A thrush flitted among the underbrush,
carefully dancing by the thorns
and pausing contently near patches of light.
He cared most for those moments of brief beatitude
during which he came upon a delectable beetle
but did not shy from the more bitter nuts and
fruits of the forest.
A soft voice called to him from a distance,
and he curiously approached its speaker.
And with a thwap! the net was cast.
Desperate, the thrush crashed against the
nylon fibers. But it was to no avail;
Exhausted, he crumbled to the ground.
Weeks later the thrush chirped and,
burdened by his clipped wings,
he looked through his cage -
daunted by the hostility.
Softly, mournfully, he sang his song -
Lamenting not his sudden relinquishment of freedom,
but the simple capacity he once had
to enjoy the simple fruits of the forest.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Friday, February 5, 2010
"What the fuck."
Greg stared blankly at his computer screen. He had opened Microsoft Word hours ago, that little paperclip guy mocking him and his inability to write. The asshole kept looking at him, blinking intermittently.
He couldn't stand it and slt+tabbed to Firefox. Maybe he had some new emai- nope. Nothing. Just some spam ads from DSW. Why the hell was DSW sending him emails, anyways? Twenty dollars off winter boots. Awesome. Except he wasn't about to walk around campus in suede leather and 2-inch heels.
I wonder what Facebook is up to, then. And a full half hour later, as he finished planting his Farmville cotton, he alt-tabbed back to Word. Still nothing. Not that he expected words to magically appear while he was dicking around. But what the hell was he going to talk about? This assignment wasn't going to write itself.
He sighed, and once again browsed the timesuck that was the internet. Casually he scrolled over the newly uploaded porn videos on his favorite website; nothing good. Unless, of course, you were turned on by sagging tits and urination. Greg supposed that there were at least a couple saps on the site right now watching it. Some people are turned on by that shit. He just wasn't.
It was then that the idea hit him. In his vehement procrastination Greg had looked at about twenty naked chicks on /b/ and then took some time to make fun of some poor soul that was foolish enough to ask for advise and expect people to take him seriously. So, why not? He posted on /lit/, asking for an idea for a story. He went to the kitchen to grab some coke and sat back down at his computer, hitting refresh.
"Dwarves.. fucking..?"
The fact that someone recommend he write about midgets having sex didn't shock him. He was, after all, asking the shithole of the internet for ideas. But it wasn't just one person, or two, or even three. Among the first seven posts were five depraved requests for intercourse among little people. Fine. He'll do it. And so he alt-tabbed back to Word.
"Snow White had always been a curious girl growing up. Her mother - before she died - had almost daily scolded her for playing with things she wasn't supposed to. So it was no surprise that, this one particularly dull Thursday evening, she made this offer to her guests.
The seven dwarves looked among themselves, first bewilderdly, then probingly. Granted, having to see Doc naked wouldn't be the best. But goddamnit they were going to run a train. And that was worth dealing with wrinkly dwarf sack. Grunting, Grumpy began to take off his clothes, his erect four inch penis barely visible underneath his bulbous stomach. Grumpy really did have something to be grumpy about."
Greg stared blankly at his computer screen. He had opened Microsoft Word hours ago, that little paperclip guy mocking him and his inability to write. The asshole kept looking at him, blinking intermittently.
He couldn't stand it and slt+tabbed to Firefox. Maybe he had some new emai- nope. Nothing. Just some spam ads from DSW. Why the hell was DSW sending him emails, anyways? Twenty dollars off winter boots. Awesome. Except he wasn't about to walk around campus in suede leather and 2-inch heels.
I wonder what Facebook is up to, then. And a full half hour later, as he finished planting his Farmville cotton, he alt-tabbed back to Word. Still nothing. Not that he expected words to magically appear while he was dicking around. But what the hell was he going to talk about? This assignment wasn't going to write itself.
He sighed, and once again browsed the timesuck that was the internet. Casually he scrolled over the newly uploaded porn videos on his favorite website; nothing good. Unless, of course, you were turned on by sagging tits and urination. Greg supposed that there were at least a couple saps on the site right now watching it. Some people are turned on by that shit. He just wasn't.
It was then that the idea hit him. In his vehement procrastination Greg had looked at about twenty naked chicks on /b/ and then took some time to make fun of some poor soul that was foolish enough to ask for advise and expect people to take him seriously. So, why not? He posted on /lit/, asking for an idea for a story. He went to the kitchen to grab some coke and sat back down at his computer, hitting refresh.
"Dwarves.. fucking..?"
The fact that someone recommend he write about midgets having sex didn't shock him. He was, after all, asking the shithole of the internet for ideas. But it wasn't just one person, or two, or even three. Among the first seven posts were five depraved requests for intercourse among little people. Fine. He'll do it. And so he alt-tabbed back to Word.
"Snow White had always been a curious girl growing up. Her mother - before she died - had almost daily scolded her for playing with things she wasn't supposed to. So it was no surprise that, this one particularly dull Thursday evening, she made this offer to her guests.
The seven dwarves looked among themselves, first bewilderdly, then probingly. Granted, having to see Doc naked wouldn't be the best. But goddamnit they were going to run a train. And that was worth dealing with wrinkly dwarf sack. Grunting, Grumpy began to take off his clothes, his erect four inch penis barely visible underneath his bulbous stomach. Grumpy really did have something to be grumpy about."
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