Words.

2007-01-25T15:59:00.001-08:00

Untitled
November 29, 2006

"It's pretty, isn't it?"

"Yeah." He answered her with vacant eyes that watched the fireplace before them.

"Couldn't you just watch it for hours?"

"I know what you mean."

"I could watch the whole city burn." She smiled (proudly) at her seemingly profound statement. He must like that sort of thing.

He turned his head and gave her a questioning look. His tone of voice suggested that he thought she was either insane or from another planet, "W-Why?"

She shrugged, "It would be pretty."

He snorted and turned his attention back to the fire, "No, it wouldn't."

"C'mon." She laughed nervously at his response, "I wasn't serious. I mean, I don't want anyone to get hurt or something. It would just be... pretty."

He sighed and shook his head, "Don't get me wrong, I would be fine with this shit hole and its shit residents dissapearing overnight. What I mean is that it wouldn't be as facinating to watch. A fire is only as good as the detail you witness. To have an entire city burn would be a waste because it's more than you can possibly watch. Me? I'd be happy watching a match burn. An entire city is unecessary if you're looking for a simple form of amusement."

"Oh. Yeah, I guess so." Her words were hollow and she stared at the fire, waiting for him to answer. He didn't. Not so much because he was ignoring her, but because he was once again captivated by the dancing light. She was captivated by her own insecurity and doubt. Not only did she have to deal with the question of whether or not he liked her, after an awkward coffee date and what was practically an invasion of his home, but now she began to wonder whether or not she liked him. He was fucking weird, after all. She never really liked him very much, despite his looks. She just thought that a boy like him by her side would make her the talk of the school once again. She was an attention whore, I'm not going to lie. It had something to do with abandonment issues, a messed up and deprived childhood, blah blah. As for the boy... well, he really was fucking weird.

Finally, amidst the flames before her and the chaotic fire in her mind, she figured out what felt like the right thing to say. As right as it seemed, she said it with hesitance, "I'll go grab some more wood."

"Don't bother." He told her. There was fire in his eyes.

2007-01-25T15:58:00.001-08:00

Untitled
November 23, 2006

sometimes I forget
that when it rains
you get wet

I am washed away
there goes the notion
of anything less
than beautiful
so so perfect
than embracing the element
letting it take you away
from wet shoes and cold
hands
a long bus ride home

and sometimes I wouldn't know
on that long bus ride home that
in a flurry of people
we're all truley alone

so far away
from any notion
that we are mere
strangers
less than beautiful
less than perfect:

not drunk, but happy
not staring, but speaking
not distant, but dancing
not soaking, but splashing

2007-01-25T15:56:00.000-08:00

A Photographic Thought
November 16, 2006

A memory escaped my mind until I watched the end of Grey's Anatomy tonight. It was sparked by Miranda Bailey singing a song to her baby over the phone, and then by Meredith visiting her mother. I mean to write about it, but it slipped away before I could get the chance.

I had gotten off the plane after going home for my birthday in September. It was during a weekday, and it was early in the morning, so the Victoria Airport was a very quiet one. 'Hollow' is the term which most accurately describes the atmosphere. There were people here and there, but it was like walking in a wax museum.

I went into the gift shop to search for a book since, on hearing rumors about the traffic, I thought it was going to be a while before I got picked up. I think it was about then that I heard it: the most angelic, yet sorrowful voice echoing off the immaculate walls. I don't know what exactly the song was about, but it was breathtaking. Listening to this had the same effect as looking at an aged photograph of your predescesors and recognizing your own face staring back.

At first I thought it was a radio, then I realized that they don't play music in the airport. Next I presumed that it was a young person, sitting on the floor with a hat in front of him. I had to find the source. And I did after a bit of searching. What I saw, I didn't really believe at first.

There was this solitary old man seated by the window. He was a sturdy, average looking senior. I don't think I saw his face, but he was rocking back and forth a little, singing the sad melody into nothing. He wasn't asking for money, nor did he have any visible audience. He simply sang for what seemed to be the sake of singing.

I went back in and bought my book. On the way out of the gift shop I saw the elderly man accompanied by a middle aged man who I assumed to be his son. They were on their way into the gate, and the younger man spoke to his presumed father in a lightly condescending but loving way. This indicated the senior was indeed mentally unsettled. I already thought so. Why else would anybody jeopardize their dignity for the sake of something other than themselves, after all?

