Tuesday, May 30, 2006 by Ben Myers
Over the past few day I have received an influx of posts which WILL be put on the site in due time. I have tried to make it a policy to leave a contributor's post as the main story for 24 hours so their work isn't hung out to dry. I have the utmost respect for anyone that takes the time out of their daily to-do's to write for your blog and I want to make sure everyone gets equal time and respect. As always, thank you for reading and writing. If you have any recommendations, ideas, or wayward words send them my way: BobMcGovern@gmail. com. Your humble copy and paster, Bob
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by Ben Myers
Posted by Ben Myers (NOTE: in the original document, each "bullshit" is written in a different font. Can't beat the system) Bullshit, Bullshit, Bullshit, Bullshit Bullshit, Bullshit, Bullshit, Bullshit Bullshit, Bullshit, Bullshit, Bullshit Bullshit, Bullshit, Bullshit, Bullshit Bullshit, BULLSHIT, Bullshit, Bullshit Bullshit, Bullshit, Bullshit, Bullshit Bullshit, Bullshit, Bullshit, Bullshit Bullshit, Bullshit, Bullshit, Bullshit Bullshit, Bullshit, Bullshit, Bullshit Bullshit, Bullshit, Bullshit, Bullshit Bullshit, Bullshit, Bullshit, Bullshit Bullshit, BULLSHIT, Bullshit, Bullshit Bullshit, Bullshit, Bullshit, Bullshit Bullshit, BULLSHIT, Bullshit, Bullshit Bullshit, Bullshit, Bullshit, Bullshit Bullshit, Bullshit, Bullshit, Bullshit Bullshit, Bullshit, Bullshit, Bullshit Bullshit, Bullshit, Bullshit, Bullshit Bullshit, Bullshit, Bullshit, Bullshit Bullshit, Bullshit, Bullshit, Bullshit Bullshit, BULLSHIT, Bullshit, Bullshit Bullshit, Bullshit, Bullshit, Bullshit -- BULLSHIT
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Monday, May 29, 2006 by Ben Myers
Posted by Ben Myers There's a young man driving to work. There's a cup of stale coffee, a fragrance meant to exude masculinity, and a soft rock tune humming. There's a silver watch, a ball point pen, and a designer leather wallet. There's a briefcase, scattered paperwork, and a collection of the instruments required by his daily tasks. There's a crumpled paper bag jammed between the passenger seat and the door; it has an all too familiar Dunkin Donuts signature of the on-the-go lifestyle. Inside the bag, there's a partially eaten wheat bagel with a partially eaten perfectly yellow, perfectly aromatic, perfectly round, egg. There's a cell phone, two of them in fact; one for work, and the other for after work. There's leather upholstery, a wrinkly treated cow hide turned black death with seatbelts. And of course, there are disk brakes. He punches the brakes with his foot. The drive is interrupted and his car idles aside an empty highway. There’s the rhythmic dance of windshield wipers and absolute serenity. The soft rock tune keeps humming. There's something he knows not, because the commute will not allow for it. Massive manic confusion at first glance of natural instinct, an urgency dwells heavy on his quickened heart beat. The soft rock tune keeps humming. There's the birth of noise. There's a static noise and pain in his throat. He screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa (ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh)ms. He screams with his brothers charging the English in the Scottish highlands with farm tools. Imagine torture, inflicted suffering, pains beyond physical comprehension, dizzying doses of adrenaline purged from a warehouse surplus. Imagine a vocal release so complete that it's sexually satisfying. Imagine a fan being turned from low to high and being whisked away by the pace of its revolutions. Imagine a lone firecracker stinging the palm of your hand as it explodes, now imagine a stick of dynamite. The scream crescendos from silent release of air to a gurgling shriek of desperation in A-minor. His blood screams from his quadriceps to toes and shoulders to fingertips. Imagine self-inflicted ear-popping, eye-bloodening, wrenching of the vocal chords, clenching of the unopposable digits and sensual release of a bottled chasm withheld from society. The duration of the scream is infinite, and fortunately, he's in the breakdown lane. There's the incessant clicking of a turn signal. There's a young man driving to work. He's laughing.
