all right
say goodnight
it's getting late
great
wonderful
wonder
full
icebreaker
risk taker
kiss me
kiss you

maple-cured, smoked, rawhide hands,
tarantula hands bulldozing rice onto
tines like an icebreaker ramming through

glacial bergs, Holly
Golightly on the tv, on
mute, and oh those hips,

that figure, in that black dress,
banana hands cracking Alaskan king
crablegs and ******* the juice and eating

the meat, legs spindly and hairy
and soaked in butter, dripping,
liver cooking, roasting, sloshed on gin,

cribbage board patinaed
in dust, he eats his liver, downs
another gin, cracks another leg, crab

hair caught in his teeth, Holly talking about
getting the mean reds but he can’t
hear it, his luck run out,

his luck a prize from a box of ******* Jack,
and the snarling throb in his head,
cinderblock face, cinderblock house,

3-day-stubble, has he had enough (to drink)?
not by the stubble of his
chinny-chin-chin,

liver is gone, crab is gone,
so he eats the eyes,
dowsing his ******* Jacks

in gin, yesterday wine-in-a-box
and Cheez-****, sprayed right into his
unbrushed maw, a one-person wine-

and-cheese fête classy as it gets,
he’s Mister High Society,
Cheez-**** crust in his stubble,

and a cinderblock CRASHES to the floor and it’s
lights out, and Holly, still no one
to hear her, saying

she’ll never let anyone put her in a cage.

Our urban commutes are punchlines without any stories. Climb out, rinse, release, restrain, converse, intuit, insert, recharge. Why narrate?
I used to talk to God a lot when I was very young, never a ******* word back. Just strange developments ;
the family life taking unexpected detours into anger and occassional uprorious joys at Christmasses,
that sort of thing.
Amidst all the second guessing that real pursuing sense of lonliness,
at quiet moments of the day, particularly when outdoors.

You think you can stuff everything that's inside of you into a plastic bag,
it doesn't work like that.
The wind blows open memories at unexpected traffic intervals, but it really hasn't gotten anything to do with nature. Memories are just like the wind.

It was 29° (f) degrees this morning with a waning gibbous (¾) moon. Still, as we started our run, it was dark enough that the world was rendered in black and white. Lisa was a sepia print of herself while Charles was a large, quiet shadow, a dark visual noise pattern.

We usually jog from our dorm, down to and along New Haven Harbor and back. Lisa and I love the ocean. The wind was in our faces this morning and there were no sparkling moon refractions in our direction, which made the water musou and colorless.

I’ve gotten my outfit down to a science, leggings under shorts, four long sleeve, dry-wicking spandex tops (layering is important), a power-wool-earflap-beanie, thermal neck gaiter and quantum, icebreaker gloves (with touch-screen compatibility) - you gotta dress warmly but be able to shed layers as needed.

I listen to audiobooks while we run. Right now I’m on book 5 of the ‘The Expanse’ series. I don’t have time to read anything fun these days, so I listen to science-fiction/fantasy while I workout. I love the new AirPod Pro feature that automatically turns the sound down if anyone talks.

I wear a fitbit charge around my right ankle and my Apple watch as well - they both track my run - the fitbit is more accurate but my watch sends my workout stats to my siblings - we’re uhh, sort of competitive.

At first, as we came up on the harbor, it was impossible to see the intersection of the two dark oceans - the great terrestrial and the greater galactic - but as we turned for home, there was an atmospheric scatter of blue at the edge of the horizon, heralding the sunrise on our retreating backs.

musou = one of the darkest shades of black

I started playing guitar when I was 14.
I didn't take it very seriously until I was almost 17.
That's when I made time for at least an hour of guitar a day.
Now, six years later, I literally play about eight hours a day when I can.

My exposure to playing music before guitar was the Piano, but I rebelled when it became forced. That's just how I roll. I'm grateful for that musical icebreaker, though. I want to get back into playing keys. For now, I'm focusing on making the guitar into even more of a playground.

