Let's Set the Record Straight

Maybe you don't get it.

Punk isn't about doing drugs.
It's not about anarchy.
It's not about partying
or coarse language
or vandalism or spray paint
or about getting wasted.
It's not about sex,
or "bucking the system"
by deviating from law and order.
Punk isn't about dressing
a certain way or about
knowing a lot about music.
It's not about going out every night
and it's not about being
unpredictable.

Punk is about being true to yourself.
Punk is about non-conformity,
it's about FREE THOUGHT,
and it's about never surrendering
your beliefs for the sake of
acceptance from others. It's about
doing things for yourself. And it's
about standing together. It's about
using your gifts and talents
to your potential, no matter what
someone says. It's about standing up,
for yourself, for your friends, and
for your belief system. All of it.
All the time. Never back down.

Back off.

Oops.

The Campbell's Steak & Potato Chunky Soup is a full - bodied, flavorful soup that features an abundance of potato slices, cooked beef and sliced mushrooms.
Mushrooms.

Since mushroom allergies are both airborne and through contact, the symptoms are of both airborne allergies and contact dermatitis. Here are some of the common symptoms:

-Itching and burning of the mouth, if the mushroom has been ingested
-Swelling of tongue, lips or mouth
-Itching all over the body, especially those areas where the contact with mushrooms has been maximum
-Nausea and vomiting
-Tightness in chest and breathlessness
-Swelling of throat
-Increased palpitations

A person may also experience dizziness, loss of consciousness, a sudden fall in blood pressure or an anaphylactic reaction. Though this is rare, a person may need to be administered epinephrine or adrenaline injections to prevent such an attack. If not administered on time, the person may go into shock.





Ouch.

Ode to a Stamp

A window to the world
rests snug against
the corner
of my letter,
carefully positioned,
ready to carry
its message
to wherever it may
be needed.
Gatekeeper
of communiqué—
guardian
of correspondence,
standing at attention
to assure
safe
passage across all
borders.

A flag of freedom,
of history,
pledging its loyalty
to any who
employ
its use,
the conscientious
cavalier
carries its sealed
consort
without prejudice,
without bound.

Icon of truth,
emblem of relations,
it is you that tightens
the gap of the
vastness
of our world. You,
harbinger
of love, agent of good news;
herald
of request and regret,
you are liaison to
life-and-life, you have the
power to join us from
across seas
and plains,
through weather and
war—
where no one man
can carry on,
you protect the living
word.

Pinning Tails

Sometimes,
life throws you things
that not only do you
not expect,

but that you don't really know
how to handle.
That you
don't know how
(or where)
to draw that line
that so desperately
needs to be drawn.

Again,
"Humbert Humbert's folly was not
his attraction to Lolita, but
in his failure to distance
himself from her, knowing his
attraction was both illegal and
immoral."

It's sickening that Lolita
keeps rearing its ugly,
ugly head. And in the oddest
of places, mind you.

If only the rights didn't seem
so right...
but the wrongs are so wrong.

And I, in the eye of the storm.

---

Here and Here

If eyes are windows to the soul,
I suppose the mouth is the door.

Institute of Forensic Medicine, University of Cologne says

Dying in a head-down position
is rare
and autopsy may reveal
no morphological findings
which explain the cause of death sufficiently.

Functional changes,
mainly postural changes
of circulation must be considered
to explain the cause of death.

Two cases of death are reported
where death occurred
in a head-down position,
among them an autoerotic accident
with suspension of a man
head-down

in a sack.

oof

The innumerable voices in the crowd
were growing into a murmuring buzz,
but there was a visible silence
between us; though I suppose my ears
may have been ringing.

We had--have? some history I think,
but even anonymity has its way
of being healed by time.

I guess its no one's fault,
but my motto (no regret)
has taken a turn for the worst recently
but maybe for the better.

The glance, though, we each made
from across the auditorium (which was
quickly broken upon discovery),
told me that it was over.

"Sorry to say."

Death's Elegy - 500th Post

All things come to pass, and so do I.
I lament my death. But to what avail?
I dream, and lying prostrate at the altar,
can only fear with inexperience the fallout
of my indecision. Suppose Ligeia correct
and the death of the body is only a result
of the unwillingness of the soul to survive.
Then, is it my decision, my own self-worth
that has suffered in this ill fate?