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Thursday, May 25, 2006 by Ben Myers
Posted by Tom Villalobos Time is an abstract creation of the mind. It is a consensual limitation of liberation, for though it is exceptionally useful in the organization of past, present, and future events, it detracts significance from the present, which is really the only moment in life one can acknowledge being alive. The past and future only exist as we imagine them. They are mere templates of things which supposedly happened, or which will supposedly happen. Tomorrow, I will go to work at 10am, get out at 6pm, have dinner with my friend Emma, and she and I will begin a road trip to Florida. The more I plan these events, the more aspects of their conditions form in my mind. I will need to fill up the gas tank. I will have some kind of brunch (most likely). I will check my email at work, etc. The fact is I really have no idea exactly what will happen tomorrow. I don’t know what first thought will enter my mind when I wake up. I have no precise idea what my orange juice will taste like washing out the film of morning breath. I don’t know who the attendant at the gas station will be, nor do I know how strong the wind will blow in my face as I cherish the fumes of gasoline. Think of a particularly impressionable past event, which you personally experienced with someone close to you. Remember every minute detail possible, every single thing, which was happening to the both of you at that time. Make a list of these things, and then compare your list to your accomplice, and realize that no two experiences will ever be the same. Ever. The past only exists as however much we take away from it in our mind, or with recording devices. No matter how precise one experiences and records that moment, it will never exist as precisely as it did right then and there. The only time that we are truly experiencing anything is the moment is it actually being experienced. The present moment is the only moment we are alive. Everything else is symbolic interpretation and abstract reasoning. To place too much emphasis on anything but the present moment is to place too much focus on the abstract. To wrap this up, these are the definitions of abstract, as found in an online dictionary. ab·stract adj. 1. Considered apart from concrete existence: 2. Not applied or practical; theoretical. 3. Difficult to understand; 4. Thought of or stated without reference to a specific instance: 5. Impersonal, as in attitude or views. Shall I choose to acknowledge my existence in life for everything it is in the moment? Or shall I choose to live as I dream, meaning entirely in my head? “This is your life, and it’s ending one minute at a time”.
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Thursday, May 18, 2006 by Ben Myers
Posted by Shawn Romance Constantly mulling over the depression that the city has thrust upon me has erupted my senses into an emotional volcano. I can no longer take the fast-paced, white-collar cronyism. There is no decency left in mankind, at least in Boston, they sold their souls when the Red Sox won the series. I’m not attempting to bash the few genuine people I’ve met on my journeys eastward, there are those pleasant few who make life in the city a little easier. A change is needed, however, and it doesn’t involve Cape Cod socialites for the summer or big city pricks the rest of the year. I want some good old-fashioned big game hunting. The only big game you can find around Brighton are some domesticated animals or those few overfed raccoons. The most desirable thing I could ask for at this point in my life is a break. I feel like I’ve rushed every step of my life and the only thing I have to show for it is a shitty car, and a rented apartment with a neighbor I would like to knife. Instead of spending hundreds of dollars on therapy, I would rather move out west and unload buckshot into a giant elk. There are so many things that I’ve missed out on while I’ve been at school and working at dead end jobs. The only thing that has given me hope is a chance for some spontaneous exhilaration; I’ve become too accustom to plans and calendars. A slap in the face of society is all I ask for. I still remember my father telling stories about his cross-country adventures in the early 60’s. I can still see the youth in his eyes when he mentions it, and how hearty his laugh becomes. He had the freedom to do whatever he wanted for a month, and no one could tell him otherwise. I’m sure if I asked him for advice he would tell me that whatever I thought would be best. His father never told him that there was a path he had to follow, and never once has my Dad told me how to take care of myself. I’ve made some fairly bad decisions in my day, but I don’t want to be remembered as someone who gave up. Look out elk.
