Play this whilst reading.

8 11 2011 8 54 PM by Reid May

Tuesday, August 30, 2011

The Early Crow

The crow is the first and the loudest of many birds to perch on top of the tallest tree in the morning.

This if preceded ten minutes by the Sun's early arch rising above the treeline.

Which comes after dozens of pairs of legs cross my view of the sidewalk between the brim on my baseball cap and paperback.

Which was given birth by a bloody sinus and the thought of the necessity of raking leaves.

Now I will rake leaves.

Friday, August 12, 2011

Biking, Add Metal

Biked to a closing Borders Bookstore to scour, but I was still too cheap to purchase anything.
 Had pizza and beer.  And salad. And watched football.
One coffee. Started listening to metal.
Metal and churches mix.
Insomnia.  Add the Relapse Records Sampler.

Tuesday, August 2, 2011

Coffee, Tea, and Misery

A man walks out of the coffee shop from which I am sitting down-wind.  His perfume is vulgar-sweet and un-natural, and smells like the shopping mall across the street.  He stalls at the patio table next to mine and fumbles in his pockets.  What's this?  The scraping sound of a match being lit, then the odor of its sulfur.  It battles and begins to nullify the department store stench, when soon, the acrid smoke of the man's cigarette hits my snout.  This is bliss!  He walks twenty feet down the sidewalk, finishes the cigarette, jumps into his red and black Smart Car, and drives off.  I plunge into my bold cup of coffee.

With music
I'm trapped!
Like a worker bee
in rhythms,
in patterns.

If you find yourself at the coffee shop at seven in the morning, you are received with the sun on your back, keeping you warm in the cool breeze.
You may also find that you can't get a word in with Miller because every printed sentence of his makes you think he wrote it for you, and you think why, and by the time you're done you may find yourself with eyes glazed over, staring somewhere between the page and the street twenty feet away.
A passing gentleman says, "morning" to you, as if he knew you were lost in your memories, and you snap back into the present, observing the worker bees, rushing in and out of the coffee shop.

I will acquire a synthesizer.

At a coffee shop
a conscientious
smoker discusses
the etiquette of
Then, after a final
drag, she throws
the butt into the
sidewalk's gutter.

Just me and my tea.
I don't even like tea.
I like coffee.

Finally Punk