But if it is only by will (disregarding tragedy)
that we pass through, why lament the coming
of the end of days? The bridge between life and
death is the ultimate unknowing, it is the epitome
of fear and of desire. No question brings us closer
to the enlightenment of the soul because no question
remains as unanswerable. The soul then, upon
answering the unanswerable, releases itself
from the body as the autumn leaves release
themselves from the grips of the tree as they
gasp their last breaths of summer.

We grieve the loss of life even more than we rejoice
in the sustenance of it. Is life such a commodity
that we needn’t celebrate it, yet all at once so sacred
we endlessly mourn its loss? Ceaselessly we preach
a life beyond life, a city of divinity so brilliant; its
very streets are made of gold. Faithfully, we commit
to this concept of ascension, yet insatiably, we curse Death
upon his arrival.

It is true that angels are terrifying. The position around
the throne of divinity can instill nothing less than horror
to the mortal soul that has forgotten such radiance.
The preface to the sight of the angel is always
“do not be afraid.” Its terrifying appearance, unmatched
in our realm, is an intensity that does nothing but serve
us with an image of our own mortality. Like staring
into the sun, we can only face mortality for a short time.
Why?

Only man laments his end to such great extent
because only man considers himself above all else in
creation. Drop, Narcissus, your arrogance into
the pool you reflect in. Leave it to the fish who, wiser
than you, lament not in their demise for they see
in themselves the cycle of all living things. Does
the snake mourn the shedding of his skin; or
the hermit crab his outgrown shell? Nor should man
grieve the freeing of the soul from body. Return it
to the earth, from which we all once came. No longer
should we shield ourselves in darkness from the glory
of the sun, but embrace the mortal light of the angels
which brings us life and which reminds us
of our inevitable death.

"People are always dying.

I've gotten pretty tired of it."

Believe In No Faith

If heaven is a crutch,
the glimmer of hope
at the end of the tunnel,
the pill we gulp
to counter the threats
of grief--

or guilt;
if heaven is our ascendancy
to a city of gold in the clouds--
where each and every soul
on earth goes because we
deserve it, because we were
wonderful people,

I don't think I want to go.

Let all the branches fall
(but they'll never fall)
where are you tonight
when I see you where is
this moment when the
branches never fall
and I am underneath.

CHECK THIS OUT

So a friend of mine is editing a brand new journal in Pittsburgh. Accepted submissions are awarded a copy of the journal plus an Editor's Choice award of $50-$100 for one prose piece, and $40-$80 for one poetry piece. Also, any authors featured on the website will receive $10.

You don't even have to be from the area to submit. There are tons of writers here, why not give yourself an opportunity, not only to be heard in a new area, but to support local publishing and grassroots interest in writing. It's free!

Check out other submission conditions and general information here.
www.bargepress.com

Aubade

Ever sit back
and realize
how often we take

for granted
the fact that we
wake up each morning?

changes in season

I catch the bus at 10:23am
each Monday and Wednesday.
61A inbound.

One point three miles away.

67A inbound--10:30am,
Monday morning--
found shot dead
one man,
standing at bus stop,
twenty-six shots fired.
Twenty-six shots fired.

Twenty-six shots fired.

Wednesday morning,
I'll catch the bus
at 10:23am.
61A inbound.

exam

Been spendin too much time
in the classical.
They're coooool and all man
but...

they just don't jive,
dig?
Gimme something more my

speed
man.
I'm desperate for some

attention. invention.
detention in suspension.
ascension.
ascend. transcend. deny retry
fortify tsetse fly.

I digress.

solitary

The silence is what kills you.
It's not that it's the silence,
silence is golden
or whatever

but it's the repression.
Even if I screamed...





no one would hear.

Where have you gone, leaving
the production line,
slinking into the shadows
behind your machine
and out the emergency exit?
Away for a smoke or a joyride,
hopping on the back of some
pinhead's harley.

He wears a leather jacket
but he doesn't know how to
wear it if you catch.
He wants so badly to be who
he never could be on the football
field, or in the honors club.
That's why he tagged you.

The factory is still running.
What are you trying to escape?

Falling gracefully into silence
(mask of serenity)
sedated

slipping into

sliding back
from

what was it I was trying to say?
Oh yes...

I'll be just a moment.

Oh, forget this.

Perusal

I don't think there's any other way
to go to a museum than by yourself.

My favorite part of any museum is
the makeshift alcoves they set apart
for projectors and film. The way
the black hallway leads you farther
and farther from the light, then
suddenly around the corner into
still more black walls with a lone
bench across infinite floor space
to a projection on the wall.

