highway

we were all out there today,
dammit
we were all out there,
and we were all damned well
going
somewhere:
some of us
as pissed off as can be imagined,
and some of us,
well just in a big goddamn hurry,
and still others,
just
restless --
tired of being stuck
in the middle of a
downward spiral
at 100 miles per hour,
into the pier of the overpass --
yes, goddammit,
like Buk, only faster
(he had it clocked at 85),
going out in one glorious fucking
bang, bang, bang, clang, clang, clang:
to nothing

the nothing that we deserved
the nothing that we observed,
the hopeless clustering of a big fucking lie
told to us by others
before they died,

and we raced each other out there today,
baby,
like nobody's fucking business,
and like usual,
the biggest dog got
the biggest bone,
and the happiest dog on the porch
was the one who got left alone;

and next to us, at a red,
two Harleys, cruisin' red,
a guy on one,
and a girl on the other:
bandanas, fuck the helmets;
all chrome and testosterone,
and the Cruiser clad in black,
leaves them behind,
no slack,
and you smile,
as I gun it,
four seconds in a quarter mile
PT stands for Punk This;

we were out there, baby,
going faster than any sane persons,
because we were crazy, baby,
we were crazy, enough to be
burstin',
and we bobbed and weaved,
and we did as we damned well
pleased,
and it felt so fucking good,
flying recklessly
from neighborhood
to no fucking good,
we were golden,
it was our hour,
and we understood
absolutely nothin',
and that was as it should
be,
contrarily:
nothin' from nothin',
and it is always free,
free as the songs that
spring out of me,
as we drive,
feel alive,
take control,
go for a speeding stroll,
fly through the gates,
and flip a bird at the toll
takers, the soul achers,
tellin' the whole road,
to kiss our asses,
taking names,
and withholding passes,
suckin' up all those gasses,
and makin' love to people
who wear glasses;
just losin' control,
losin' control, baby,
losin' control.



August 3, 2009, for the Wifey.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

it is so

pinch me,
please;
can this
possibly
be real,
what I feel;
how you
surround me,
astound me;
you are
all around me:
mine,
all of the time,
and time
passes
so slow
and I never
see you go,
you are here,
forever near:
tell me,
it is so.



August 2, 2009, for the Wifey.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

the last test

she tells me
everything,
and I know
nothing;
she shows me
everything,
and I ignore it;
presented
with a
supernatural
love,
I sit
astounded,
to at last
be so completely
blessed;
stunned,
that, without
even knowing,
I have passed
the last test.



August 2, 2009, for the Wifey.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

one more day #2

people may
wander,
sometimes
aimlessly,
but ants
are always
on a mission,
carrying
much more
than their
body weight,
steadily
advancing,
overcoming
obstacles,
or simply
going around them,
their purpose:
the communal good,
the communal
survival,
one more day.



July 28 and August 2, 2009.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

Somebody I missed, or no fun at funerals.

I have to thank Teresa over at teresamerica for pointing out a really stupid group I’ve forgotten to make fun of.



No, Not them. Fred Phelp’s group is so idiotic that any attempt to make fun of them would give them more credit than they deserve.

Nope, it’s the conservatives that troll the Internet and say that somehow this group is a bunch of liberals.

Now I do understand how conservatives would want to distance themselves from Phelps even those that believe 9/11 and Katrina were God’s punishment for Gays and Short Skirts, have to look at Phelps and say, “Dude, you’re an idiot.”

But trying to pin that group onto liberals takes a feat of mental contortion that I can’t even begin fathom.

If you want to do some strange mental contortions try equating Kittens to Hitler:



Thanks “Cats That Look Like Hitler” for that image.

Or, try to imply that Hollywood is against guns.





I wonder you would try to imply that?



At least then we can see that the alternate reality you live in intersects the real world at some small point and is merely a tangent existence to our own, that could possibly be calculated using differential geometry in n-dimensional Euclidian space.

But trying to pin Fred Phelps to liberals puts your reality somewhere out there that is beyond the edge of the observable universe.