I use a 150-watt Ibanez Tone-Blaster head on a 4x12 cab. It's on the clean channel with the levels at 5 and the Overdrive on, with a gain of about 4. The hue is cranked, though. Gotta love that brightness.

I have a Boss ME-70 multi-effect pedal.
I must say, those types of things are great for sampling different sounds, or having watered-down versions of lots effects available at any time. But, if you find one tone you really like, you're best off buying or building the individual pedals to provide you with a higher quality version of your preferred tone.

Anyway, I have the hall reverb at about 5, and some 'classic' overdrive set to 5 for level, tone, and gain. That's all I need. I sparingly use light chorus or uni-v, or maybe a wah for certain parts. I believe simplicity is best in terms of effects.
Although, tasteful delay makes an alright solo into a ****-dampening solo.

I have many axes:
1 nylon 6-string
1 acoustic 6-string
2 Washburn electric-acoustics; a 6 string and a 12 string
2 B.C. Riches (Beast, Stealth)
an LTD KH-602 Superstrat
an Ibanez 'Artcore' series semi-hollow electric Jazz guitar
then, I also have a Roland Ax-Synth keytar.

In my opinion, guitars sound better tuned down.
So, naturally, I tried out drop-D, which was cool.
Then, I wanted all the strings to be lower, so I tried Eb-Standard.
I liked that. There was more body to the sound.

Of course, I tried playing in a drop-style tuning from there and discovered Drop-C#. This tuning stole my heart for a while. That is..
..until the voluptuous redhead D-Standard came along,
arms linked with her **** black-haired sister: Drop-C.

Tuned a step down, bends and vibrato are much more wild beasts.
However, this lower tension will trash your harmonics and stuff,
so I play 10-52 strings: 10, 13, 17, 30, 42, 52. Typically called 'LTHB,' or Light-Top Heavy-Bottom. This helps to keep the tension more similar to as if it were strung with normal strings in standard tuning. That translates into more overtones, which, in turn, means better tone.
More overtones means more pinch harmonics, too. Aww, yeah!

I need to get my hands on a decent electric baritone.
Maybe I'll just make one.

Oh, and another thing:
I just got some brass nuts. ;)

there was a while
when I was afraid
of myself
I wasn't sure
how I would
act or
react
in certain
situations
afraid to even try

drugs were
that icebreaker
or the buffer
that kept me
cool
kept me calm
we were young
careless
you were right there
with me for
awhile
with me till that last second
speeding through
that ******* red
light

I grew up
real fast
real soon
after that
and every year
I hope you know
I still go and
I look
at your
beautiful tombstone

"6/14/1992 -
5/8/2010"

place a flower
say a prayer
every year
and thank you
for everything
you taught me
that I couldn't
teach myself
how to live
how to learn
how to smile
as if everything
matters
you were a brother
and you were a friend

thank you

every time
you ask the same questions
sometimes twice

                     Why on earth are you here with me?
                     You look at me like you genuinely care.
                     Why?

my answers are mangled messes
there's no absolute truth
only many components of why

tonight I am quiet
I contemplate how to say
exactly what I mean for once
  
                            I thought you were adorable, and interesting
                            at that ridiculous icebreaker the very first day.        
                            I do care. You're a genuinely good guy.
                          
Maybe eventually
I'll be able to finish what I mean.
Maybe someday I'll answer:

                            **You're everything I've ever waited for...

I took out a pen and some paper, looseleaf,
Not worth the words I sponged onto it but it’ll do
I wrote down my feelings about everything
The silence of people on a subway ride to work
The closest star to us that isn’t the Sun
How the Bermuda Triangle got its shape and why the other ones
Weren’t cut out for it
Were it not for the clocks in my room, serving as reminders
That time still existed and would far outlive me
I swear I would have written forever
I swear I would have

Sometimes I would write letters to friends and never send them
Instead cram them into envelopes and into larger envelopes
And stack them in the fireplace, under the wood
And sometimes light it, other times just hold out my hands
And feel invisible warmth