I saw slideshows of photographs
from the Great Depression, I saw
the dance of the dead, and I saw
the relationship between art and light.

I also saw the blotting out of the sun
and an insatiable desire to fly or float,
but never success.

More importantly, I saw the alienation
of temporary human existence in
hotels and motels and for the first time,
I realized the insane unnaturalness of it all.

Aside from film, I couldn't help but realize
the serenity of the theaters.

There was no one else there.

The museum wasn't crowded, per se, (Thursday
afternoons rarely are) but there were a fair
number of patrons. Oh, people stopped by for
a few moments or so. But when the film didn't
immediately pique their interest, they quickly
shuffled out.
Have we come to that? Paintings are so still,
so passive, that if we don't see something we
like in it right away, we move on. (Is that
right? Should we be so impatient as to assume
that time spent with a still image will garner
no more influence on our souls?¹)

As an effect, it seems that films must react
the same way. Hollywood is required to draw
us in, initially with the trailer, and more
importantly, with the attention-grabbing intro.
Unfortunately art doesn't work that way.
Sometimes to get the picture,
you need to watch the piece in its entirety.
Believe it or not, museums are not "quick-fix
thrill parks".
It makes me sad that we are so caught up
in time that we can't take a few extra
minutes and spend it doing what we actually
came here to do.

¹No. I spent time today with
Van Gogh and Edvard Munch and Mark Rothko
and Claude Monet and Jackson Pollock
to name a few, and if there's one thing
I realized, its that nothing can evoke
more understanding or emotion in a painting
than spending time with it.

madness is like love

I've struggled.
I can't help but wonder
what is me and more importantly,
what is not.
That is to say:
Where does me begin and end,
and where does the not me begin?

Is me just a soul? Is me this body?
Is me the clothes I wear or the words I speak;
the bed I sleep in, the posters on my walls?
Is me my friends? My family? My lovers?
Is me the house I live in, the city I work in,
the nation I pledge to, the religion I have
faith in, the earth I live on?
Is me the air I breathe or the grass I lay on;
or is me the food I eat, the books I read,
the songs I sing or the words I speak?
Is me my thoughts? My actions? My attitude?
My personality--
Is me the rain that falls around me, or
the sunlight that warms me, or the darkness
that blankets me each night?
Is me the buses I ride each day or the sights
I see; is me the art I look at or the music
I listen to or the philosophies I discuss?
Or is me the classes I take? The jobs I apply for?
The things I buy, the things I steal, the things
I wish for and will never have?
Is me my dreams? My goals? My aspirations of life?
Is me the hounded slave, the mash'd fireman?

We argued. But I confess that without your knowledge,
I found myself arguing more with me, than you. I'm sorry
for that--you deserved my full attention.

I stayed, and watched him circle the drain.

I found a stinkbug in my house.
Bastards are everywhere.
I hear by word of mouth
that squashing them is a bad
bad

bad

idea. Well I wasn't about to let him
go out and repopulate Pittsburgh
with his infiltrating offspring.

So I flushed him. I stayed.
I watched him circle the drain.

I did it with a smirk on my face
and yelled at him, "HOW DO YOU LIKE
INSIDE NOW?!" He got the point.

There's a flock of geese
somewhere around Frick Park,
I can hear them from here.

They sound surprisingly angry.

The crickets that live outside my window
don't seem terribly worried, though.

---

The geese have stopped.
Now it's the neighbors that seem angry.

No gunshots yet.

The crickets are still unafraid.

"Ah! well-a-day! what evil looks
Had I from old and young!
Instead of the cross, the Albatross
About my neck was hung."

ATTENTION: debate in progress.

So in my Reading Poetry class, the topic of "shaped poems" came up. The argument in our essay read that it added a new dimension to the poetry and helped develop the visual stimulation necessary to fully appreciate the words on the page for that given poem. A number of people in the class, teacher included, seem to disagree, saying its a gimmick that doesn't add value to the poem and seems to distract from the ideas in place.

Seeing as a number of poets, poetry readers, and just plain poetic souls occasionally pass by this blog, I'm curious to hear what anyone who sees this has to say. This is, I believe, the first time I've ever called out to the people for a response, so I guess it's also an experiment on that front, as well. I wonder.

bring me the stars?