I didn't linger or stare. I passed them, I moved on. I sat in the now hollow airport, opened my book, and returned to fiction.

2007-01-25T15:52:00.000-08:00

Walls
October 26, 2006

a slinking feeling
felt the touch of
summer on its brow
I wonder if I'll ever
be diluted with the now
there is a grey thing
in my mind
a spot
a spot
a spot
it serves a constant
memo that, "I am
simply not"

Halloweenish

three yards of thread
two woven beds
eight ugly legs
and a deadly favor

it bats an eye
it bats a wing
and now will
will sing
a song
for you

a pretty thing
the lagging wing
and now a kiss
a kiss
for you

some razor teeth
some poisoning
some dark
some light
some adieu
for you

Imagination Vocation, Inflation, and Deflation

I see the surface
it makes me nervous
the break of a fall
the making of you

slate in the water and
find that the daughter of stale
books upon your shelf (oh
the telling of things)
is a beauty

oh yeah, she's a beauty

well you made her you'll save her you'll break her
away for something more fresh
something of flesh

but the flesh is not pretty
and flesh is so dirty
cuz humans are dirty when
you wear your perspective
and look in a mirror

2007-01-25T15:49:00.000-08:00

Another Dumb Poem About The Weather
September 25, 2006

trees dead
walk streets in lines
bow to us
catyclismic to the nines
in crowns of red leaves
and brittle branches
hair calling noble
to the sky
droplets grace our arrogant lips
the wake of summer
crumbling at our feet as we all
laugh along
to a chill prelude

2007-01-25T15:48:00.000-08:00

A Song (Unfinished)
September 13, 2006

'Heaven's so far away,'
that's what she said
'can't reach the earth
when there's hell in our heads'

She had grown listless
and needed his heart
which he gave her willingly
But only a part
While her's ceased it's beating
a long time ago
When he stole it and hid it
where no one would know

'Heaven is somewhere'
her reasoning said
there must be a heaven
if there's Hell in their heads

She searched high and low
when his gaze was averted
but he caught her one day
and handed it over
a heart in a jar
without holes for some air
assfyxiated pale, but she didn't care

'Heaven was in you, love'
that's what he said
'but the battle is over
and Heaven is dead'

2007-01-25T15:46:00.000-08:00

Untitled (incomplete)
August 13, 2006

Dead Man
Walkin'
Where the
People
Talkin'
And the crows are
stalking him
as he
hobbles in

2007-01-25T15:45:00.000-08:00

Uhm, Leaves?
August 11, 2006

Leaves' shadows
lazing on the pavement
in clusters
stretched and skewed
or shrunk
so apathetic
not a care
they could be absorbed
over-ruled
by the shadows of everything
(come night)
or they could be facing an
afternoon
sharp
monopolizing a their piece of pavement
are they lonely then?
they have eachother
they hate eachother I bet
closeness has a way like that
a funny thing
shadows
leaves, too
an ocean breeze
chill
autumn nears
the branches will alone cast shadows
(come day)
are they lonely then?
no, i don't think so
they seem to keep a healthy distance

2007-01-25T15:37:00.000-08:00

To be continued...???
July 25, 2006

---The Prologue---

Ghost season, the reckoning year.

In October we fled the gallows and hid under the moss in a hot, damp place. The humidity was unbearable so we returned to our home in the ashes and dust. There we crumbled and whithered, and then became one with the wretched air. We were alone.

Then others, seeking a hot damp place, arrived. They were misled here instead by faulty navigational skills we assume. They did not want the ashes or other such deadly commodoties, but that was what they got and more. They got us. The desert wanderers breathed us in. We are in their lungs. We are death to them but they will never know the impact of our presence.

Until the ghost season, that is.

Href Slate gently placed the letter back in the box, and looked back over his shoulder to examine the letters, firey letters burning on their own in the charred floorboards. In a style of writing he had never seen before, a curly broken script, there was the blazing message:

"I, Equinox"

---The Source---

Earlier in the day, Href had been making his rounds in the abandoned homes of the colony, a habit he had grown accustomed to when feeling nostalgic. His wrinkled skin touched the fence surrounding the Broughton farm and a sad look came into his pale gray eyes as they met with the black abyss that was the hollow eye socket of a cattle's skull. It was then that he heard a most peculiar BANG coming from the direction of the old Gavin home. It had sounded like gunfire to his rusty old ears and he at first blamed it on his impending senility before continuing. The Gavin home was on the way and he could investigate when he got there. He sighed as his sad old eyes passed over the whithered plants that made up the vast farm...

