fat hun'eds.

ben rector, “the beat”

james taylor.

lee sklar has some of the sickest bass grooves. and an epic beard.

keep your head up, son.

once we tear open the roof,

nothing can stop us.

go for it.

jim carroll

i get it it all from him.

the nose.

the mouth breathing.

a solid chunk of my wardrobe.

and the love.

see. he’s not my dad. he believes in me.

see, he’s not my dad, he won’t be leaving me.

neither will the name.

ray.

he wears it like his best fitting suit.

i wear it like his best fitting suit.

it’s a little big now, but give me some time to grow into it;

i guess you could say i’m renting to own.

this coat of arms is broken in nicely, and seen it’s fair share of battles.

i dub thee, paul ray, son of pear.

the grandest of the pa’s there ever was..

this king of flannel sits on a toolbox throne made of thrift store book bargains,

taking life one day at a time, with three-quarter sleeves at a steady thousand miles per hour, because to this ray he is the Sun.

he’s worked hard enough.

“still smokes, can’t kick the habit.” -bill

a 74 year old tattooed, nicoteenage rebel without a cause, 

he doesn’t need ‘em. they need him.

i’m making my payments;

in secret handshakes, marlboro lights, folgers coffee packets, hanes white t-shirts, levon helm sing-alongs, play-doh ash trays, and a new pair of slippers every year i’ve been alive,

all for a 37 cent stamp of approval.

“thanks cowboy.”

“anytime grandpa.”

i’ve done it.

i’ve seen the light(s),

and facing aurora boreality isn’t that easy sometimes.

see.

i’m a kid at heart.

cut me open, count the rings,

you’ll make it to four.

count all the rings i bought from coin slot jewelers,

and gave to my mom in these make-do jewelry boxes i call hands.

“it’s beautiful bobby. how many carats?”

“no mom, it’s a ring.”

button up my overalls lulu.

i got places to be.

princesses to save.

stories to tell.

we climb streetlights like beanstalks, and watch the bulbs bloom white,

the rain falling up, from under our feet, kissing the souls of our shoes.

she quotes some obscure bible verse. she always did love the sound of her own voice.

yeah. i love it too.

i quote moran. it’s the only poetry i know.

“can you finance this flood?”

“…what do you mean?”

“eh…sounded nice.”

we watch the ripples in our makeshift ocean dance for miles.

i’m not a strong swimmer. i guess the wizard forgot my gills.

but he gave me a beat in my chest; like i was made of tin.

and her.

wrap me in foil.

or make her some slippers,

those yellow bricks are rough on her feet

just get us to kansas.

just get us home.

she’s still looking for that place without trouble.

we’ll search the world.

walk hand in hand to the edge of it.

she still thinks it’s flat.

i’m not correcting her.

if that day comes when she thinks she won’t find it, and the water fills her lungs,

all she has to do is sing.

sing to me those warm southern hymns her grandma taught her, until there’s enough steam for her to power the whole town.

get started on those slippers.

allow me to reintroduce myself.

my name is bobby. son of linda. son of pear. 

and i will never leave you hanging when you want your hand slapped by someone else’s.

unlike columbus, i’m headed east, to the concrete jungle.

to make friends with king kong.

we’ll lie down beneath a bowl of helicopters mistaken for stars and talk about how denzel washington has nothing on him.

i’ll find a job. he won’t (overqualified).

we’ll pick up some dime pieces, and roll them to bethedsa.

i’ll wish for something obscure and indie, you’ve probably never heard of it, he’ll wish for some parachute pants to make a swift landing (get with the times kong.)

of course, he’ll want to visit his boy d in prison. doing hard time for beating up the italians in little italy. assault with a deadly barrel.

stop by.

we’d love to see you.

now,

i’m not religious.

but someone keeps blessing me.

not even just when i sneeze.