The ones I did send, though, felt hollow
Words typed or written but not the words I needed
Or wanted
To say then. I’d rather ask you how your day was than to receive
A strange ****** expression because a question concerning
Cosmic dust and how it rushes together to create man
Doesn’t really serve as a good icebreaker.
Most of the unsent letters were to you
You and the clouds that guide you around, shifting rain
Back toward the sky

I wrote how are you today?
And meant I want you to keep auditioning for dance because you’re wonderful
I wrote doesn’t this weather feel strange?
And meant get a bigger umbrella so I can be under it too
We should try to go for dinner
We need to have an excuse to be together
Are tattoos a bad thing?
Look, topics to occupy us
My house is empty tonight
Where are you so late and what do you think about?
I miss the vase we sold
I miss you
I feel like today is longer than yesterday and will be shorter than tomorrow
I miss you

And they stacked, one upon the other
The spaces between each squeezed under the weight of the next
The weight of the words compounded more than the previous
Filling the spaces of my apartment to the point where
I could not see out the windows

“Today is Monday the 16th.  To whom it may concern, I’ve contemplated the ideas laid before me and can finally take confidence that I’ve chosen the right one. Many people say that virtuosity is next to solace and I believe that. Many people also claim that it takes a life to learn how to live, and I believe that too. I’ve so many things to say to everyone, even the people I’ve only met once or twice. But those people are just as important.

I can hear echoing between the televisions between the open rooms. The same words delayed by seconds but still audible and clear.  The reactions aren’t echoed, they’re different, variant on the person and how they feel about it. To make sense of my claim, I guess it’s just a matter of perspective, and now my perspective is clear, and now I want it to echo between the people to whom I send these letters. Whether the variation between reactions will be the same or not I am all-around unclear, but I know the reactions may have enough weight to keep me held to the ground, or even a bit lower than that. Either way, I’ve spent my life reacting to things as if acting on an echo.  I want to change the channel now. I want to close my door so the sound can fill the room and make the stacks of unsent letters shudder. I want to keep it there and turn the air the color of the closest star to us other than the Sun. I want to-“

I wanted a lot of things, to do and to say
But that letter and those that followed joined the others in the quiet spaces
Spaces which kept the frays of this life muffled and still
Like an ocean scooped into a bucket
Or the world’s smallest word
Backspaced by one letter

"Howdy, how's it going?"
The icebreaker at the time,
Was not a fancy one liner,
But must have caught that beautiful eye;

So the planets have realigned,
To form the third chapter,
In this journey of life,
That will take you to magic filled places;

And as our stars have crossed,
And the heavens bear witness with us,
And praise the gods for their yearly benevolence,
And for a brand new year of jolly, jolly hurrah!

<3 : TOFA

(imitated from Patricia Lockwood’s **** Joke)

The woman joke isn’t something you choose.

The woman joke is something you get used to.

The woman joke it almost becomes your livelihood.

Remember when you were little, boys had cooties, but so did girls. Imagine what would happen today if you said boys had cooties-

Nothing.

You’ll hear the woman joke when you’re way too young. The ones telling the joke probably won’t realize that the joke they’re telling isn’t a joke at all. But girls have cooties and they always will.

You’ll grow up, but nothing will change.

The woman joke is now commonplace. The norm! How can a joke be so common normal? The only people who think the joke isn’t normal are women.

The woman joke is when even the President can make the joke without consequence.

But you can’t.

The woman joke is that if you make one, it suddenly isn’t funny anymore, men will look away in disgust, and other women will say you’re degrading them and yourself.

It’s just a joke, you’d say. Even though you knew it wasn’t.

The woman joke is an expected icebreaker at a party that you learn to laugh at. When you go home at night, you shake with rage but know there’s nothing you can do about it.

How can such a joke exist? Because you do.

I began my dream dinner party
with an icebreaker.
Then over the candelabra I leant in,
advised the Arch-duke to run to my cabin
and take the kevlar vest.

On my left was a vigorous guest,
from the Vienna School of Art.
He regaled the table with Chaplin impressions
and a heartfelt account of Passau.
As our night advanced, I saw him glance
more than once at the glittering Empress.
And there I felt continuity echo
and all of history shift.