He was nearly a mile away when he first saw the pillar of smoke. It was not easy to miss when he turned the corner of the rotting Broughton Barn. At first his heart sunk when he recognized the lapping orange tongues, but it suddenly swung back up when it hit him that no force on earth could have started a fire in this weather besides a man (or woman, so be it). But who would light the home on fire rather than live in it?

Href knew that none of his curiousities would be answered just standing there. With all the hopes and apprehensions that an aged desert heart could muster, he made the journey to the Gavin house, one leg after a limping other.

---

20 years had passed since the last of the settlers, aside from he and Terny, had perished in the Gavin desert (so named after the Chief Navigator who brought them here not long before). Now Terny was dying and there was no help for her. He too was showing the first signs of the plight and Rhef knew that he would fall not long after his wife.

20 years of living in isolation, feeding on the occasional snake or spider, rationing the water in the resevoir to a point where they were constantly dehydrated and stoned off the heat. Yet, he would not change any of it for all the water or livestock in the world.

The forests that he and his kind had inhabited before had become too crowded, polluted, and unhospitable. Of course, Href considered unhospitable to be "dull". The people of these woods called themselves the Terran Wael. No Tarren Wael had been permitted to leave the forest. The law was never explained, but anyone who ventured beyond the trenches built around the trees faced certain death. Their bodies were displayed in the trees as a reminder

Then came Vern Gavin and his solution to this problem.

It was Vern Gavin that challenged the imprisoning law by developing the Secret Navigational Brigade. At the time, Href had been a spry young man with bright eyes, dark skin (a rarity in the shady forests) and an active, adventurous mind. He was 25 and engaged to Mr. Gavin's neice, who was also an original member or the SNB. While most spouses or fiancees of Navigational Brigade members fainted on hearing their loved ones invested and dangerous interests... Gavin was sent into a fit of joy and eager to leave the forest when the time had come.

He would often shudder to think of what their life would otherwise have been like. Sure, they would die alone and at seperate times; but they would die as adventurers, proud of one another in all regards.

---to be continued and/or fixed up? maybe. ---

2007-01-25T15:29:00.000-08:00

Blowing The Popsicle Stand
June 9, 2006

I want to
open up a book of fairy tales
and look
hold up the
pages to an ugly
yellow
candescent light
to see that beneath the conception
there is not one
trace of deception
not a hint of transparency
never
ever
ever
I want just words
and pictures
pretty pictures
lovely words and
dreams and sweetness
forever
ever
ever
I want to go where everything
is truley as it seems
and happy endings are
never out of reach
where ever
ever
ever

2007-01-25T15:18:00.001-08:00

Temporary
May 4, 2006

hope floats on confidence
and momentary intimacy
when i turn and you're there,
my imagination flies so close to the sun that it's
toy wings, made of wax, melt far too soon
because you're just a teen drama flirt
and i'm a saturday morning cartoon:
silly and out of style

2007-01-25T15:11:00.000-08:00

Deprivation
April 29. 2006

./I need to drink a little
./something of
./quality possession
./to breath a little
./of itself into
./my dull complexion
./or maybe i'll destroy
./a mirror and fall
./in love with the
./destruction
./then vaporize
./the hatred for
./my previous reflection

./ ( but glass is sharp
./ and i'm afraid )

2007-01-25T15:08:00.000-08:00

A WALK
April 25, 2006

conveniance store
greasy heated after frozen lunch
gross taste in mouth
of sausage roll and
chemical lemonade
bible school children
making bible school
jokes while just
these random thoughts
are running through my head
you know
there were more
i wanted to write more
but the green grass was private
property and i just
couldn't sit and write
in my little notebook about them all
so watch me salvage but believe me
this is not a poem
these are just little
notes on my walk that only
i understand, most likely
-this is me simply writing with
a short hand short of motivation

2007-01-25T15:07:00.000-08:00

What We Say
April 21, 2006

Dear Lost Cause,

I am writing on behalf of some very close friends. It is regarding your previous corrospondance with them, and an urgent issue that has perturbed them greatly.