I've lost my place in my mind.
Current finances indicate I can
continue living for approximately
two months.
Current curriculum indicates I can not
afford a job.
Current living situation indicates
I can not afford no job.
I will be having an average of

two hundred

pages a week to read.
Bring me the stars and I'll
take you away we'll take us away
you can take me away and
we'll live as the wolves.
The wolves.

Got my textbooks from the
reserve desk today.
Amidst three heavy accounting texts,
and under a copy of

"The Best Poems of the
English Language",

lay a copy of "The Crying of Lot 49."

I'm excited for exactly 40% of my classes
this semester.



If only I could find a place to live...

Dreaming

Oh, the colors.
Almost lime green engulfed in scarlet.
A girl, she has no face,
kisses a man, also defaced,
in secret. In secret? In the open,
under a tree, but unknown to anyone.

I wander upon them and am filled
with emotion, emotions of fear and
confusion, part, I believe,
because I don't recognize them,
but am still overcome.

Winds pick up on sight, and the trees
tear from the ground. The lovers hold
their embrace until she pushes away,
floating away into the sky. He slams
his fist, but its far too late. The
ground bubbles up and consumes him,
dragging down a long rope tied to his
waist. People watch, but no one helps.

I look to the starless sky and soon
black is all I see. A ring floats down
and hovers, it's inscribed with several
virtues. The ring becomes a snake, which
opens its mouth and screams a very human
scream.

The snake, beginning at its tail, eats
itself, consuming the virtues inscribed on
its belly. The last, I remember, is
forgiveness,
and it is there that the snake bites itself
off, killing itself, and vomits its own remains
into the sky.

I gather the snake's head in my hands and look
first to the grave of the man, and then to the
skies. I bury the snake in the soil, and
immediately, a tree grows. The same tree under
which the lovers sat. The lovers are gone.

I sit under the tree, alone.

A girl approaches me.

A soft blue, and people recognize us.

I Reflect on Currents and Pasts

At work yesterday, I
re-edged beds of river rock
on a very upscale house in
a neighborhood called

"The Legends".

While pushing stones away from
the edge,

I sometimes do my best thinking
while pushing stones uphill,

I thought of a number of things:

Humbert Humbert's folly was not
his attraction to Lolita, but
in his failure to distance
himself from her, knowing his
attraction was both illegal and
immoral.

Fallen birds remind me of fallen angels.
Eternally dead but ceaselessly beautiful.

When one looks through windows of
life and instead sees mirrors, one
of two things is in occurance.
---One, you can successfully apply
---everything you learn and see to
---your own life,

---or Two, you are so vain as to think
---that everything you learn and see
---is about your life.

"Caught me making eyes at the other boatman's wives,
And heard me laughing louder at the jokes told by their daughters.
I'd set my course for land, but you well understand,
It takes a steady hand to navigate adulterous waters."

To be perfectly honest,

I'm afraid to talk to you.

fiction is

I live in car crashes.
There's something incredibly
sensual in the chaos
of two vehicles joining
in a violent ballet of
twisting metal and showering
glass, in one swift moment,
and at ninety-two Gs, leaving
the fates of (at least) two
lives in the hands of unforgiving
steel and merciless asphalt.
And physics.

I live in car crashes, I wait for
them. They are final, and lasting.
They define beauty. They define
desire.

I got pictures on my mind

Twenty days later and empty.
Starting over.
Reboot.
I may find myself forgetting
casual consumerism.
To the greatest extent possible.
What's the point if I can find
another path, one of least(er)
resistance?
Hello, the year is 1984 and I
live in Airstrip One.
Where have I gone?
Where have I been?

Where am I going?

"Believe me,
if I started murdering
people,

there'd be none of you left."

Our world is sane
and I am out of my mind.
Out of my mind.
Ot ou me mine.

The sun is in tune.

I've lost my mind.
My soul.
My self.

Bring it back.

Jazzman

There was a man standing
in front of me,
a tall lanky black man,
at least fifty.
I would have kept walking,
but he was looking
right at my face, smiling.

I nodded a hello,
and he lifted a long, thin,
arthritic finger and pointed
at me. He squinted a bit,
and with a smirk, said in
a thick N'Orleans accent,
"You look like a blues man."

Confused, I offered the only
response that seemed rational
and true,
"You look like a jazz man, yourself."

