potato bacon soup recipe

i'm an artist. i can't help it. everything would be easier if i wasn't. whatever. there is nothing i can do about it, but create. and most things i create don't get recognized by people. i write this blog; maybe five people read it. i make a painting; maybe fifteen people see it. i write a screenplay; three and half people read it. i could go on and on. maybe i will turn that list into a poem. not here. not right now. i'm not trying to get down. i am just telling it how it is.

so, today, at work, at the deli, i create my potato bacon soup. it is the first time i do such a thing. no recipe. no exact idea of the end result. my mind is working in spontaneous clarity, just plucking the ingredients from the kitchen shelves, like eve plucks the apple, ready for sin.

i know it will be good. how could i go wrong with potatoes, cheese and bacon? i couldn't. garlic flying. onions in a state of perfection.

and the customers of the deli rejoice. it is done and awesome and everyone buys it.

the potato bacon soup isn't art, though.

art is something extra. the people don't need my novel, or my blog to live, but my spontaneous soup gives them strength.

so, how can i have it so my words taste as good as my soup? hmmm.

all on a donut (part 3, the end)

a rotten egg smell is floating over the "all on a donut" saga like a mindless fart in a skyscraper elevator. i'm ending it, putting in to bed with a bang.

the moral of the one-night saga is: never give a crazy russian lady, who is probably a stripper, a ride home at 3 a.m. all the way out in green tree, when nate-dawg's car has a donut instead of a real tire, and you're trying to be a wing man; unless, you are ready for disappoint and the loss of an organ.

you can fill in the details. you're imagination, hopefully, is still good.

all on a donut (part two)

at table near the pool table, the dark hair, exotic chick is texting on her flamboyant phone.

it strikes me as odd that she is alone. attractive ladies don't usually travel alone; especially, not in dungeon dive bars like gooski's. customarily, they travel with other ladies with nice butts and bone structures like themselves.

an eye-candy blonde babe struts into the smoggy bar and hugs little miss exotic (as a i suspected, fetching females don't travel alone.)

a little bit of saliva drips from nate-dawg's quivering lower lip with the addition of the blonde peach buddy. perhaps, there is twitch in his trousers, as well.

nate-dawg and i finish our game of pool. now, a meet-and-greet commences before the ladies challenge our ball skills in pool. the girls are extremely nice, while allowing their shapely sectors to shine. turns out, the exotic one is russian. the blonde one is all smiles, shrugs and hugs with with a low-cut ghostbuster's tee-shirt. nate-dawg keeps mouthing the word, "wow," to me.

"we are no pro," says the russian. "you will kick our butt, but i like to play, for practice and for friends."

"oh, i am sure that you guys are good," says nate-dawg.

"maybe," says the russian, "but i am better when i am bad," then giggles and touches nate-dawg's arm.

nate-dawg glows for awhile, then attempts to break the triangulated pool balls. he misses all the balls, completely. the ladies find his blunder adorable. he tries again, and sufficiently breaks the balls up. game on.

the beer is going down smooth. nate-dawg and i are playing the worst pool of our lives. we don't mind. we don't want the game to end. plus, the ladies' distractions are endless; knee-high boots made of leather, nails of red, perfume from france, haircuts of sassiness, and on and on.

out of the corner of my eye, i spot a bra strap and make my own pool blunder. i knock the eight ball in too early, losing the game for nate-dawg and i. the ladies explode victoriously like they have just won the super bowl. they are jumping, fist pumping, hugging, and toasting.

"we have such great new friends," says the russian, while holding her glass up. we all raise our glasses and gulp down every last sip. "now," continues the russian, "i must exchange number. we all play pool, again, new friends, in future. you know?"

"yes, i get it," i say. we exchange numbers.

"now, we go tiki bar on south side. do you two go too? you should go."

"um, hmm, i'm not sure," i say. "maybe, i don't know."

"ok, bye," says the russian and, bam, they are gone in a swaying flash.

"i have to call my girlfriend," i tell nate-dawg.

"great idea," he says.

i finish the well-timed phone call and turn back to nate-dawg. he shrugs, once, twice, again; he wouldn't stop shrugging his shoulders, almost saying something, but nothing is coming out.

"Um," i say, "do you have something to say?"

"tiki bar?"