They explained to me how they read your letters once, as they came. The respectful and sometimes awe inspiring words told them of your introspection and the every day qualities that tied you to them and made you human. You were a beacon of ambition, of faith in their nature and their construction and their purpose. The letters made them feel proud of what they were and proud of you, too. They appreciated them very much, I'm sure.

But then the postman must have got a little lost or too busy with other recipients of your notes. Because his occasional deliveries became few and far between. Often, when they got them, there were frequently signs of damage on the paper. Your words were often soaked in something rank, making them blotched and hardly legible, or the paper was torn into pieces (alas, most of the time they still found the pieces in the corners of the envelope but could not, for the life of them, fit them together).

It was also very apparent that the postman was physically changing as well with the quality of your once esteemed letters. He used to smile nicely at them when he handed over the letters so politely. But as things grew worse, his smile became less genuine and (quite frankly) terrifying. He smiled still, but it never reached his increasingly crazed eyes. He was also more rugged and less immaculate than he used to be. In the beginning, when they first recieved your notes, he was a nice middle aged man with golden hair and a tan complexion, twinkling eyes, and quite handsome. But as the mysterious changes transformed him, his clothes became dirty and torn, his well shaven face morphed into a wiry beard beard that grew so thick they couldn't even see his smile anymore. Sometimes, they even mistook him for a bum or a thief and set the dogs out on him before he could deliver your letters.

Then, there was one particular, strange day, when they saw the postman again, restored to his original glory. But when he smiled, he still held his crazed quality. They told me that they didn't think much of it, because he was so attractive once again. They bid him a pleasant goodbye after recieving your letter firmly in tact, just like in the beginning.

But the next day, something even stranger (and very unfortunate) happened. The postman arrived again, and handed the letter to them. They smiled at his pleasant appearance once more, but before they took the letter, he grinned manically and snatched it away. He then took his golden hair in his fist and tore it, with the rest of his skin and his appealing demeanor, off of his body to reveal the rugged and manic man. Only, this time, he looked worse than he ever had. His hair was gray and tangled, his face fat and frantic beneath his bushy beard, and his clothing almost falling off his pale body. He did not give them long to take it all in before he threw the pseudo-flesh at them to mourn over in the doorway, and ran off into the distance laughing. They have not seen him since, but deeply regret that they have not recieved any letters from you since then either.

They have expressed to me that they don't know if you're aware of this, but the time has come where they believe it would be best if you fired this postman and found a new one. Why are they not telling you this themselves, you might ask. They have tried, but they say that all their attempts have produced minimal results. So they ask me to do it for them somehow, since they have fallen into feelings of dispair in which they will dismiss the cause to find you a new post man. Some questions in their minds include:

How will they prove their feelings towards this postman if you cannot see it for yourself?

Where will they find a new post man?

How can they trust that this post man will not change like the last one, and that their efforts are not wasted?

As you can see it is a very tricky one. But since I have the ability to fix everything, I possess firm confidence that I will solve the problem, since they are all at a loss. Do not fear (and I have told them as much also). I will help sort it all out, and soon you will have a completely now, squeaky clean postman, one that will remain as such. I can honestly guarantee it.

In all, I am looking forward to your thoughts on this matter as soon as you recieve my letter, and am eager (as they are) to initiate the procedure that I will undergo to help solve it. Have a pleasant day!

Sincerely,
A Severly Sought After And Generaly-Believed-To-Be Non Existant Individual

2007-01-25T15:06:00.000-08:00

Junk
April 19, 2006

whereupon you write a song
of minds
falling to rot

dedicate it to
your parents
and your suicidal thoughts

paradox bleeds through
the skin,
intermingles with the
chalk

they say that it
is just the shock
that comes with growing up

2007-01-25T15:04:00.000-08:00

Untitled
April 18, 2006

A girl is standing on one of those walk way overpass sort of things just watching the traffic. A guy comes up and says that he likes her hair and her legs and has always found her attractive. She recognizes him, but says nothing. And after she turns her attention back to the traffic, he just looks at her sadly and walks away with a dissapointed air that lingers with the despondant girl. The hours pass, and still she stands there.

The twilight cast about her, she glances to her side and another boy approaches. She likes the way he looks and so she smiles. He smiles back but as he nears her he suddenly gets a lungful of the dissapointed air that the last visitor left behind and keeps walking, gagging in disgust. The girl's smile dissapears and she turns out to watch the traffic: coming and going coming and going at the same time but never stopping.