He grinned. "My brother,"
he whispered, and hitting
me on the shoulder, shambled
on his way.

looking glasses

and what, if anything,
do you take from this,
your own idea of what
dreaming is, what life
is, and what death is?

listen.

are you uncomfortable
with yourself or with
your life or with your
appearance? there was
a time in history where
realism was art and
expressionism had no
place.

we're all pretty vain
now, aren't we?

don't make sense don't

your stars my stars
only impulse
find sky motherless

have gone away,
lost in a sea
of complacency
and consumption.
Forgotten forever
in tomorrow.
As a balloon,
free,
in the open air,
towards the heavens.

When people look at me,
they see one thing.
My identity has become
a reflection,
nothing is mine.

I am different than I was.
That much is true.

I am more than that,
you know.

Encounters with Birds

One

A bird lay
under a bush,
and I stepped too close.
It hopped a few feet,
then rested. It's wing
was broken, or something.
We stared at each other,
and it hopped away.
I understood pain, and
survival.

Two

Working for the old man,
I spotted a mother turkey
with twenty chicks.
She strutted proudly and
with authority, and despite
standing on a cement driveway,
completely outside
the boundaries and comforts
of home, she stood tall and
showed no waver of confidence
in front of her young.
I called out to her, and upon
turning her head, I recognized
the importance of family, and of
initiative.

I understand death now.
I understand pain.

The Most Important Thing

What do you do
when you're alone,
in a sinking ocean,
with weights tied
to your ankles?

When there are
too many ears(eyes)
and none at all?

(If a Friend walks
by after you've
already sunk below
the surface,
will he ever know
you were in distress?)

On the Road

I am

lost.
It's dark out,
I don't know
where

Iam.Iam.Iam.

I don't know
who

I am(have been)
displaced.



Hello?

Hello?

Peggy's Alright...The Baby's Dead.

Weeding a garden,
I pulled at a clump
of dirt and found
in my hand the remains
of a baby bird.

I paused, and lay the bird
out in my palm. Bits of mud
clung to the baby's feathers,
talons curled underneath its
frail body as its head fell
limp between my fingers.

I mourned the bird's short life
for a moment, then glanced
to each side, and when no one
was looking and against orders,
I returned the broken body to
the ground, covering it with
a patch of sod, ensuring it would
no longer be disturbed.

567-555-4561 or Lobster Party

I awoke to a
lobster infestation.
Seemingly unaware of
the significant
lack of hydration,
they scampered across
the floor, snapping
their claws and hissing
their horrible lobster
hiss.

I shouted at the
invading crustaceans,
"Get out of here, you slimy
black bubble munching
invertebrates, or
I'll boil you up til
you're red!" But the
monsters just snapped their
claws and tapped their toes and
danced

their lobster dances.
That's when I realized that
I had stumbled upon a
lobster party, in
the middle of my
living room, one of
great succes, I might
add, and I'll be
damned if I didn't
take off my shoes and join
in.

What are we, if not
memories? Entire lives
spent in the past, who
are we to call ourselves
more than such? Without
memories, have we identity?
One can argue, we are as
we are seen in the eyes of
our family and friends.

But are we not memories
in their minds? All of our
actions and words, our appearance
and feelings, interpreted into
memories, directly recallable
only as long as the lives of those
who experienced Us.

Do we have presence outside
of the minds of those of ours?
One could argue that our presence
exists in the physical Now, but
is it too much to consider the Now
as just the most tangible memory we have?
What is Now, but an infinitesimal point
on Time's map?

By definition, a point has no physical
value, only serving as an eternally small
reference location for a given value.
Therefore, an inability to measure the
value of the Now leaves us with no measurable
concept of physical presence. Now is Now,
and we are our past. Past Nows can be measured
in quantity, so we can measure our worth in
past presences, or memories.

We are who we are. I suppose.

Where have I gone?

Remind me to consider creating another chapbook once the semester is over. Not for a reason, just because I find it stress-relieving...compiling things you worked on. It's fulfilling. The end.

PS. Stress. Mess. Less.

Questions create illusions
and where do we go from here?
Well, for one, you'll
be here soon.

You know, I'm one to admit
I take life for granted,
and I get upset over a lot
of things, but in the end,

the sun comes up
in the morning.

It's a sight to see.

Money's an issue. I think I've sent out at least 30 applications/resumes. A few have responded, none have taken me, thus far. I know I won't have enough to pay this month's bills but I may be able to work it out with my roommates. That won't last forever. I've been considering another loan, but I don't know how to do that. I know so many people that say "Oh, I just had to take out another loan," and when I ask how they did that or what kind of loan they say "Oh, just go to financial aid." I go there and they say "Have you tried the Stafford Loan or our other grants." YES I'VE TRIED THEM I STILL DON'T HAVE MONEY BECAUSE YOU TOOK IT ALL. So I started looking at the options at the bank's website and it just scared me. So. Square one. I'm in a familiar position. Never underestimate the term "poor college student."