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by Ben Myers
Posted by Steve Bagley Sure, I could last two, maybe three weeks. I could put on a smiling face and engage in activities for the betterment of an organization which transfers liability and helps other organizations assimilate product and service lines through third-party communications so as to improve communications and product/service lines while transferring liability. Sure. I could. I could bathe in the rhetoric. For a while. I could put my ego aside and take orders from pretentious nice-watch hair-gel nice-shirt sporting sports. I could take the plastic smiles. For a while. I could engage in hollow banter about the acquisition of newer and nicer possessions as my soul begins to take poison jab after jab of what this consensual thought-form dictates to me what it thinks will make me whole. I could deal with whining customers from other organizations who are having trouble with their communications service rhetoric and product lines, and deal with the fact that it is hindering their ability to acquire more possessions at the rate in which they deem acceptable. I could take orders from a Beta male a few times. Sure, we’ve moved on a bit since the last few million years. Maybe his strength lies in his brain. But after all I know this isn’t true. It lies not in his will for comfort, which I do not abhor, but rather his distortion of his will for comfort which translates to—yes—greed. Which I do abhor. But oops, this is rhetoric. Forgive me. Then one day I will show up at work late. No tie and stinking like a pirate. There is a great possibility that I will be stoned out of my head. Whatever the case, I will receive an onslaught of communication product/service line-acquisition of possession rhetoric. I will be reprimanded. And that is when my hypothalamus will reawaken from its placid give-and-take relationship it previously had with my cerebral cortex. (The hypothalamus is the core of the human brain and is inherited directly from our reptilian ancestors and is, in fact, the seat of all aggression as well as drives for sex, food, sleep, self defense and anything else we humans find strangely excellent. On the other hand, the cerebral cortex is our most recent development, and has grown around the reptilian center like an onion, and is what allows me to sit here and smith visual-language regarding parts of the human brain, while you sit on the other end and process it. The cerebral cortex is also responsible for art, imagination and science. So just to recap, if you read this and you find you may have other things on your mind… like sex and food—then remember—it’s coming from the alligator control center, not the cerebral cortex. With that cleared up, let me continue.) As I am being reprimanded, I will find myself puzzled momentarily at the standoff we will find ourselves in, and I will eventually conclude to myself that these assholes are part of the problem. They are outright denying their reptilian monkey-fuck heritage. That is divorce from your truest nature—if he who precedes man is God, then this is heresy. I must help them see. The plastic hair, plastic smiling beta will step up and I will lunge forward with a brutal head butt that will immediately crush his nose and send blood spraying in all directions—on coworkers and cubicle walls. He will fall to his knees and decide that he has already lost this fight. Yeah—that’s how I roll. Then another worker will come over in his nice suit and plastic face that is no longer plastic but real and oozing with fear, and he will try to restrain me. As he approaches me I will step towards him and swing my fist directly into his throat, so as to send him flying bitch-like over his desk, nice shoes and tie flying backwards-up-and-over. I will take the blood that sprayed everywhere and paint my face with it like a mad Apache brave on the war path. Other employees will dash at me in desperation but will receive universe-shattering spin-kicks to the sides of their heads, blasting them outward and knocking over the cubicle walls—then I will set fire to my computer and eat all the paperwork I had been doing. Then, as the sprinkler system rains down I will engage in battle with two security guards who came to investigate all the commotion. I will dodge their fists like an afterthought so as to toy with these minimum-wage earning motherfuckers. I will form-tackle one of the guards straight to his back and proceed to bite his ear off. As he wiggles in pain on the floor, I will turn my attention to the other security guard, who by this point has turned and began to run. Using nothing but instinct, I will chase him down with frightening speed and drive him face-first into the wall, consequently dislocating his jaw from his skull. Then—with squirming, moaning bodies all over the floor, a desk set on fire, and sprinklers raining down—I will proceed to smash the nearest desk with my fists and rip free a flat board of wood from it—sprinting towards the nearest window I will mount it in mid-air and crash through the glass—surfing the broken desk-piece down through the shimmering shards, into the bushes three stories below. I will hide in the shadows and eventually make my way home. When I get home after this long day I will shower up, order Chinese food and put on some Scooby Doo.
