Listening to: Counting Crows, Sullivan Street
Checking out: Alice's Restaurant. (I am a baby-boomer's daughter. Yes I am.)

So we took the half a ton of garbage, put it in the back of a red VW microbus, took shovels and rakes and implements of destruction and headed on toward the city dump.

s.girl suggested that my next topic should be "implements of destruction," which made me think immediately of Arlo Guthrie and Alice's Restaurant. If you've never heard this tune, download it from your local free-pirated-mp3 service asap. If you don't know who Arlo Guthrie is, click & get to know him!

We all have our own implements of destruction. My mother used
men
guilt
martyrdom
herself to destroy her life and the people around her, for years before she came back to her God and herself.
My stepmother uses
God
endless work
screaming
belittling
her search for self-worth to tear down barriers and enemies and her children and her family, though less us than years ago yesterday.
My father's implements of destruction? I've never seen my father destroy anyone or anything except the blocks to my knowledge and his own ignorance with his bare hands and an infinite patience. Someday my father's hell will be known to me, but I'm still his baby and he is silent in love of me.
Mine are endless
nights of
chasing shadows
chemistry and the physics of physiology
marked by straight lines and the curves of my stomach, the dull sheen of dead eyes.
We weather the storms, pitching about through months of days
when all we've ever wanted was a thanksgivin' dinner that couldn't be beat and a friend like Alice.