25.4.07

diets.



Tracy Morgan is a genius. Apparently "Jaguars" is the local Titty Bar. Awesome. I will, someday, start an homage page to the great Tracy Morgan.

First I'll write a fucking song. It's been over a month since anything came out of me and I get worried, depressed and sick of anything that came before. I can't sit and record because I'm antsy as hell and the shame just spirals like a flushed toilet.

Sometimes Kev can’t write a song. Sometimes he’ll bitch and whine about it and sometimes he’ll write a song about it, but mostly he’ll get on the computer and find shit to laugh at or bitch about.

This should do.


That'll definitely do. What the fuck is that? Is there a joke in there? I don't get it.


I really need a song. Sometimes months pass and I'm OK, but I guess I'm just full to bustin' and need to turn the valve in line or something. I promised to write everyday and I was hoping not here. But y'all get the run-off when song constipation strikes. Sorry. Terrible booby prize.


I keep thinking about the great post I've planned as hymn to Morton Downey Jr. I think about loss and the damned permanence of it. I think about everything under this rainy sky and none of it walks on iambs or wears rhyme.


Oh, and Bucket, if you ever stick your head in this hole, Happy Birthday. I love the hell out of ya.

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