Laughing all the way to the bank and back. Funny as a heart attack. I got hurt, living my life my way, and someone else deserves to pay.
The Cynglish Beat: Subversive Sub-Urbia
Death by Hanna Montana lunch boxes, drive-thrus, family outings to Hooters, group sing-alongs of Puff the Magic Dragon...
The Cynglish Beat: Bottle-Picker’s Dream
A dumpster-diving bottle-picker dreams dreams of tightened spokes, spinning pedals, and knobbed tires between clinking pickings, and his thoughts are full of having his own bicycle shop...
The Cynglish Beat: Say It!
Go ahead. Face your demon, face your tormentor, face the mirror and firmly, honestly, sincerely Say it with conviction.
The Cynglish Beat: Smuggler Munchkin
Loaded, goaded and bribed into the sweltering, sweaty, duMaurier King Size-stinking back seat of grandmother’s border-crossing, international law-defying Pontiac Parisienne.
The Cynglish Beat: No Solitude in the Ether, Either
She found her way to Facebook, All confused innocence and cautious half-smiles. Her friends suggested it, recommended it, put forth the idea.
The Cynglish Beat: Coconut, Vanilla & Roadkill
Surrounded by that soft, feminine scent, Just stepped out of the shower --- that clean, washed, coconut scent, Drifting through my senses and heightening and lengthening my awareness of life.
The Cynglish Beat: What I Know About Women
Socrates spoke out and pointed out that “All I know is that I know nothing”, and some days nothing is so much more than I could ever know.
The Cynglish Beat: Her Hair
Don’t care about your hair? That’s unfair, patent or not. Today I had cheap perfume girl in the bus next to me, yakky cellphone guy in the train behind me, coughing H1N1-man in the elevator beside me.
The Cynglish Beat: Singled Out
Next thing I know I’m on a blind date with a deaf girl sitting in a movie theatre, in the dark, where she can’t hear my words and can’t see my signs, so we hold hands in silence and we both wonder how we wandered this far from the Sylvan Plath.