sunday suppers

yesterday was the first sunday supper, a weekly event where friends and family can stop by on sunday and eat, drink, and be merry. at one point there were 8 dogs playing in the yard. super fun!

huffy

this is my new vintage huffy sun country bike. i love it, and have been loving riding it to work and store and gymn. i feel twelve again:)

abc guy

my beautiful grandson, a capricorn...

defenders

the defenders of wildlife action fund has put out a video about the brutal killing of wolves from airplanes. ashley judd narrates this pointed attack at sarah palin and her aggressive promotion of this cruel act. watch

loathsome

the buffalo beast has their list of the 50 most loathsome people in america in 2008 posted. i forgive them barack obama because they are so damn funny, and maybe a little true about the prez. read, laugh, and enjoy.

poem

best poem ever...

THE PUMPKIN TREE

Up a lattice of sumac and into the spars

of the elderberry, the pumpkin vines had climbed,

and a week after first frost

great pendulous melons dangled like gods

among the bunches of lesser berries

and the dazzled, half-drunken birds.

Then the pumpkins fell, one by one, each mythical fruit's

dried umbilicus giving way in a rush

of gold and a snow of elliptical leaves.

A skull thud, the dull thunk of rupture,

a thin smoke then, like a soul, like dust.

But the last, high up and lodged

in a palm of limbs and pithy branches,

sways now in the slightest breeze and freeze

after freeze caves in on itself

and will, by spring, cast its black

leathery gaze out over the garden

like the mummy of a saint or an infirm

and dessicated pope. Below, where the others fell,

that seed not eaten by winter birds,

one, say, buried in meat and sheath

of skin, will rise. From its blunt,

translucent nubbin, a leaf trifoliate

and a stalk as succulent as bamboo, it will climb

blithe as a baby Christ up the knees

of the wood it cannot know it is bound for.

more by robert wrigley here

body type

i think this is a neat font for the tattoo i'm thinking about. the words below, with some crows flying away and around them. on the shoulder.

All that is gold does not glitter,

Not all those who wander are lost;

The old that is strong does not wither,

Deep roots are not reached by the frost.