Green

5:30

I sat on the roof,
watching early risers
glide by across rain soaked
streets.

I faced the east, waiting
patiently for the sun to
rise, and when it did,
I looked around

and swiftly came to realize
that there are some shadows
that don't fall with the
breaking of the dawn,

and these, we have to
face each morning.

No matter how brightly
the sun shines.

A Limerick

There was a young boy who was high.
He ate his mom's fresh apple pie.
She came home from mass,
found her son was on grass,
and beat him so hard that he cried.

Light out still,
sun's down though.
Light out,

and skeletons hang
by ropes tied to trees.

Some notes from a found notepad, Part 3

look into March
marathon

Ideas for websites/
lifestyle./book

Sleep
Nutrition / Diet
Setting limits
AdBalance work/fun
Balance
Environment
Attitude
Conscience
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Barret
Ritchie (2) log/MEM

May called me but did
not send a log or MEM
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Fluids ~ 140, 141, 142
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
To Do
-RED HORSE powerpoint
email to Hill
-Read "The Stranger"
by Albert Camus
-Study Talk to lost
Matt about Dynamics
(Mike Mish)
-
-Study Fluids

-

Some notes from a found notepad, Part 2

Tell Gedman
good job on
memo
_________________

-try not to use
words like zap.

-Forgot to sign

-Keep it up.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Grocery
milk
vitamin C drops
cottage cheese.

2 sweet potatoes (12 oz)
celery
1 large onion (12 oz)
garlic
vegtable[sic] broth
1 package lentils
coconut

Some notes from a found notepad, Part 1

Type memo for half marathon.
-see cardboard.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
-Lead pencils w/ lead
0.7 mm

-milk
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Exemptions for sick
Recommendations?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Things to get
poster board
markers
arts & crafts

goggles
swim suit shorts.

Trifold poster

Orange craisins
(costco)

Hot Chocolate
mini mallows

seeds

It takes
ten
thousand
words
to build a
foundation.

And only
two
to burn it down.

and then

I've been thinking
more than I've been writing, at least...
and perhaps a bit too much at that.

But I know exactly what I need.

Flight 281, Chicago to Pittsburgh. Or, April 1, 1968

Ahead of me, an old man
takes his time removing his
belt and shoes before
stepping through the frame.

“Listen, man, there’s a bunch
of us got places to go.”

Later on, another announcement
would delay the flight at least
half an hour. Unison groans of
disapproval.
The old man would smile and
continue rehashing his part
in Operation Pegasus and a few
of us stranded travelers would
chew on every word,
wide-eyed.

The terrified look in his eyes reminded me
that if the worst thing I have to deal with
is a short flight delay,

I haven’t got it that bad.

night lights

If there's one thing
you don't get from
the city, its the cool
blue glow of the moon.

Come to think of it,
I don't remember the last
time I saw the moon.
I don't remember the last
time I looked up at the sky.

An act in vain, in the city.

Bandit

It's cold in the room so
naturally I have a
sweatshirt on with the hood
up. Someone comes in and
says "Jesus you look like
a freakin' robber, all
hunched over with your hood
up and stuff." Well, sorry,
but it gets cold up here.
What kind of burglar sits
down at his victim's lap-
top and writes poetry,

anyway?

The forgetting of myself

Save the elderly couple
walking down Craig,
down the center,
mind you,

as the snow's made it
inaccessible otherwise,
(and as the sidewalks are
altogether. Inaccessible,
I mean.)

the streets are barren.


Save the elderly couple.

and the raindrops
and the raindrops
and the raindrops
and the raindrops
and the raindrops
and the raindrops
and the raindrops

ZZ

Traces of Jazz
reminds me, we
Leaving Las Vegas
Mulholland Drive
maybe even
Titus,
tonight perhaps.

