Aspen Tongue and Groove Plywood at 1&1/8".

This shit is fucking great for building walls.
I like Aspen, it's soft but strong and has a low flammability rate.
The T&G ply just fits in so nice over some squared studs.
It's an automatic hoarding wall; and even cheaper than factory flat-edge.
You couldn't even fit a piece of paper through those joints.
Not even a fly's wing.

Today after some serious fucking around with a 12x12 timber support, I drove home mad with thoughts of all things carpentry. I drove home listening to the Frank Sinatra cassette, "Some Nice Things I've Missed", loud on my stereo.

The traffic was pre-cum at 4:00 p.m. near 1st Beach, not quite there but showing promise. I always drift to the days we used to be insane together, then. I wonder about you now and think you would love carpentry.

On Monday, I'll drive in some duplex nails for you. I'll bury the top head in Aspen and dull the point.

I wouldn't want to split the wood.

Roma by Night.

There was a postcard on my floor when I came home the other day. The postman had slid it through my mail-slot and it landed picture side up. While I was taking off my work boots I examined the front and wondered who could have sent it to me. The entire front of the postcard was black except for the words, in gold and longhand, "Roma by Night". I thought it was a funny little joke.

When the boots were off I picked that postcard up only to find that it wasn't for me. It had the right address but was addressed to someone named James.

It read:

"I would have sent you a card from Paris, but Paris does not sleep. Have loved every bloody minute... Off to Barcelona tomorrow. Let you in on a secret, if we had gone to Paris instead of San Fransisco, you would have never returned.
-Love R."

The word "returned" was underlined three times.

I think it was the saddest thing I had ever read.

Postcards always say everything clearly.

I love it, I love it, I love it.

I love the ways you make me
shake.

I love the ways you make me
break.

I love the ways you cook my head.

I love the ways we fuck in bed.

I love the ways that you love me.

I love the ways that I am free.

If you ever need a man to hold,
if you ever feel your love is old.

Voila. It's just me. A simple man, your levee.

Build, man, fucking build it to God.

There is something so simple about construction and carpentry that always makes me return.
I love the feeling of a half-dozen 2x4s on my right shoulder as I leap from concrete post to foundation wall; always 6 to 12 feet from the ground.
There is something about building.
I love the feeling of hammering in duplex nails, or using an impact to put in 6 inch wood screws, even when 3 inch ones would have done the job.
There is something about washing it all away in the home-time shower and laying on the couch, still wet and naked and thinking of your lips.
I love how you make me feel like a carpenter; your man in uniform.
There is something about my hammer, my leather tool-belt, my square and chalk-line, my tape and pencil.
I love that you love me.
There is something so simple about building things that makes me a man.

Robertson, #2.

There is a screw in my cutlery drawer. It is a wood screw, a Robertson.
I saw it when I was looking for scissors to open some brown sugar.
I wondered how it got in there and then I remembered how careless I was.
Always mixing things up and placing them poorly.

There is a screw in my cutlery drawer and I can't recall as to how it might have gotten in there.

It's like you. In my little heart. Out of place but there for certain.

I left the Robertson there and thought about it for days.
It's still there.

It's like you.

I have come to welcoming myself home these days, as no one else is there.

“I’m home”, I say.

I wait a long while before answering, “Welcome home”.

It’s a little lonely.

Maybe I should do something about that.

"No, they did not bury me, though there is period of time which I remember mistily, with a shuddering wonder..."

My older brother takes care of me.
He looks out for me and softens my falls.
He never scorns nor judges nor complains about my failings.
He just looks out for me.

And I never say "Thank You" enough.

I have never had an older brother before, but I bet I'd shoot straighter and be a better man if I had. I am trying. But man, let me tell you, older brothers are better than anything, better than everything.

Thank you.

Class Asteroidea.

I want to make you feel like Otis Redding makes me feel.
How can I write like that?
What can I do, like that?

I wonder if it would be the same, in bed with you.
Would you tell me to try a little tenderness?
Or would you let me wrap my arms around you and pin you down with my hot love?

Are you always teasing me?
Or is it true?
Can I stroll your lane?

I want to make you feel like that music makes me feel; shaking and teary.
Gripping the wheel, shouting.
Legs keeping time with the bass-drum.

Asteroidea, fall down and rock out.