At the last lingering moments of daylight, she figures out why the last boy walked by her. It was the dissapointed air left behind by the last. So, she decides to try another area to wait. Only, she didn't know she was waiting until she thought about that. She thought that she was just watching the traffic and there was nothing to that. But now that she thinks about it, she's sure she's waiting. She can feel it in her bones.

It is even more evident now that she can't wait bathing in the stink of the first boy's dissapointment or the one she's waiting for will never come. A new place to stand and watch and wait must be found. She moves along, her feet pat patting along the soft pavement of the overpass walkway thing, but that doesn't matter because it's drowned out by the engines of the cars below her anyway.

She finds a new place where she is certain that the air of dissapointment has dissipated and she settles into the night time surrounding her, becoming despondant once more while she waits. Or at least she tries to be despondant like she had been before. But now she can't get her mind off of what she is waiting for. It makes her shift nervously on her feet it makes her bite her nails and it makes her anxious and impatient. She also doesn't know it yet, but she really hasn't escaped the rotten smell.

It does, however, suddenly occur to her that at this hour it is dark and should someone walk by they will not see her. But she is self controlled so she will wait for the morning light to come and there will be the spotlight of the warm sun on her at last for them all to see. She waits. She waits. She waits. She ages. She grows older. And the traffic comes and it goes and it's leaving and it's coming and it's all so trivial. Morning seems farther away than it ever had.

It is obvious the air of the first boy's dissapointment and the second boy's dissapointment still surround her and only grow stronger and stronger. She knows this now because it has grown so strong that it chokes her. Her impatience chokes her. Her anxiety chokes her. What if it will never come?

By and by, she tells herself, by and by and still no morning. No light. No boy. No love.

The moment arrives, however, when she can finally see the morning along the horizon as a streak of gold, of fire. She watches eagerly as it grows into broad daylight and into hope in her heart. She is gasping for clean morning air now, but that isn't changing. No, it is as strong as ever. The dissapointment is smothering her and it will kill her, she is certain. If it does not kill her, it will chase him away. Who is he anyway?

She doesn't have very long to ponder this question when at long last a new boy finally comes and her hope bursts into a magnificient flower, coming out and expoding from her heaving chest. He notices this flower over her wheezing. He likes the flower. It distracts him. He does not breath the air of dissapointment because, by now, the girl has swollowed it all for herself.

Can you help me, she asks through her choking.

Yes, he says. But (and he will not say it) he does not know what she is talking about. All he knows is that she needs him and he wants her so he is there for her. He smiles.

She smiles. And for the rest of the day they remain so. She stares into his eyes and coughs, he stares at the flower. She wants to get his attention to her own eyes more than anything in the world. He wants to taste the flower. Hoping that the other doesn't notice, they slowly lean into eachother, inch my inch hour by hour until, at sunset, they kiss.

It is an action of disasterous consequence because he instantaneously tastes the dissapointed air she's breathed, expelled from her lungs into him in the form of insecurity. He tastes the poisonous kiss and he doesn't like it. Soon he begins to choke on it as she has been, and while the light dissapears around them, he is dying. He knows this is not worth the pretty flower so he pulls back and with all his might he heaves all the dissapointment and the insecurity and more back in her direction. There is a chill and the night rears it's ugly ugly head again. He flees while he still can and dissapears into the darkness.

The girl can't breath at all now. She grows dizzy and faint. She tries moving and it doesn't help. She could get off the walkway. She can't get off the walkway. She can't make it. There is only one place to go. She has the choice between suffocation or the speeding traffic below. She moves over to the railing of the overpass and watches the blurred vehicles coming and going at the same time to contemplate this. As she does she notices that the once lovely portrusion from her chest is wilting and dying. She hasn't much time now. She must make her choice. She makes her choice. Summoning the miniscule bit of strength left in her breaking heart, she throws herself from the overpass. As she falls, the flower bursts into an even more beautiful explosion than before, a prism of petals and life. It is short-lived. It dies not long after after she hits the jagged asphalt below.

The vehicles simultaneously come and go.

