pissed when you treat them like shit. My parts should be here either tomorrow or Wednesday. This is exciting.

Writing this makes me think about the way I write. I don't do that very often. Usually when I write, I get this really fun idea and keep forcing it out until it's done. Think of taking a shit, a really huge shit that's been balled up inside you all day. You're at the zoo or something, and you just refuse to take a shit there because so many other creepy strangers take a shit on that same toilet you'd be forced to use, and you also don't like the idea of having your knees pressed to your chest with jeans and boxers wrapped around your ankles while some toddler peeks through the crack of the door at your balls. That makes you feel really vulnerable.

But that's how I write. I grunt and strain and just force shit out. And just like turds, most of the time... it's a stupid dirty mess that most people don't want to look at. They just cover it with paper, flush it, and forget that it ever happened. That's a good thing, because sometimes you just write things that aren't any good. Even if you don't know what "good writing" is, because I certainly don't, you just know what you made isn't "good." 

Brianne just woke up for a second and she made a tired face and told me she loved me. That's probably a really good way to end this entry. Definitely better than writing about feces.

Elephants don't know the alphabet.

There's an elephant standing on its hind legs at the opening of a wooded lot behind my house. His tusks are covered in dirt and his trunk rises and falls when the wind starts to blow. I'm sitting in an enclosed porch, drinking tea from a Super Bowl XX mug. Dad is listening to Frank Sinatra on an old boom box while grilling pork chops.

The elephant doesn't know English. I know this because I'm talking loud on purpose, trying to get his attention and he rips leaves and bark from the trees, stuffing them into his mouth. Despite the communication barrier, I'd imagine an elephant would be a good listener. Their eyes are deep and brown, and their ears sink to mid-thigh. He's off his hind legs now, taking swift steps towards me. He covers half a football field in two or three breaths. 

Things don't start getting weird until the elephant gets close to the porch. Dad packed his pipe with Prince Albert tobacco and blew rings with lazy lips through the screen. The elephant tucked its head under a branch and dropped his trunk to the ground. There's only a small patch of dead grass between a large oak tree and a tall pole holding up phone lines, so the elephant sits in between the plooms of smoke. He starts to sink into the yard.

Frank Sinatra stops singing. The tobacco runs out in Dad's pipe. He says something about burning the pork chops. I notice the bottom of my mug is dirty. When I tip it upside down to scrape the scrum from the bottom of my drink, the elephant puts his trunk on the screen and snorts inward. The elephant made a loud noise, his way of being unpredictable.

Writing about elephants is hard

You know how I know?

I'm trying to right now. I'm writing a poem about talking to an elephant, and it's tough. But not discouraging. What would be discouraging would be if the elephant jumped out of my laptop and onto my face. He'd ruin my bed and kill me cat, along with killing me, too.

Maybe I'll finish this poem soon. That'd be nice. But first, I have to go run errands.

When you weren't holding an umbrella

It started to rain

and your camisole and dress hung to your body

like a sheet over an antique chair.

I looked at you from a window.

The rain fell 

in what looked like lines of static 

on an old film reel whose picture smears with age.

There was a slope in the sidewalk

and rain collected in a puddle at your feet.

They disappeared into the bottom of the puddle,

they made your feet look like cement blocks.

You made a face that suggested you knew what

was happening to your feet.

I was watching the rain and remembering a time on the beach.

My trunks were blue plaid. The sun was a yellow mark

hiding behind a lifeguard's chair. Mom and Dad 

bought me a shovel and pail. I wanted to dig through the sand

to see dirt. I felt like a Dalmatian without spots

throwing dirt through my legs.

I dug long enough to get to the other side of the Earth,

where I could watch you stand in the rain.

Rescinding comments

I take back being happy about being in this house. Aside from watching that movie with my parents, everyone else in this house has been spiteful and mouthy every time I've said something. Yesterday, I remembered that my parents didn't even say anything when I came home.

No, "Congratulations on finish

ing college," or "I'm glad you're home." My room was completely filled with shit (not literal, thankfully) that I'm still trying to empty and rearrange. I hate writing about these kinds of things, because it makes me feel like I'm sixteen, but these really bothering me. I put a lot of time and effort into school and writing, and aside from getting a smile when I mention something academic, my parents really don't seem to care or understand that those are the kinds of things that make me the happiest. 

Oh well, I'm sure things'll improve in a few days or something.

Plus, I do have something to look forward to:

Green for the monies, gold for the honeys! I can't wait to start this project.