Day 25: Pobject's Person Whose Picture Is On [My] Desk

I have no such picture.

Not that there's never been anyone worth putting there. More that I've never put my desk in order enough to think about putting a picture there. I'm generally happy if the desk is dust-free.

The background image on my work computer's desktop is a picture of my dog Burnsie. He's wreathed in this bright angelic light, backed by the golden tones of the wood wainscoting behind the dog bed on which he lies. He's asleep, his legs senselessly ajumble. It's pretty fuckin' adorable.


Does that count?

I've never been much of a shutterbug. Again, it's not that I've not wanted to keep a photographic record. I've gone on many trips with every intention of taking a good number of pictures, but I'll either forget the camera at home/the hotel/the car or forget to bring its charger or most often simply get lost in whatever it is I'm doing and forget to take pictures.

This is why I #failattwitter. I do, however, like the fact that I'm generally too busy doing things to think about taking a picture of me doing things. I just have to try to remember everything that much better, since I won't have a photograph to remind me.

I'll be okay as long as my memory stays intact.

Day 30: Dobject's Person Whose Picture is On Your Desk

At my desk

there is no chair:

too lazy.

Near my desk

there are no pictures:

too distracting.

On my computer

there is no background:

too personal.

On my desktop

there are no faces:

too familiar.

Don't stare too long

or drink deep at the screen.

Nothing too interesting.

Just

words.

Blank space.

But who writes

at their desk anymore?

A typewriter suffices.

So burn the desk.

But if I didn't alarm every morning

from a song on iTunes,

and sip coffee to the email

like brief excuses,

and if I didn't have an allowance

but of one picture

ever,

but never for amusement,

it would be the call I make

every morning

and most evenings

to her computer from mine.

A tiny colored square,

with a face and a voice

against a blank black background;

the only living picture. 

Gladly pulls me from

my Draconian deckings,

and I'd rather she would,

living and breathing,

than any else thing.

Day 29: Dobject's Golf Pencil

You see, thi thing about a gold pencil is that once you say something you said it an dthats it; no take backs or nothing. It might as well be a pen-joke. And then he ran out of things to say and must complete half paked thogutsh on th erun because there is no backspace in this land; cruel constraint.
    And I've not been golfing all too much nor have I used a golf pencil for a while. I think the last time I did was at the Fun Depot on a gym field trip (I cdidn't understand either, but I also didn't questoin it) and I played putt-putt with my two friends and well that was about it. I think I may have own that is to say I won but who knows? The mind I guess is like a gold pencil too because it solidifies beleifs emeories and feelings as tif they're eperminant instalitations, not to be swayed or erased by the simple likes of men and woemen (whatever that means). I don't mind making a fool of my writing mis-steps, I will just plow forward like the fool I am and continue telling stories.
    The first time I played gold (cursed "d" key) was when I was like 7 and I was on vacation with my cousins and they asked me "Hey, wyould you like to play some Putt-Putt?" Now, and I font know if you're at all familiar with my generation but to me, "Putt-Putt" was not a game of miniature golf, or evn a sport, but instead, it was a computer game about a little purple car named Putt-Putt who went on admazing adventures across space and the jungle and well wherever else talking-purple gars go, oh and he had a wiener dog companion. Needless to say best educational game ever. This is getting strange. Anyways, I was asked if I wanted to play Putt-Putt with them, my cousins, and the first thing I immagined is all nine of us (yes, nine of us) sitting around the computer, that is a simgle computer, playing this one-player computer game. It sounded awkward and anti-climactic, sbut I said yes anyways and then they took me golfing. Strangest day. Totally unexpected. But a gold pencil is like an incomplete thought, you know, and it doesn't have an eraser either so eveyrything else you say or write with one is an simcpmplete thought if you mess up what yoy're trying to sya. See, like that. Once you begin a sentence you have to commit to it or wimp out nd start a new one. I appreciate a challenge, so I'm going to type a random key and tell another story.
dx; ah yes, the XD face, a talk about texting this story will be. Equilly stoanj (screwd that one up) Equally astounding, this could be related to a gold pencil. So whe I was younger, and again like mosst f my generation, I used to tex and Im and the like, and my favorite emoticon was the I'm-laughing-so-hard-my-face-is-an-X-face, AKA: XD. And it could come to pass that occasionally I was /would accidently send a blank screen be in my haste to reply to whoever I aws talking to (yes, we called t i talking). Sometyes it would also happen that I would be mid-texting on my dumb phone (ignore this aside) and I would accidently send an imcomplete message. Whoops! Have to live with whatever I wrote.
    I feel like this si some sort of Bhuddist anti-attachemnt practice. My old ex-girlfriend used to berrade me for my terrible spelling and grammar, and it/ is part of the reason I made an effort to learn correct grammar in the first place. Now I just have to wtype whatever ends up in the screen and just live with it: no anxiety to correct what I say, no pressure to say anything inteligent or even exciting. It's fun and somewhat challenging. It's like renouncing my entire education to the fates of fancy and allowing everything that is to be as it will be. Perhaps we and for this reason alone should write with more gold pencils, or at leas pens because I think it could allows us to be more forgiving on our writing instead of holding it to such high and obscenely unrealistic standards. If what you asay comes out as pithy, liet it be pithy! If not, oh well, you just keep writing. What does this have to do with golf pencisl I have no idea, but maybe a gold pencil is our best teacher for non0attachment and forgiveness. I can almost feel my bran oozing onto the page because I'm not tryign so damn hard to damn /dam it up and keep it in my head. I'm just going to keep spilling it on this page and maybesomeone will want to read it. Liberation through extraction and limitation! Take that paradoxes!
    And that 's why I think everyone should have a Red Rider BB Gun.