2007-01-25T15:01:00.000-08:00

TrendxCore EmotiveWaste: A Poem About A Void

April 10, 2006

written notes
and splotched ink
of girl
transfixed with boy
who writes her heart
on blue lines
in black ink
and when
he hands it back
lines
of words unravelling like
loose black thread and
her smile cracks as
glass and she
confuses "to die"
with "to hide"
and then they hide
and then they hide
in shoulders of
tall boys
at spring fling
beat mixing
melody moving
faces blurred
by drink or
flashing lights
while they
confuse "to love"
with "to fuck"
(they say
that is the
trend
these days:
to die
to hide
to love
to fuck
to buy it all
to buy a soul to
call their own
-it seems to
be the way)

2007-01-25T15:00:00.000-08:00

Two Minute Limericks
April 7, 2006

A LIMERICK ABOUT PAUL

paul and me paul and me
sodomy sodomy sodomy
we're pretty tight
and do bondage right
fueling the leather economy
==

A LIMERICK ABOUT A FISH

de fish swim in de ocean
wit de smoodest of emotion
rasta fish ee
in de jamaican sea
swim wit de fishiest devotion
==

A LIMERICK ABOUT PIZZA

there is pizza on the roof
coordinates aloof
drinking pervade
any sense to be made
perception itself is a spoof

2007-01-25T14:57:00.000-08:00

Untitled
April 2, 2006

rain rain
go away
pounding at my
head again

please noiseless
sun and your
whitewash light
please come and chase
the rain away
that's pounding
at my
head again

replace it with
the silence
of the heat -- (there is
oppression in the heat)

oh, but I can handle
the stagnation!
cross my heart -- (and call my lie)
Condradictions aside,
I just want complacence
damn it!

2007-01-25T14:53:00.000-08:00

Poem Duhr
March 5, 2006

caught in the vile
trap of doing
nothing
will our dynamic
duo get off her
lazy ass and
do-oh something
productive for
once
study up on
the definition of
a commitment maybe
or something like that
some time like that
no time for that
too busy conjuring
up an impending
apocalypse ended
by heroic feats
by me
in my head
and then i
complain
when i wake
up and realize
it was only
in my head

2007-01-25T14:49:00.000-08:00

March 2, 2006

Pain in my
Ostentatious neck
Ending with a
Mild stagnation in this

Old and aging routine
For the commitment

That I cannot drop
Here after or
Ever, really- at least not for a while.

Does this feel
A little oppressing?
You got yourself into it

2007-01-25T14:47:00.000-08:00

Not A Valentines Day Poem
February 14, 2006

there is a scratchy constriction
as I
choke on my alienation
self infliction
happy face
why's it that I feel so fake
when I am loved and
do not hate?

there is a mixing bowl
in my
head is like a mixing bowl
rum and punch
happy face
why's it that I feel so numb
and still am dumb and
can't have fun?

there is mascara
on my
lashes that will run if I cry
love song
happy face
what a funny thing it is that I would sigh
if all alone
but shed a tear for one at home?

there is silence in the room
as I
bask in my isolation
self infliction
no facade
It is then I feel- in naked
proximity- much more real
as I let fall my social shields.

2007-01-25T14:46:00.000-08:00

Untitled
February 19, 2006

loathesome
liars
loathesome lies
fooling fooling fooling
liars
fooling

people
using
using people
failing failing failing
liars
fooling

trust
lost
losing trust
faster faster faster
liars
fooling

rage
lessened
lessened rage
fading fading fading
liars
fooling

masks
worn
worn masks
faces faces faces
liars
fooling

failing liars worn
liars failing faster using
masks fooling people faces
failing faster failing
faces fooling
people using people

2007-01-25T14:43:00.000-08:00

this is infatuation
February 11, 2006

The songs they sing of- well, you know-
describe the moment too well, too perfect.
And this is where everything moves so slow,
falls into place, and lifts our melodious love
to heights I doubted I'd ever feel.
The movies I watch or lack there-of,
with their typical kisses and that typical embrace,
also describe the moment in all its typical perfection.
(and then your skin, like mind-blown words in print, I trace)
It's these typical moments that bring me home
while returning lost adoration of the typical love poem.

