July 13, 2001
Sticks and Balls and Poetry
I just had some weird ass dreams. Am writing to clear my head of its nighttime delusions.
Yesterday was cool. I went and hung out with Ryan and his cousin and his sister and Patrick from Kentucky. We watched the latter half of Ms. Congeniality and watched his brother Brock eat burritos.
Burritos!
Sorry.
Then we went to hang out at Lindle's house. We played Screw your Neighbor (a type of pool game, as in pool with sticks and balls as opposed to water), and I actually managed to get some balls in the holes. With my stick. It was down to me and Hampton, but then he beat me. He got my last ball. With his stick.
Why does pool always sound dirty when you talk about it? Ryan actually said something once that clarifies it, one of those few times where he says something that makes sense: "You can definitely tell a guy invented pool. Big sticks, big balls."
Allrighty, then.
God, my dreams were creepy. This isn't working.
I've been writing twisted poetry. I'll put this one up for its sadistic charm and because of its relevance to a certain close friend whose name begins with "K" and ends with "elsi." And here here it goes.
the lion
she found herself caught between the teeth of the lion
staring down the salivating mouth of tragedy
and wriggling free enough to shrug her shoulders
let it come
let it swallow her and digest her and shit her out on her mother's white rug
for a moment it occured to her
that she would make more of an impact on the carpet
than she would in life
then the lion clamped his merciful jaws shut
astera at woke up