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Monday, May 15, 2006 by Ben Myers
Posted by Bob McGovern (This column will be in the May 18 edition of the Express) There is nothing in this job I enjoy more than constructive criticism – emphasis on the word constructive. During my brief time as a sportswriter, I have received e-mails, phone calls, and letters in regards to mistakes that I’ve made and have done my best to address them accordingly. It’s what makes me a better writer and I firmly believe it is a major component in what makes your sports section better. This week I sat down at my desk, guns ablazing, ready to delve into a week of sports, or lack thereof because of the recent drizzle. Right in front of me was a nine-sentence anonymous letter, telling me that I was a “moron” for calling your athletes “Men and Women” instead of “Boys and Girls.” Fair enough – now let me explain. In varsity athletics, your kids take on a responsibility that is both mature and admirable. They represent their school and do so with the school’s name emblazoned across their chest in a way that says, “This is my school and I’m going to fight for it ¬– win, lose or draw.” These athletes take time away from academia everyday and practice, travel, and compete for themselves and their classmates. At the end of the day they have to go home, tired after a day of school and sports, and do their work so they can represent the prefix in student-athlete. Aside from that, high school athletes in Massachusetts take on a much larger responsibility, one that requires a serious assessment of an individual’s social life. Athletes, like other underage students, are not allowed to drink, or be caught around alcohol or drugs in any capacity. If an athlete is caught and the information is relayed back to the school, he or she will be suspended, and if they hold any kid of captainship, it is revoked without question. Other people in these social setting will deal with ramifications, but their consequences don’t even touch the visible, embarrassing repercussions that follow athletes. For all intents purposes, high school athletes are public figures, despite their age, and for this I give them a little more credit than one of my critics believes they deserve. The English language offers flexibility with terms like these and as a humble promulgator of these classifications; I’m sticking to my guns. The letter also mentions that these terms flip-flop once an athlete enters college and to that I say, “How?” At what stage in the game are we no longer a boy or a girl? Is it the second we graduate, does that diploma carry with it some coming-of-age doctrine, written in small illegible print? I don’t buy it. Every decision we make takes some form of responsibility and with that an underlying sense of maturity. When your town’s athletes make the decision to represent themselves, their community, and their school in an active and responsible way I feel they have taken a positive step towards being an adult ¬and I will give them their just desserts. Your varsity athletes will always remain men and women on my sports page and to Mr. or Mrs. Anonymous, I thank you for giving me this opportunity to explain myself. I guess sometimes nameless unconstructive criticism can help a writer. It shows that someone is reading and I appreciate it.
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Friday, May 12, 2006 by Ben Myers
Posted by Daniel Falkiner Like a cancer it grows, strangling Life, ivy-like. Jostling runts suckle at the shrinking teats. Not too long now ‘til the mother is drained of all her milk. And in the government buildings and business boardrooms the banker sits, heavy-framed and puffing on a gold-tipped cigar, with his champagne-sipping politician partner nodding and enjoying the view. They talk of this disease, and of how to help it grow for each new thing that it consumes rakes them in more dough. And in the charity houses and churches the priest preaches with the red cross at his back, on the sanctity and preservation of this parasite. The people nod, and swallow whole these hope-baited hooks. Cents drop to the floor. This chemical medicine saves now the one and later kills the many. The old remedy must be rediscovered - but who’s child shall be left at Death’s doors? Not yours. Not mine. Somewhere lurks this New Physician, iron-willed and unflinching in his mission. He recognises these malignant growths, and will carve them from the body, squeamish not. But the diagnosis is hard to take and the patient prefers to pray. The planning and the tablets and the herbal teas and condoms are ineffective. The old and the sick linger and pollute. Shall the surgeons take the scalpel?
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Monday, May 08, 2006 by Ben Myers
Posted by Steve Bagley Friday night is like an Arab virgin riding a Pegasus through the Happy Sugar-Time Pinball Arcade, and there are slot machines and flash bulbs and noises of loose triumphant change and blue clouds and swirling galaxies and good-looking young soda-drinkers on roller-skates, really living life the fullest--just grooving off all the tasty soda and cool roller-skate moves, just really stickin it to the Man, the same guy, in fact, who keeps pumping them an infinite supply of soda through feeding tubes, you know, as long as they can pay for it, obviously--and meanwhile there are midgets riding elephants, and magicians and somewhere in the back there are mimes with that look on there faces like "who me?" and then just before you get to the glorious escalator of delicious sugar-time happiness you pass some dude in a gorilla suit, you know, thrown in for good measure. And that's what Friday night is to me. Sunday night is like a deathbed vision in old mahogany trim while sitting—face cupped in hands—on the public bench of the mind, floating further and further out like an astronaut on a long lost memory of a shy and dimple-cheeked female on a warm night, throttling at full speed on my trusty bicycle through adolescent sunsets of the orange-sky wild-shit American football nights—and the last pieces of confetti settle in, and ten-thousand crickets are cricking in between my ears—and the moment is a raccoon carcass decaying amidst the flowers and investigating mosquitoes, all decaying themselves, slowly and perfectly in strict accordance with the indestructible patterns of inevitability—Father Time in socks and sandals washing all things away with the garden hose he bought at Home Depot, and existence and non-existence are dancing dangerously close to one another with the heavy sexual tension of a Russian ballet—and each futile rotation of the globe is just another leaning birch tree eroding into the light stream, whipping down the corridors of pine-tree infinitum— And that’s what Sunday night is to me.