"we are going to have to think about this. you have a donut on your car. you shouldn't be driving around too much on that. plus, i am starting to become suspicious of these ladies. they seem like the types of ladies you meet at the beginning of a horror movie. and, i'll tell you how that movie ends, with us getting our organs cut out and sold on the black market."

"you are saying that just because one of them is russian. you're paranoid," says nate-dawg.

"perhaps, but I still want to weigh our options."
(to be continued)

all on a donut (part one)

nate-dawg's car is all jacked-up. cd player doesn't work. got a donut instead of tire in the front, passenger side. his blinker never stops clicking even when he isn't turning. the kid hasn't gotten an oil change since I meet him.

we decided to drive his silver beast car to the bar, regardless. gooski's bar in polish hill is the spot - dark, great jukebox, pool table, cheap pitchers of yuengling, pinball machine; plus, the holy grail of any dive bar: a ping-pong table.

we rotate between the game centers and jukebox, while drinking beer, talking about our troubles.

we run out of troubles.

we decide we will finish a game of pool, drink the last drops and go home, rest up, put the silver beast to bed.

that plan is quickly jeopardized when an exotic woman of leather and tight denim struts in and sets a quarter down on the pool table, indicating that she has next game. now, nate-dawg is a desperate single man. me, i've got a good woman, but i'm still a tourist to the scenery of the world.

nate-dawg has a silly grin on his face. i proceed to buy more beers. we are going to be here for a least one more game.
(to be continued)

so many swords in the f-ship today

there's so many swords in the f-ship today
it's kind hard like every calendar day

you know, samurai jack,
right across the way
a straight-up ninja
from the shanghai way
all day, everyday
when I see him
I just jog away

hey

my mind returns
to my roommates
see
cause one's got a black sword
and duh other has a hatchet set
you can kind of see, how, a cracker,
like me
can get upset
with this set-up
again
see

worried 'bout duh future
worried 'bout duh f-ship
worried 'bout duh feud
dat's, about ta
bound ta happen

cause
there's so many swords in the f-ship today
so many swords in the f-ship today

textbook

samurai jack's table

samurai jack's table across the street caught my eye, which is no surprise; it's a most entrancing table.

the curve on top; i can't get over it. mostly, because i know the curve of the table matches the curve of samurai jack's samurai sword. it is no accident, either. the man gets shit done in a meaningful manner.

he built that table one meticulous moment after another last summer. i witnessed the event, which was pure genius in action and way better than tv.

it would be no surprise to me if the angle of his sword and table match the angle of the outside of the earth.

my dream is to see samurai jack, sometime this summer, with a long roll of fresh, uncut sushi set out before him on his perfectly curved table.

in a well-calculated instant, he slices the sushi into perfect little pieces. he delivers the first piece to his tiny asian daughter with the end of his sword. she giggles, eats it, smiles and hugs samurai jack. he transfers the second piece to his little asian wife, and she reacts exactly as the daughter did. the third piece, samurai jacks feeds to a squirrel.

i make eye contact with samurai jack.

he waves me over.

an energy comes over me and pulls me toward the table. i don't even feel like i'm walking. i'm gliding. samurai jack takes my palm and faces it up. the samurai sword rapidly, yet gently cuts me down the middle of my palm.

samurai jack squashes my hand into the table.

my blood soaks into the curved wood.

i eat a sushi from the sword.

i walk back to my porch without saying anything, knowing that something has occurred here, not knowing exactly what.

stormy light turns to night

lightening strikes.

a tall girl with a little skirt tells her boyfriend, "oh, my god. look! the sky! aren't the clouds beautiful?

"yeah, babe, awesome," he says.

we are all in an alley. they're standing like trees, gawking at the sky. me, i'm playing the fool, walking by, with my head held low.

eureka. it hits me. i should stop staring at this girl's skirt and observe the sky.

damn. my eye balls pop back into my brain and bounce around like ping-pong balls. i observe the image of god in the sky, in the clouds.

my camera is on me. perhaps, a sign. i snap the shot. it occurs to me that god isn't real. it's clouds, just clouds dipping, diving, circling, flowing, flying, free from hang-ups.

"i can see a kitten," says the girl.

"they are some awesome clouds," says the boyfriend.

i think to myself, i bet i could find a naked lady, a bottle of whiskey and a winning lottery ticket up there if i tried.

i keep walking, eyes toward the sky.