It's time to take a stand.

Vote 2012

Your voice
is
UNHEARD.

so is mine

You know...
it's pretty pretentious
to exclude someone from
readership. Who are you
to say who gets to read
and who gets to respond
and who understands and
who will never know the
feeling and who can see
into your soul and mind
and who sits outside of
the house, just looking
in, hoping that someday
they will have a chance
to regain what they may
have once had, somehow.
Who are you to accuse a
person of anything that
you don't know yourself
unless it is just being
human? What else can we
say? What else is there
at all? What boundaries
can we manufacture that
will unite us? Dividing
ourselves will never be
the answer. We are one.

This excludes you

Sometimes I wonder--

if I were to start falling apart,
piece by piece,
as I walked down the street,
would anybody stop to pick me
back up? Would anybody

even notice?

There is a disproportionate number of times
that I sit down to write and feel the urge
to write the word "Listen."

Listen, I understand that it's inappropriate
to start every piece one writes with the same
one word mandate--
BUT WHY SHOULDN'T I?

I need your attention somehow and
God knows you won't
give it
to me
unless
I
ASK

DIRECTLY

FOR IT.

Off with you.
Leave me for the fishes --

Forget the songs you have learned;
there's only one thing left to sing of.
Sing only of what will (we'll) be,
when we finally learn to love.

Chopsticks

A good friend once told me...
a lost friend...
lost isn't the right word...
a friend that has gone out to sea,
waving her arms frantically as I
stood on shore wondering what happens next,
- at this point,
this could be about anybody. It's probably
you -

that the only way to write is to keep writing
and never stop.
- the possibilities are still endless,
and it's still probably you -

so off we go.

You don't know how often I begin to write here and then delete it. It doesn't work.

Русски!

Здрасте.
Как ты поживаете?
У меня всё хорошо.
:)

Vinyl makes the world spin.

And as for you,
Ninth,
das meisterwerk von Ludwig Van--
it was you for which the Lord
created sound.

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.