October 19, 2019

Heading to my sister’s house to babysit The Boy, I called upon a time. A time which allows for hours to fade like the edges of oceans. There’s a baby to watch who laughs at my worries, and in part cries because, “fuck you man…”

Like the day he made great, it was destined he’d take,

A book for which saved me of a failing grace.

He held my past thought train, then laughed because it looks plain…

His mom bought my book. I saw it against the wall on the kitchen counter top. I too said, “how plain…” Since I’m here and with the baby, let’s get a pic! I sat him up on the couch, handed him my book and he immediately grabbed it and laughed.

“Uncle Budd, Uncle Budd, is this your book?

I have no idea how to read, so let’s pretend as I look;

They’ll know what you’re doing, no more than the book’s undoing…”

He held a plain looking book and I did nothing for his engagement. What’s held are my emotions bottled up. The times I suppressed doubt because I had plans to succeed, no matter how hard the road presented itself.

Jump for joy, this is a toy.

You say behind the words are meaningless joy?

I’m laughing at your past pains because you needed a pic with the boy.

As effortless the book was, simplicity is all it took. The cover not so easy on the eye, but simple, and it was a thought I gave a try. Like babies and maybes, doing something out the blue is the nature under Dekum’s blue.

Far from any children’s book, I needed a promo hook.

Simple because that’s how I wrote the book.

Meditating through untrying—so a lonely road I took.

Without trying I got the baby to care.

Now near his mouth, boy don’t you dare.

He looks like my dad sometimes. Then his eyes beam like his dad in time. I see a charm for the boy he is. Holding a book of bullshit for peace it is. He held it to show how baby’s can take emotional pain. I care not for the words, but the art in vain. So here I am…re-writing a time I called lame.


Born and raised in Portland, Oregon, Budd writes to encourage readers to explore the depths of their inner ocean, an unexplored self, because it's fun once you get through the emotional part... "The words we speak become our vehicle; what you read is how I digest them.” -Budd

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