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Saturday, May 06, 2006 by Ben Myers
 Posted by Ben Myers The boy genius of street-fights and guitar-work, turned cocksman; and post-transformation has altered crafted words of violence to clever words of love. As confident he appears in his ability to slay one of these gems, he knows he needs beverage for his entourage. Young women they were, habitual drinkers, and had tendencies of gripping apple-tini glasses at over-priced watering holes. There could be no success without proper sustenance. A survey of the beverage available at home yielded negative results. Dennis was left beerless, wineless, and even his best friend at clutch-time, Tanqueray, was absent. What was this demonic nocternite, vaginal termite, to do up against such odds? Taken by this triple-team, he had no chance at scoring without ample aid from the offense of alcohol consumption. As if Archimedes himself declared, "Eureka!" Dennis discovered a bottle of "SPUMANTE!" standing deep within the recesses of his roommate's cabinet. Game time! Or so he thought. To better understand where this is headed, one must understand the boy genius of street-fights and guitar-work's stubborn allegiance to the, "Hearts and Minds Campaign: 2006." Cocksman he may have been in his heyday, but lately his motives for late-night decadence had matured. Initially, success had been measured in "notches added to the bedpost;" lately, he had raised the bar to greater altitutde, and currently had half the female population of that same bar in-tow! What had fundamentally changed? It was not cowardice that had him shy away from these delights without further intoxication -- it was fear. Fear that he could not handle the task of not only conquering one mind, as he had set out to, but to handle the conquest of three minds, to earn the heart. Like Scarface, Dennis believed that first you get the mind, then you get the heart, then you get the body. So many of us confuse this order indeed! In his heart of hearts, he was determined to impress his female company beyond any of their expectations. Too often lately he had watched his lonely days turn to lonely nights. Back to the present predicament... where we find Dennis stuck in this mess not alone, but with a bottle of "SPUMANTE!" to help break the social ice of sobriety. He dances a jig while ejaculating the cork across the room, dancing two-and-fro in the primitive spotlight of sexual encounter. Confronted by the three Sirens, Greek mythological quasi-birds with beautiful female heads. (Coincidentally, Homer speaks of three seductive Sirens by name and personality. He claims Odysseus had himself bound to a mast to prevent the singing temptresses to lure him onto their island. To the Greeks, these three were: Thelchtereia ("enchantress"), Aglaope ("glorious face"), and Peisinoe ("seductress"); and in Italy, they were Parthenope ('virgin"), Leucosia ("white goddess"), and Ligeia ("bright-voiced"). ) These sirens are most certainly not the three standing toasting "SPUMANTE!" in his vinyl-tiled kitchen, but he's a visionary. With cheezy-smile to boot, the graceful tomb-raider of his roommate's booze stash, hands each of the three Sirens a sip NOT of Bud Light, or even Amstel Light; this was beverage of a finer variety, wrapped in a shiny gold label with embossed title dead center: "SPUMANTE!" He offered them the drinks as if they were engagement rings, and they accepted. The bottle looked as if it had matured to a fine vintage. The label had been worn as if it had seen many days, and the obnoxiously capitalized, "SPUMANTE!" logo had faded from its glory and grown grey-ish-black. This aged appearance was absolute proof that what they were drinking was truly legit.
