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Dave Matthews Band – Crash Into Me

November 07, 2008 Author: Anthony Pacheco Category: Awesomesauce, The Craft  0 Comments

You’ve got your ball
you’ve got your chain
tied to me tight tie me up again
who’s got their claws
in you my friend
Into your heart I’ll beat again
Sweet like candy to my soul
Sweet you rock
and sweet you roll
Lost for you I’m so lost for you

You come crash into me
And I come into you
I come into you
In a boys dream
In a boys dream

Touch your lips just so I know
In your eyes, love, it glows so
I’m bare boned and crazy for you
When you come crash
into me, baby
And I come into you
In a boys dream
In a boys dream

If I’ve gone overboard
Then I’m begging you
to forgive me
in my haste
When I’m holding you so girl
close to me

Oh and you come crash
into me, baby
And I come into you
Hike up your skirt a little more
and show the world to me
Hike up your skirt a little more
and show your world to me
In a boys dream… In a boys dream

Oh I watch you there
through the window
And I stare at you
You wear nothing but you
wear it so well
tied up and twisted
the way I’d like to be
For you, for me, come crash
into me

Read More…


October 30, 2008 Author: Anthony Pacheco Category: The Craft  1 Comment

When I was 21, I was quite the crazy man. I have a doc I called “Poems Written While Drunk and or Can’t Sleep”. I had forgotten about this doc for years and years. This evening I found it and lo, the very first poem:

Lover lost
Everything gone
Failed I have
I can’t go on

Cursed 7 times
Dead 7 times
Bled 7 times
Thirsted 7 times

Phone is ringing
8 is calling!

Yes, they are all that bad. Some are worse. MY EYES!


October 25, 2008 Author: Anthony Pacheco Category: The Craft  1 Comment

I can hear them making love in the other room
It is late, but not late enough
They woke me up
In those romance novels, I am supposed to go peek
Or listen and touch myself
Or a dozen other things written by someone
Who forgot what it was like to be sleepy
And woken up by someone else’s pleasure

Perhaps I am older than I think I am
Because I am annoyed
I put another pillow over my head
Now the soft sighs are softer
I think of it as a perverted lullaby
A snort of distain, and I am asleep

Dear God I am awake again
I started fishing at five, five!
I pause, the house is silent
So I wonder, what woke me up?

Then I smell it. Cigar smoke.
I sigh. Can’t really fault a man for wanting a cigar
After a night of… whatever… with my aunt
Ah, but he is alone, and my aunt probably asleep
Now I am less annoyed—now, I have plans!

On goes the poufy robe
I follow the smoke outside
The man seems surprised to see me
He is sting on the porch sipping brandy
And smoking a cigar. I go to the porch swing
And sit next to him.

I look at the man, and cannot help but compare
It is not nice of me, but I do. He is too skinny.
But he is a charismatic man. Powerful. Assured.

“Hi,” he says.
“You smell like sex,
“Brandy, cigar and sex,” I say.
“I heard you making love,” I say.
“It’s horribly unfair for you to not bring your children to play with me!
“Who am I to play with?” I wail.
Okay, that may have been a little thick.

He sighs. “Sorry,” he says. The wrong thing.
“Everyone knows why you are here. So stop hiding!”
“Are you lonely?” he asks.
An honest question.
A dishonest answer.
“Look,” I say. “Make love in the daytime. Or the morning when we’ll be fishing.”
“Who will watch over you all?”
I give him a funny look. “Watch? Whatever for?”
“What if a cougar or a bad man comes along?”
I laugh. “Oh. I’ll just shoot it. Him. Her.”
He considers. “Let’s negotiate. You wash my car, I’ll bring my kids.”
“What? It’s just going to get muddy going back!”
“No car wash, no kids.”
“You’re just trying to prove you’re in charge!”
Men! I am angry!
“I am holding onto all the cards. Tell you what, clean the inside.”
“Yes,” he says, “the inside all nice and clean will be good.”

I pout
I harrumph
I agree
Then I smile
We spit on our palms and shake hands
Back to bed for me

In the day time
Good Lord above, this car is filthy!
Then I realize what they are doing
While I clean the car

I put some credit in the smart column
For both of us.

Girl Power

September 05, 2008 Author: Anthony Pacheco Category: Plot  0 Comments

Girl Power

Up goes the windmill

The most amazing thing

We have ever done

The blades cut their air

In clear ownership

Of the dream of all

Practical dreams


Now we have to dig

For the wire that goes

From the windmill

To the other power thingie

Where the house is


Dig, pipe, wire

Dig, pipe, wire


Now we hate dirt.

We get in the truck

We rent a machine

It digs the rest of the

Way in a single hour


“We’ll let that be a lesson to us!” she says.

