- Last Record:
- Joined: Feb 05, 2010
that buried between
that this sun can
of light years tall
orbiting the space
that this is devastating
I was capable of.
I was gonna write up a description for this video, but I, uh, promised my folks I'd watch their dog, so, uh, I gotta go do that, here's a video....sorry.
You've had real relationships based solely on the sound of someone's voice.
Of course. I dated The Wolfman for a couple years. I'd call every Thursday night and he’d play any song I asked for, no matter what. He was so sweet.
He's a DJ for the most popular radio station in the city, he just took your requests.
I don't know what you're trying to say.
You seriously thought you were dating someone named "The Wolfman." Good god.....Nevermind. Have you ever actually dated before?
We snuck our first drink when mother wasn’t
We got older and eased into it, warmed our bellies
When we reached adulthood, we couldn’t kick it,
Eventually, we build a collection. There is a place in our
Most importantly, there is a place for the kitschy mug, the one
I was taught that a man’s worth is measured by the strength of his handshake. My uncle made the biggest men wince with every introduction and greeting. His hands were hard, forged by years of dirt and dust only acquired through long hours of work without enough breaks to catch his breath. He wasn’t large in stature, but his limbs were thick and muscular, his eyes small, but bright and blue. He never had much to say, but always plenty to do.
As a boy, I spent afternoons in the summer working beside him. I swore I saw him grow stronger the higher the sun rose above us. He built fences, sturdy and straight, never slowing his pace. When I would sit on the truck bed to rest my legs, he’d wipe beads of sweat from his forehead and work twice as hard. I watched him drive the posts into the ground, his arms firm and tense. He never seemed to tire. A working man wasn’t supposed to.
When he wasn’t toiling in the fields, he assisted anywhere he could. Trimming trees, rebuilding car engines, hauling firewood in winter, anything he could do to keep busy. He built a barn alongside my father next to our house. He was meticulous and orderly. Every nail was hit evenly, each edge sanded perfectly. When a 2x4 leaning against one of the new walls fell on his thumb, he didn’t curse, he pushed the board aside and kept hammering.
Years later, after I’d reached adulthood, my father called, asking me to check on the farm and my uncle. The family had growing concerns about his health. The fence surrounding the pasture was still in place, but the posts were splintered and worn. A few were starting to split down the sides. When I reached the house, the porch creaked beneath me. Planks supporting it were rotting through. I knocked on the door twice, shaking dust loose from the frame above. There was no answer. I walked behind the house, taking notice of the sunken roof of an old tool shed next to his garage. I saw him a hundred yards or more beyond it in the garden, tilling by
hand with a shovel. His back was hunched over, and he walked with a limp. The skin on his arms looked thinner, covered in sunspots. I thought of interrupting him, to bring him inside, but I knew better. I grabbed a spade from the shed and helped him complete the last half.
“I have a tiller you could borrow,” I offered.
“No need,” he responded. His eyes still focused on the ground in front of him. The more force he applied to the hard earth beneath him, the more his legs shook.
“Why don’t you head in and I’ll finish up.”
“M’alright, I can handle it,” he said.
He dug the shovel into the ground again, this time collapsing with the push. The rust covering the blade had finally separated the piece from the wood handle. I pulled him slowly back onto his feet. With a hand around his waist, I guided him into the house and seated him at the kitchen table. He looked smaller and fragile, defeated. I made a pot of coffee and looked at the farm out the window. The grass was uncut and a Ford pickup sat in the yard. He told me it’d stopped running a couple weeks ago, but parts were no longer made for it. Everything about the farm was archaic and forgotten by much of the outside world. He’d replace the vehicle had he not been convinced they didn’t make ‘em like they used to, the way he felt about most things. His ideals were rooted in an authenticity seldom realized anymore. There isn’t much room for a working man these days. Time moves much too quickly.
Sitting opposite him in the kitchen, I’d become more conscious of his aging, something once inconceivable to me as a child. He held a coffee mug in his right hand, massaging his knee with the left. The wrinkles in his face webbed around his eyes, pulling the skin downward, shaping a man greatly weathered. My mother and father had invited him to live with them in the spare bedroom, but he’d declined. He wouldn’t leave the home he’d made, its structure
weakening the same as his own body. Each was the relic of a simple practicality. A sincerity embodied best by men of few words, men with no intention of ever being anybody’s burden.
I put the tools away after tilling the rest of the garden. He insisted I wait for his help, but his knee prevented it. He kept careful watch over my work from a lawn chair in the backyard, not speaking. I dug like he once had, quickly, and purposefully. The way he still strived to, not stopping until I received his nod of approval. I placed the tools back in the shed, feeling the dirt dry hard into my palms.
I shook his hand before leaving him, grimacing slightly through the pain.
We wake the neighbors
Get over here, fella.
Don’t you ball your fists,
when you talk to me.
Play it cool now or we got trouble.
I ain’t happy with you. People talk.
I’ve heard the shit you say about me.
So your brother can’t afford
And your mom and pop
cause they came to me
Now you work in warehouses
and this is all cause you got bills.
The burden of privilege
I know you still write.
I remember your parents’
And I was proud.
Not everybody gets this,
Earn what you owe me.
And if you got nothin'
she eyes me over
We’re two drinks later,
the next morning,
Sun feel so good in the pocket,
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You quoted Kerouac like gospel.
A day after my first night with you,
I hope you love somebody