2007-01-25T14:39:00.001-08:00

Sometimes Being Introspective Can Really Suck
February 2, 2006

partitioning visions and gutting the letters
instinct forbids what the eye forgives
kill all my senses and destroy the debtors

oppressed natural inclination
but natural inclination is naturally bad
partitioning visions and gutting the letters

order restored by prescription Numb
envy as I watch the sheep succumb
kill all my senses and destroy the debtors

blind message to be taken blindly
but misguided lambs defect
partitioning visions and gutting the letters

it is wrong, this is wrong, that is wrong
why then does the shepherd justify?
kill all my senses and destroy the debtors

this sheep's been painted- tainted- black
and will never go back
partitioning visions and gutting the letters
kill all my senses and destroy the debtors

February 2nd, 2006

2007-01-25T14:37:00.000-08:00

Forgetful (Excuses)

late
tired
late tired
sorry sorry sorry
tired
sorry

sleep
coming
sleep's coming
soonish soonish soonish
tired
sorry

closing
eyes
eyes closing
heavy heavy heavy
tired
sorry

promise
going
going promise
wander wander wander
tired
sorry

mind
blowing
blowing minds
next time next time next time
tired
sorry

sorry sorry
promise sorry promise
next time next time promise
tired sorry promise
sorry mind
sorry closing soonish

February 2006

2007-01-25T14:33:00.000-08:00

"Limerick #1"

There's a lass by the name of Jess Waller
Whate'er your height, she be taller
She's pretty hawt
And on AIM alot
Ahr-Oh-Eff-Ell, Ohm-Guh, Lawlz-orz

"To Some Knives"
(on turning up a pot while drying dishes after a family dinner in 2006 AD)

Underneath the suds and the
Great Big Pot
two sitting knives like household pests
oblivious to their discovery

The steely aura, reflection:
Emanation of danger!

while the dull black handles
shrug and say
"Take us, use us
throw us away," or
"Put us back
where we belong"

"Beetle Beetle"

beetle beetle in the tree
how I ponder what we see
green, the red slowly debauched
men of honor idly watch
beetle beetle in the tree
how I ponder what they see

January 28th, 2006

2007-01-25T14:25:00.000-08:00

Untitled Haiku
Night in the City
A Superfluous Moon fades
Stars Passing in Vain

Sometime in 2000

2007-01-09T15:03:00.000-08:00

Who Decides Your Fate?
The way we live uncertain our fate.
We could die tomorrow,
Or live a lovley day more.
Will we dance?
Will we laugh the next day?
Or shall we cry,
Will we miss an opurtunitty
Or strike it rich...
Who decides your fate you, our The world around you?

Who Decides Your Fate? (Revised 2007)
The way we live uncertain of our fate.
We could die tomorrow,
Or live a lovely day more.
Will we dance?
Will we laugh the next day?
Or shall we cry?
Will we miss an oppurtunity
Or strike it rich?
Who decides your fate?
You, our the world around you?

Summer 2000

2007-01-09T14:59:00.000-08:00

Sunset on Lake
Golden clouds cascade the sky.
Peaceful is the lakes soft cry.
The humm of the ferry muffled my the sound,
of the habitat that lingers around.
The water turns from blue to peach,
The rocks beneath the dock,
too close to see, too far away to reach.
Silloetts of mountains, a lake that comes to
me, only in my writing will remain the
things I see.

Sunset on Lake (Revised 2007)
Golden clouds cascade the sky.
Peaceful is the lake's soft cry.
The hum of the ferry muffled by the sound
of the habitat that lingers

The water turns from blue to peach,
The rocks beneath the dock
too close to see, too far away to reach

silhouettes of mountains
a lake that comes to me
only in my writing will remain the
things I see.

2007-01-09T14:49:00.000-08:00

MAKING YOUR OWN MAIN (FOR DUMMIES)
December 9, 2005

alone in the ocean
alone in the sea
just me and the tide
and an insecure breeze

the ocean, it's mundane blue
the shore, a welcome change
for I am wingless and
in need of flight

its white beaches
its green forests
but attraction to the coast
is a very dangerous thing

not but a facade
not but faux-Eden
a simple spyglass can shake
a single island to Hell

only let it deffer you
only let it teach you
if it is outrightly bad
but never let it fool you

for it is more dignified to learn
than to be fooled
and I have been fooled
and I have learned

I've learned I'm no island
I've learned I'm the sea
The keeper of the ocean
making my own land to follow

I'll unleash my own winds
from their insecure breeze
fight the tide to my coastline
the one of my heart and what I know
because this is the ocean
and I can make it my own