About three days ago I went searching for 'Concrete City' with Noah and Nicole. Nicole's great grandfather, a stern man with bushy eyebrows and a penchant for saying the word 'twat,' used to work for the Portland Concrete plant way, way back in the day. Twenty-five years ago, Nicole's now-bushy-eyebrowed mother went with her grandfather to visit the place where he used to live, right next to the plant in a series of company-owned houses, in between 'The Germans and the Eye-talians.' The houses had been torn, blown, and boomed away, until all that was left was an aesthetically interesting hodgepodge of foundations and formaldehyde.
As intrepid young artist-explorers, the Jewfro Noah and thinfingertipped Nicole and God-beard me drove down somewhere South of Pueblo to find these strange formations and, perhaps, take photographs of them, making what some might call 'art,' and what others might call 'pictures of old foundations near a big rumbling concrete plant.'
After a long drive, which included, mostly, me sleeping, we took a right here, a left here, and went straight on 'till morning...wait, I meant " 'till we saw the huge phallic concrete plant jutting into the sky like some mighty hardwood...plant."
For the first few hours of our visit, we walked up and down the railroad, took pictures of the hybrid Star-Wars/Metropolis/Teletubby Power plant, and walked around the frozen lake with its interesting spiderweb shapes and surrounding dirtpiles in long muddy ridges. I played photographer, attempting to 'frame' things in interesting ways, using the 'snapshot' option on Noah's digital moving-picture camera. In a field of weeds, only one was vibrating, as though the wind decided only to allow its soft fingers to play delicately with the hair of its most desired leaf of elongated brown busty grass. I pressed the wrong button, so we didn't get any video of it. Reminded me of yellow Aspen in a field of Pines, except smaller, and the difference being motion not appearance, and the bigass conveyor belt grumbling behind us.
We were, initially, unable to find the mysterious and much applombed 'Concrete City,' so we got back into our car to drive away, somewhat disheartened but still happy with the interesting things we'd been able to see.
Zip zam Boom, a cop car came rushing behind us, blue and red lights flashing, wheeling around turns with a screech of brakes and the squeal of rubber on road and the banchee scream of sirens.
Actually, it just followed us for a while, and we were being a bit cautious, since we had just been rummaging around restricted areas and were in the middle of deriere-intercourse-nowhere and there was a cop right behind us. So we drove for a bit, until it went left and we went right. After a few moments, we did a U-turn (me-turn? He-turn? She-turn? It-turn? No, U-turn!!), to drive back to the plant-area to search for the long lost forgotten mysterious foundations of Concrete City. And as we drove, slowly so as to allow our eyes to scan the horizon, I saw something in the distance...Concrete City!! We parked the car a few blocks away, got out, and walked to the barbed-wire fence. And there it was! BUT DAMN. It was a restricted area, and we weren't About to mess with those hose-beast fucknut near-Pueblo cops again. So, without hopping the fence, Nicole needed her long-zoom camera to get some pictures of the remains of the home of her hardworking grandfather. That should be symbolic, shouldn't it...
And then it hit me. I had to shit. I really, really had to shit. Like, prairie-doggin' turtlehead erecting nipple kind of need-to-shit-ness. I looked at Noah. "I gotta shit." He said "well, it'll be a while before we leave." "I Gotta Shit, Man..." Then he looked at me, and we looked to the angled dropoff on the side of the road, and I said 'Shit...' And he said 'Exactly.' So they went back to the car, and I stumbled down the hill in my ill-advised chacos, and, with a huge field stretching out in front of me, balancing myself by holding on to the unbarbed portion of a barbed wire fence, I let out the largest, most satisfying piece of fecal discharge this side of Italy. I'd never actually shat on the side of the road before. Lots of pissin', lots of poopin' in the woods, but never so close to asphault. I was a bit concerned about the environmental impact of my toxic man-feces, especially since I pooped on top of some plants in a drainage, but then I realized I was next to a factory that specialized in digging up earth and combining it with funky chemicals, so I didn't feel so bad.
Also, dont' tell Noah, but I wiped with my hand.
I'm sure the three of you who read this blog probably want to know about my job working with the felon children. Let's just say that it's good, very tiring, 'right up my alley' as long as I stay healthy, and definitely helps clear my mind in that constantly-having-to-think-about-what's-going-on-instead-of-ex-girlfriends-and-your-own-inability-to-make-any-contribution-to-the-poetic-world kind of way. You also completely cease to notice any of the little trivial botheredness things that you do in normal existence (like the way my half-boxer-half-brief underwear is really bundlin' up around my nutsac right now, or the way my toes feel a bit weird and numbly, as though I may have a case of minor not-quite-frostbite.)
I'm in Panera right now, a pretty hip bakery in Arvada CO (I didn't know Arvada had any hip things), and I just spent some time downloading free online poetry books from poemhunter.com. I'm not 100% certain that the poems are all typefaced and copied down to exact specifications, but you can't beat the price. I'm all about putting things on my computer that are Good for me.
Also, my latest bodily hypochondriatic paranoia is to do with my tongue. At some point during my 11-day-shift with the stank-boys, I felt nauseous for a while. Probably from a lack of sleep, dehydration, and cold. Anyway, it made me very, very concerned about the nature of my tongue. Do I have thrush? Tongue-herpes? It feels kinda thick, you know, maybe a little bigger and shorter than usual?
And then I looked in the mirror at my tongue. YUCK. in the middle near the back there's some big fissure that has a few tributaries spreading out from it, and tiny red dots all over, and in the Way Back, HUGE bumps!! WTF! I must have some kind of hitherto unknown tongue defect. Talk about disgusting...
So, of course, just like whenever I get freaked out about something weird about my body, I searched on the internet. And what did I find? All of that shit is pretty much Normal! Those bumps in the way back? Those are Tastebuds. Look in the mirror. You have them too! Mine may've been a bit 'swollen,' but that's pretty normal. And the weird little red-dots? Those have some weird name like panaeia...those are what you taste with. And that big crack-lookin' thing? That's pretty much genetic, and a lot of people have it. So, men, go, look in the mirror...look at the Back of your tongue. It's a DAMN FREAKY THING.
Now, woman-tongues are not nearly so featureful. They are nice and smooth and pink and beautiful. This is why women rule, why softcore lesbian kissing is pleasant to watch, why it's Sane to be attracted to females.
I know, I know...my blogposts are too long, unfocused, and have no pictures.
:-P