 He excuses himself briefly to the bathroom and spends a moment lost in the mirror. He realizes how far his mind has wandered from life in his cubicled office, where four walls only required a roof and it could be called a coffin; where he lay buried with his prized possession, a computer older than "SPUMANTE!" When seated for 8 hours a day in the $35 standard office cubicle chair, he was in communist China. Now, he was free as a flying phoenix in the desert. The first swallow of "SPUMANTE!" sends chills up his spine and causes the expressions of the Sirens to steadily transition from delight to disgust. What was this horrid beverage? The early-morning revilers choke down every sip of the pungent liquid from the priceless bottle of putrid scent. A short moments time later, after each consuming the enormous plastic cups of "SPUMANTE!," they part ways, sick to their stomachs. All four members gripped by the twang of poisoning, the obvious source being the cursed "SPUMANTE!" What devil had he unleashed upon the pleasantries of the evening that had bound him to the mast? He awakes to the afternoon, thrown from swarming dreams into an evil world of pain. Beverage of the early morning had crawled into his gastrointestinals and corroded their enamel, burning straight through to the bellybutton. Mark, the roommate, awakes to the afternoon, thrown from evil dreams into his swarming world, with his regular expletives, followed by the even more common exclamation, "Misery!" Kitchen-bound for breakfast he notices a collection of empty bottles on the counter. One of these bottles casts a shadow over its companions, as if to say, "Who's your daddy?" Who had consumed his "SPUMANTE!"? Who had pillaged his coffers? Most importantly: Where was he/she/it now?; and was he/she/it okay? Enter Dennis - Bickfords-bound and delirious. Without providing a chance for explanation, Mark begins to explain the unique origin of "SPUMANTE!" Dennis, oh ye poor soul. Thou hast not consumed the "SPUMANTE!"? Pray thee listen to the tale of its acquisition, for nay was it the divine fermented beverage though hast believed. A fortnight hath past ere I first encountered "SPUMANTE!" Commisioned, as I were, to equipped with an excavator to demolish a cemeterial tomb in West Roxbury . Upon the debris, that once housed rotten corpses of my Italian ancestry, was uncovered relics of expired love and loved ones. Regrettably so, my fellow laborers and I collected what we could of the plunder and escaped without the slightest notion of moral wrongdoing. Among the precious booty collected under arm was a decorative bottle that had kept company with the deceased for many years. This bottle is what lies before thee now depleted! As rotten as skeletal remains beside it, the alcoholic elixure had matured to poison. Goblin's Blood ye layeth unto your soul, and the souls of whomever joined ye in occupation. Ye whom consumes the "SPUMANTE" remains forever in misery, with thine company; whom loveth each other. Dennis had played, and won.
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Wednesday, May 03, 2006 by Ben Myers
 Posted by Daniel Falkiner (via Australia) O America! The Land of the Free Trade Such a marvelous and complicated creature You are and created You were born from pain and prejudice: the fled oppressed carved up this land and sunk new roots into the ancient soil, oppressing in turn the caretakers of old. Instead of nibbling scones and sipping tea at the expense of the Empire You made your Party a Revolution. Broken free from the shackles of imperial rule You grew and conquered, maturing into greatness on the spine of the dark, until the night awoke and howled against the greed of the white sun. Embroiled in the battle for justice You sacrificed Your sons and deflowered Your daughters so that the petals from Bentonville to Birmingham wept blood for a hundred years. And You watched from the sidelines, harvesting wealth from slaughter, as the freedom-weary world beat itself half to death. But finally the islands were ignited and Lend-Lease could not sate the desire for vengeance; for the wrath of a God-blessed people. And so from the smoking ruins You rescued the world from its piteous self-destruction and sewed the seeds for a new era of Freedom: Ich bin ein Berliner! I have gazed upon your glory: these desert meadows made blooming gleaming oases; this creative cauldron of creeds, of minds, of bodies; these brightest smiles of nature; this architectural regency; this cultural King Kong; Your self-esteem; Your Roman might; Your mercy; Your Dionysian rapture: The Dream. And I have gazed upon your horrors: these desert meadows made hellish sucking holes; this hissing boiling cauldron of distrust and prejudice; these natural wonders exploited and ravaged; these majestic constructions oiled with the sweat of the poor; this soul-squashing singing behemoth; Your suffering; Your arrogant self-righteousness; Your aggression; Your endless greed: The Nightmare. O America! I love you, but you break my heart.
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Monday, May 01, 2006 by Ben Myers
Posted by Bob McGovern Too far beyond the click of the motor, Hemming exactly what we sow, Two feet on the road in the mind, Many miles behind - a burning down below. Experience and faith in the time of arrival, The blur of objective truth, So many eyes transfixed on the static, Not enough hours on the experience of youth. So where does this leave us together? Are we horizontal, or are we behind? The fastball comes at only one speed, Only way to miss it, is to keep staring down the line. So keep my glass filled this evening, My thirsty mind says it’s far from over, Imagine your face in the eye of the storm, Another full belly, salted with getting older.
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Or, if you are so inclined, bobmcgovern@gmail.com
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