roastbeef ‘09.

[ in light of my previous post in august, it's confirmed, i can die now. ]

what you are about to see in the photos below, is a piece of art that just made my 2008.

when kristy told me she spotted this today, i couldn’t resist the photo opportunity. i’m still smiling at the ingeniousness behind this.

freakin’ brilliant. hats off to roastbeef for his bold campaign.

standing apart with black and white, roastbeef is sure to be resting politically phat come 2009. you should really inquire about the book now.

go on… http://www.smackbooks.com it will be ready early ‘09.

*Self-employed.

[ now what? ]

just got caught
sleeping on the job
grumpy and tired
i yell at the boss

stating how this
“stress-ridden
lifestyle would be
more productive

if i had a
little rest

i want to exchange
this exhaustion
so i can feel
more accomplished.”

but he keeps mocking me
every twitch
every wink
every hand movement

this mirror
just mimics
not listening
one bit

*Hunting.

[ written in the latter of 2007. ]

survival instincts. alive. freelancing.

the nine-to-five can’t promise enough. a
burden that only pays for the wood-shingled roof.
come nine p.m. the moonlit macintosh weapons
are exposed as the kids close their eye lids.

jumping into camouflage boxers. and sliding
between the office doors like a detective.
no one sees. or hears. but of the shadows. and clicks.
as the late minutes tick. hunting down tomorrows meal.

it’s three a.m. only remembering how to survive.
the glass of merlot triggers the right side
of a brain that just worked eight hours of mundane
repetitious, politically vicious, corporate templates.

free. flow. relax. go. paper. throw. horizon’s glow.
maybe writing to distract. procrastinating. break.
one. logo. two. brochure. catalog. tradeshow booth.
it’s not easy. this freelance work.

sunrise. knocked out three projects of five.
one hour of billing while mama is yelling
to see what the boys want to eat. choices.
oh choices. coffee. cream. a two-grand invoice.

blood-shot eyes instead of last night’s infra-red.
disguised as half dead. happy. brainless place ahead.
there’s nothing left to do. rushing. through-with.
pick up. left off. put down. right on.

hunting. again.

*Ad Lib.

[ real. dream. ]

at the service station.
filling air in the mini
van. a man
approached

on his bike he
smiled. hurriedly
the fourth tire
had reached 44 psi.

“if you hightail it
you can reap the rest
of my seventy-five
cents,” i said.

he paused, then
turned red and begged to
ask a (quote) strange
question of me.

“yes?”

are you related to
brian prince? you
look a lot li…

“(interrupting)
man, i am
him.”

and the air
compressor
went silent.

*5-speed.

[ less. home. ]

it’s been months now. thirteen of them.
moving forward through the land of freedom.

no one questions. but no
one answers
either.

picking up a job here. and there, to
use the Internet. and brush one’s teeth.
making money to pay for haircuts and a
gym membership to 24-hour fitness.

an ungroomed face in the workplace. out-of-control beard.
means creativity except still labeled displaced. weird.
no job today. organizing the trunk. center console. glove box.
and back seat in the La Rioja milk crate-filled back alley.

the bike. one-speed.
on the rack. three-settings.
afixed to the trunk. the home.
5-speed.

late night local.
inhabiting the number
eighteen treadmill.
and shower stall number 1.

no one questions. but no
one answers
either.

heading back home to the 5-speed.
wondering. lost. wanting. thoughts.
a vision. to find.
reverse.

*Stereotype.

[ note to self. ]

when i had
long hair
surfer they assumed.

brah.

with dread locks
for five years
i was rasta-farian.

mon.

volkswagen bus
stickers = one love
they never really knew.

who i was.

a businessman
making millions
on their ignorance.

cha-ching.

in this capitalist-
driven dwelling
i am a human.

being.

i’m a bruised banana
a used napkin as
raw and real as it gets.

squished.

and ripped.

but that still
shouldn’t
matter.

because.

it’s never
better to cast
upon us any kind of

judgements.

*Next in Line.

[ follow me... ]

deeply rooted
tree. not swayed
by wind.

deeply sprung
well. not dried
by drought.

—walk the line.
—in the line of fire.
—wait in line.
—eyeliner.
—feline.
—masculine.
—fishing line.
—baseline.
—blueline.
—doing lines.
—railway line.
—inline skates.
—finish line.
—line up.
—along the line.

masses inspire
the elites to
evolve.

next.

*Blue.

[ thinking again... ]

bottle the ocean.
it looks clear.

imprision the sky.
air disappears.

blue is a made-up pigment. a
figment of our imagination. a
fabricated. hallucination.

not fire. nor air. not dirt.
i searched. the plants. and water.
not Homeric poetry. not anywhere.

just the hollow bodies.
of mass sandwiching us.
a mellow glare. trans-
lucent. see-through. clear.

the ocean’s depths. dirty charcoal.
yucatan peninsula water falls. o’er
my own genuine blue eyes as
the myan ruins reveal my lie.

forgetting this blue collar
mess with ripped terminology.
denim turned to jeans
post war. 1950s.

blue is not real.
(eye) see right through (them)
in water’s reflection.
pinch me.

so i may know
that i’m
not

empty.

*Stories.

[ no one has any idea how much i love my boys. not even them. ]

i usually instill rhymes
in my kids’ heads. brainwash
them with life lessons. hidden
in my stories before bed.

they know all my iniquities. just
not that they’re about me. all my sin.
all my adventuresome. all my dreams.
just not that it’s their daddy.

it’s imagination. and often i
wonder if half of my dad’s stories
were true. i see him telling my kids.
the stories i gazed to with red

and white stripe spinning eyes.
they must be. because if not he
would have forgotten. like a layer of
snakes skin. old. lost. and left behind.

when my youngest was three, i made up this rap for the potty:

pull up your chonies.
pull up your pants.
flush that toilet.
and wash your hands.

now that he’s four. he memorized it. but he gets mixed up a bit:

pull up your pants.
do a little dance.
wash that toilet.
and flush your hands.

i actually think it’s better.
and he’ll remember it forever.
when he grows up. he’ll be
just like his

grand
father.

*Awesome.

[ here's some awe. ]

my boys
are full of
awe and
then some.

my youngest son
runs and jumps
from the
top bunk.

head hooded with
towel and
oven mitt-
covered hands.

some sort of
glorious, warrior,
lionheart, brave
cave man.

he explains
how pens are like
rocketships.
godilovehim.

my other, the
oldest questioning
dictionary definitions
with his imagination.

and ordering tasks
on a calendar. more
organized than pops
who holds multiple jobs.

he goes on
about how he wants
to build a robot.
if he can’t have a dog.

an apartment. our dwelling.
but we’re still awesome.
we do things a 9-5
dad can’t fathom.

we have the biggest backyard.
the park.
and a four-story house. when
you count the attic and
top bunk.

singing out. ecstatic. farting noises.
treehouse. movies. and skateboards.
paper airplanes. dancing. lemonade stands.
every single mundane daily action.

we’ve got some awfully great
imaginations. we’re simply
the princeboys. simply
awesommme.