Note to self:

I love airports,
and everything about them.
The people, the atmosphere,
the architecture,
the lines.
The lines.
More about that later,
I've a flight to catch, and
a book to read. About a house.

things to do now til then

1. learn about finance
2. purchase things, but not too many
3. sol
4. pack your bags
5. wear sunglasses
6. syd barrett
7. don't fall in the snow
8. don't fall in the show
9. your stars my stars only impulse find sky motherless
10. Ten
11. chicago
12. write a thing
13. oh god, write a thing
14. discover an event to talk about
15. chicago

It's funny what ends up
giving us the most motivation
for creativity, yeah?
It's funny what ends up
leaving us in long droughts.

Remember for a second:

Joni Violet.
And then also,
This.
Always beware.
I loved Joni Violet. I still do.

I miss you, Joni, and everything you do.

Snow.

PS. Please note the comments under Joni's post. We used to have those, me and You. We don't anymore, do we? I miss those too.

This is all I've to say.
But don't count me out...

You can still find me

Cervical spinal nerve roots C1-C7
correspond with upper aspects of
vertebral bodies. Sensation of C7
nerve is for the

middle finger.

Bone notch at the base of the neck is C7.
C8 and lower spinal nerve roots
leave below the corresponding
vertebral body.
Sensation of T4 spinal nerve
is approximately level with the

nipple line.

Sensation of T6 spinal nerve root
is approximately level with the
bottom of the sternum.
Sensation of T10 spinal nerve root
is approximately level with the abdomen.
Sensation of T12 spinal nerve root is
approximately level with the

pubic bone.
The spinal cord ends approximately
between L1 and L2!
Sacral cord segments (S1-S5 "Cauda Equina")
are level with T12-L1 Vertebrae!
The

sensations

of lumbar nerves are over the legs!!
THE SACRAL VERTEBRAE ARE FUSED TO MAKE UP THE SACRUM.
THE COCCYGEAL VERTEBRAE ARE FUSED TO
MAKE THE COCCYX OR "TAIL BONE".
SENSATION OF S3, S4, AND S5 NERVES IS THE PERINEAL

(GENITAL)

AREA!!

Where have i been all this time?

insufficient memory to execute command.
the fear of God.
peppermint.
postcards.
write a scene write a scene
and

rain.
pain.
spinal column, nevada.
insufficient space.
you've lost all
space.
focus.
focus.
space.
scene.
scene.
write a scene involving food.
FOOD. but don't eat it.
play
with
me,

chicago.mulhollandDRIVE

Right
Light
Might
Fight


Bite?

lou

There's an echo coming from the
shadows (which make no sound according
to science.)

Have you ever heard the echo of no sound?
Have you ever heard the echo
of no sound?

Of no sound?

Have you ever heard the echo of a shadow?
Have you ever heard the
ec ho of th e

I can't be here.
Not here.
Not without...
I really do feel sick, I want you

to know that.

THRASHING AROUND I EMPTIED MY GAZE
from the solitary confines of THIS
brain...or...
the shadows. Yes, yes,
they are back again, despite the
medddicine I've not been taking.
Taking.
I've given up freely, the insincerity
of your idea of what is truth. You.
Youu. I'll deal with You in a minute,
friend. My friend. THRASHING.

I spat upon the wall, rubbing in
the saliva, I stuck my finger through
the chalky plaster, concealing
my escape.

a murder of crows

a murder of crows
a murder of crows
murder of crows
if it will
find
one way or another
one way
i removed my kin
it just came off
in flakes
missplaced
i can't
a murder of crows
OH SO WE ARE BACK TO THIS
i can't bring myself to
oh, but you know...

i am sorely affected by the
preceding events.
(even surprisingly so)

business

Just please let me get back to my writing class.
Its my only creative outlet all week.
I thought a night class would be great
because I could sit there for 2 1/2 hours
in a class I like. I didn't even think about
not having it at all for the rest of the week.

Flowing more freely than wine

Never frightened of leaving it,
Everyone weaving it,
Coming on strong all the time,
All through the day, I me mine.

International Beatles Freaks Day.
Celebrate.

In the corners,
the shadows are
darkest.
As long as they
stay there,
I'll be okay.

I sat down here to write something,
but it's much too dark in this room.
And my brain.

one road

Trees are best when bare
and coated in sleeves of snow.
I've got a road that is lined
with them for miles. It's great
in the summer because
the leaves shield the sun,
leaving columns of sunlight
to filter through
the pollen ridden air.
But in the winter...

the best

I mean, it's easy to say its the same now.
Everything's the same now as it was.
Even a month ago. Two weeks ago.
Yesterday.
It's not though.
Nothing ever is.
Especially nothing like this.

sorry about that

here i am