I agree. My hands have blisters.

“What’s next?” I ask.

“The septic tank!”

“Nooooo!” I shouldn’t have asked.

“Power and Poop little girl, power and poop.”

She smiles. “If we can control those, we can control anything!”

Sexless Luvah

August 31, 2008 Author: Anthony Pacheco Category: The Craft  3 Comments

Ken writes:

How would you describe your relationship with your writing?

My writing is my lover
Intimate, raw, unconditional
Honesty begets rewards
If I stray, I feel worse than guilt
I feed her creativity
Like a peeled grape
She demands nothing
But returns everything


August 20, 2008 Author: Anthony Pacheco Category: The Craft  0 Comments


There was a certain sensual flow in the lines
The wood stock, the bolt? handles, even the barrel
I thought they would look evil somehow,
But obviously the manufacturers of many of them
Were concerned with a pleasing appearance

“Why are there so many,” I asked,  “why not just two?”
“It is that boy thing we talked about,” she said, smiling.
She smiled more, lately
It was nice

“I think we should pick two each,” I said.
“Did he say what we should do with them?” I ask.
“This cabinet he said to leave alone until.”
“Until what?”
“He didn’t say,” she said.
She points. “This cabinet has what he thought we would like.”
I unlock the cabinet. More pretty rifles, and several black ones
Those were not so pretty

“What about the rest?”
She shrugged
“Would he be mad, if we sold them?” I ask.
She thought for a while.
“No. Maybe he would think they should be used,” she said.
“Yes. I think so.”

“Who will teach us?” I ask.
“One of his friends, I think. Men, they like to teach guns.”
There was something in the way she said that
I give her my version of The Eye
“Is he married?”
She laughs
“Not anymore,” she admits.
“Does he have any kids?” I hold my breath.

Later at night I think about a black rifle
I picture myself shooting it
Looking down the… optic?
Then I wonder if I have a dress that goes with it
Black goes with a lot of things
Girl enough to know that one


August 09, 2008 Author: Anthony Pacheco Category: The Craft  0 Comments


We have been here before.
The end of a gravel road which itself was
The end of a lonely paved road long forgotten
Most likely only maintained because it was on a map
Connected to interesting things only at each end

“How did he get this place?” I ask.
It was wonderful nothing for miles and miles
“Saving the life of that lumber company boss,” she said.
“On a mountain, I think. I do not know. It was a boy thing.”

It was my favorite place
Hills, woods, deer, rocks… the mountains
Always the mountains
The house was ratty but I loved it
As much as one could love a thing

“It needs a lot of work,” I said. It did not even have electricity
“That’s the fun part, do you think?”
“Do I still have to work in my math books?”
“Everyday, my Sweet. Everyday.”
I frown. She laughs.

A thought.
“Boys climb mountains?” I ask.
“Men climb mountains.
“It is the boy inside that makes them want to do so,” she says.
“I don’t understand.”
She gives me what I have been thinking of as The Eye.
“You will someday. All too soon… all too soon.”


August 07, 2008 Author: Anthony Pacheco Category: The Craft  0 Comments


The beach was empty.
To the left, rocks and forest
To the right, forest and rocks
Ahead, more rocks jutting upwards through the surf
As if they were angrily protecting their beach

The mist wanted to be rain, or the rain wanted to be mist
The weather was no match for wool and silk
But my nose was getting cold.

My small hand in hers again. I always liked holding her hand.
She never grew tired of it, and it was always warm.
“If he loved the sea so much, why didn’t he live here?”

“Look and listen, maybe the ocean will tell us,” she said.
I watch and listen.  Waves crash in, hiss of water receding
The roar of the wind and the surf far off mixing with the close by.
The sounds are the same but they never pattern

Lonely, so very lonely…
She picks me up and kisses a tear
I did not know I was crying
“I don’t like it here anymore, can we go?” I ask.

“Of course. Where would you like to go?”
“Ice-cream?” I ask hopefully.
She laughs and ruffles my hair
I hate it when she does that

But every time she does it she smiles


August 04, 2008 Author: Anthony Pacheco Category: The Craft  2 Comments


Silently we cross the carpet, my small hand in hers
The viewing is a window of nothing, he looks
Like a caricature of a statue based on a painting of a photo

“That doesn’t look like him, really.”
A sigh. “No, it doesn’t it.”
“Didn’t he want to be pushed out to sea on a boat shot with burning arrows?”
She smiles. “There’s no limits to our thoughts. We can picture that as if it happened.”

I look at her. “You sound like him.”
“I was his muse. He was inspiring. Perhaps I should be more now, no?”
“Maybe if we push him out to sea, I would not miss him so much.”
“No,” she whisperers, “I think that we’d be missing him more… we’d miss him more.”

She finally cries