A How To Guide for Overfacing
There's this thing you can do with horses, see. It's not a nice thing, so I'll preface this with the normal don't-try-this-at-home-kids disclaimer. It's called Overfacing. Overfacing occurs when you frustrate your horse by giving impossible or contradictory instructions until he flips his lid entirely and stops listening to everything including his new show name, Captain DumbAss McFlails-Much.
I did it to my horse Sam yesterday. And if I was a smart person, I would have spent all day today feeling bad about it, instead of doing it AGAIN to the thirty or so PEOPLE at my work who AREN'T EVEN HORSES.
Mental note to self: Leave the blazing guns at home tomorrow. At the very least, attach silencers....
Kudos to my 2IC who cut off the caffeine supply early in the day and ran interference and damage control for the rest of it. I am an ass. An ass I am. Consider me Dr Seuss'd.
And speaking of Solla Sollew I can't quite figure out if this one is cloud skimming or breathing fire. I think it hitches in my chest somewhere between. You've been stuck in my head all day Puppa. Miss you like a missy thing. Thanks for the banana toothpaste. This one's for you.
Godspeed
Never one for prayer, I wished us
Godspeed on the way to the airport
She said to me listlessly:
‘It’s someone else’s turn.’
I could have cracked in half
before the night was out
your sheets stripped, bed remade
freshly puffed pillows for the next
freshly lost mind…
another family starched
and hospital cornered
awaiting orders in the trenches
at dawn to storm the beachhead
the war already lost
Our ending their beginning
never one for prayer, I wished her
Godspeed at the gate
An empty pragmatism
found me at the rodeo as planned
one filthy boot upon the rail
in retrospect I chose my comfort zone
to take the call: charging stockhorses
the dust like dancing wraiths
the swelter of the last December eve
pooling at the small of my back
I dug the jangling phone
from my pocket to find her voice
sending you out of our lives
just in time for Auld Lang Syne
The flight an hour late for her goodbyes.
Never one for prayer, I wished you
Godspeed, throat tight
Standing there, my back to the crowd
I wanted to see you in the trees
up on the escarpment: So I did.
You smiled and I gave you a wave.
They say you kicked your sheets a little
before you died.
This useless minutiae days later
the shepherd of my tears
road-weary but finally home
a week long march across
the Nullarbor Plain
under pregnant skies
I did it to my horse Sam yesterday. And if I was a smart person, I would have spent all day today feeling bad about it, instead of doing it AGAIN to the thirty or so PEOPLE at my work who AREN'T EVEN HORSES.
Mental note to self: Leave the blazing guns at home tomorrow. At the very least, attach silencers....
Kudos to my 2IC who cut off the caffeine supply early in the day and ran interference and damage control for the rest of it. I am an ass. An ass I am. Consider me Dr Seuss'd.
And speaking of Solla Sollew I can't quite figure out if this one is cloud skimming or breathing fire. I think it hitches in my chest somewhere between. You've been stuck in my head all day Puppa. Miss you like a missy thing. Thanks for the banana toothpaste. This one's for you.
Godspeed
Never one for prayer, I wished us
Godspeed on the way to the airport
She said to me listlessly:
‘It’s someone else’s turn.’
I could have cracked in half
before the night was out
your sheets stripped, bed remade
freshly puffed pillows for the next
freshly lost mind…
another family starched
and hospital cornered
awaiting orders in the trenches
at dawn to storm the beachhead
the war already lost
Our ending their beginning
never one for prayer, I wished her
Godspeed at the gate
An empty pragmatism
found me at the rodeo as planned
one filthy boot upon the rail
in retrospect I chose my comfort zone
to take the call: charging stockhorses
the dust like dancing wraiths
the swelter of the last December eve
pooling at the small of my back
I dug the jangling phone
from my pocket to find her voice
sending you out of our lives
just in time for Auld Lang Syne
The flight an hour late for her goodbyes.
Never one for prayer, I wished you
Godspeed, throat tight
Standing there, my back to the crowd
I wanted to see you in the trees
up on the escarpment: So I did.
You smiled and I gave you a wave.
They say you kicked your sheets a little
before you died.
This useless minutiae days later
the shepherd of my tears
road-weary but finally home
a week long march across
the Nullarbor Plain
under pregnant skies