Day 28: Dobject's Airport

Always an air about airports;

axels and Apples,

arrows and affluences,

American Appeal,

and airport art.

and aswarm about aisles

are attendees all appearances

and across all acres

asking about asking

and accidentally ambling about.

And an airport asks:

always abiding about America,

always articulate about American, adieu.

Day 27: Dobject's Fishing Pier

Sands are crooked hands,

wriggling snakes and ladders under a liquid shore,

and a wooden pier is ancient origami

bent and buckled under decades of wash.

Walking is watching 20 years of shifting sands

spread across 45 meters of warped planks

where 25 men of 50 or more to reiterate entirely the

5,000 some years of fisherman wisdom:” good” and “bad.”

First trashed two decades ago,

second crumpled by a tornado on the coast,

and fresh constructions receive the thrice worn name

from desperate parents thrice upheld,

and like a stubborn 5 buck tradition,

we walk the incarnate bridge like a mobius strip,

a bridge to nowhere, the parted sea, the middle finger

stretched into the ocean, connects only to itself

and back to the car.  

Day 26: Dobject's That Guy

Q: Who is “That guy”?

A:  That Guy: A Moste Indyspuetable Hisetorye Accordyng To Th’ Myrriam Webstare Collegyiate Dictionarye

That guy.

The person, thing, or idea indicated, mentioned, or understood, from the situation [as a] guy.

The person, thing, or idea indicated, mentioned, or understood, from the situation; the kind or thing specified as follows [as related to] a gross effigy of Guy Fawkes paraded and burned in England on Guy Fawkes Day; a person of grotesque appearance.

The individual human being, matter of concern, or transcendent entity that is a real pattern of which existing things are imperfect representations pointed out or thus pointed to, or cited or called attention to, or fully apprehended from the set of circumstances in which one finds oneself  [as related to] a glaringly noticeable image or representation of Guy Fawkes pompously shown and consumed in fuel and thus given off heat, light and, gasses in England on Guy Fawkes Day.

Day 24: Pobject's Walkie-Talkie

Once there were
brains big enough to dream
there were dreams,
Silurian science fiction

made of walkie-talkies and
automobiles and
interstellar flight,

worlds away from uncircumscribed
swamps.