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|Monday, September 19th, 2005|
|At the Bottom of the Steps, F--- Finds his Antidote
Tumble down for days
All corners, angles, sharp, cutting
Daylight is always filtered
Wells of misinformation
Deep, undrinkable, moss and
Mercury without motion
Words to make a martyr
No one knew not to say,
“F--- the first step fails”
Trials, traps, tracheotic pleasures
The stereoscope says today is
Slightly a year of silence
The fall is not endless
Senses a Rubik mystery
F--- tastes a vision
The masses pressed together,
Caramel cacophony of color,
Bitter peasant scarves, they
Became the street
Preferred the tart breeze
Hot times, they were cinnamon
Swimming, yet they roared for tinny blood
“Give us Horatio Alger!
We’ve Aristotle for his arm.”
The watermark is still tastable
Everything stops with an audible sound
Not a thud, but sound
Somewhere the antidote
Somewhere he searches
Among the seashells
Among the thick lines
Of thought too tough to cut
The steps remake F--- a poor copy
All corners, angles, sharp, cutting
F---! child’s chin to horizon
Tail of a kite, covered in ribbon
Red flanked by blue sky
F--- a feeling of focus
|Monday, May 16th, 2005|
All English Classes, holy crap!
After Fall quarter, I'll be 3 writing courses (one required, two anything), one lit. study course, and two lit courses from a certain list to be done with my English requirements.
ENG300 02 LITERARY STUDY I 4:10 pm 5:50 pm M W MILLIGAN, B
ENG302 01 POETRY WRITING 9:45 am 10:50 am M W F PACERNICK, G
ENG356 01 AMER TXT: LATER 19TH C 1:30 pm 2:35 pm M W F LORANGER, C
ENG410 01 NARCOTICS IN THE 19TH C 2:45 pm 3:50 pm M W F MILLIGAN, B
Not exactly sure what Narcontics in the 19th century is about, seems to be a british lit. course as far as I can tell, but it sounded interesting hehe.
|Thursday, May 5th, 2005|
|Tuesday, March 15th, 2005|
So here's this quarter's poetry written for my Poetry Writing Workshop class. Some of it is just rewritten old work but the majority of it is new and not everything made the cut. Sorry if some is extremely cynical or esoteric, these things happen...( Without further introduction...Collapse )
|Monday, February 14th, 2005|
|For any who may be interested
My schedule looks like this:
CST241 01 COMP NONWEST CULTURES 4.0 BARRETT, C. 072 R 12:15 pm 1:20 pm M W F
ENG301 02 LITERARY STUDY II(WI) 4.0 MANER, M. 341 O 4:10 pm 5:50 pm M W
ENG303 02 SHORT STORY WRITING 4.0 ALLEN, B. 009 M 11:00 am 12:05 pm M W F
MTH145 05 MATH & THE MODERN WRLD 4.0 TIAN, E. 171 MM 2:45 pm 3:50 pm M W F
REL390 02 THE HOLOCAUST & FILM 4.0 VERMAN, M. 399 M 6:05 pm 9:25 pm W
Sorry Stine, couldn't fit fencing in there. I just realized how desperately I need upper division electives (and upper devision credits in general) and if I ever plan to graduate... well, yea.
I am so glad I won't be driving up there everyday anymore.
|Friday, November 5th, 2004|
|Buildingless and Home
Fight against our fight for dramatic moments, those taught by the romantic writers and the most meaningful of the trashy television shows. The three modern vampires of patronizing class, oppressive class and high class attempt to drain life of color and contain everything in a black-white battleground. Your cold hand and my sweaty fingers are holy like garlic and water. Resolved and armed, we've all we need; we'll find our place yet.
Isolated and loved, no longer lonesome; we'll be free of bloodsuckers to see in color. To find our island in a clear river not claimed by any state, not a part of any domain. Like all miracles, this love cannot be contained on camera, nor can our hidden home. Yet we feel both everytime my sweaty fingers meet your cold hand.
PS: There's going to be some poetry reading this upcoming thursday at wright state. I think I'm going to read at it. I'd appreciate seeing any familiar faces in the audience.
|The Rain Fell Like Dying Fireflies
The wet was thorough and all embracing, nothing went untouched. It fell on our bare heads; beaded on your glasses. You were nervous and I was too confident in you to notice. I could only see my pinnacle reflected in those beads. You could only kiss me when we were alone. A thousand drops glowed in the lamplight. The same water that sighs shook from our shoulders laminated silver the back world around us. At no moment had I ever been so wet.
|Thursday, October 28th, 2004|
|Hope Part I
We've been told that all Hope lies with death and the eclipse of life. Appetites digesting and internalizing an idea that borders on pornography. One must learn it, or be happily conditioned. There is no living the way parents did. Despite baptism, all the mistakes of human history still dirty the finest of linens. Vibrations of paternal meddling reincarnate other's plagued history and malignant traditions for the sake of identity. The creator's magnum opus of sin was to pass these on. Yours will be to not let it all die with them. Denying the Hope that lies with death.
|Friday, August 27th, 2004|
|External rewards internalized.
One in the morning.
Lock the doors. Roll up the windows. No loud music. Deep in a dark (n.) place. Stay on the line. Stay on the line! A link to safety, a net, a leash.
Again, I can't stop laughing.
|Rorschach the Pep Rally.
Not any body would do.
She told me to think nothing of it but I...
She said she does this all the time.
I'd like to feel gratitude--
We have no reason to believe you.
|One more aspect in ratio
Again you ask why I smile. Once the trophic levels of sensation, thought, and word are overcome(losing 90% to heat at each step) the answer is simple. Never letting slip the smile, I reveal my motive, "Although my ear is not on your chest, I can still hear your heart beat." Happiness wells in me when a part of you is absorbed through sense, but retained through feeling.
Note: This is the cheesiest thing I have ever written.
|Tuesday, August 17th, 2004|
|Live Bait: An Obituary ... OR ... Balancing the Equation - Someone Must Spend What the Poor Can Not.
Today The Country mourns the loss of a hero. The hero remains nameless, but it is reported that he had killed over 100 brown skinned persons while performing his Duty for The Country. In between bursts from his machine gun, and shortly before a hail of bullets ripped apart his well conditioned body, his final words, steeled with Patriotic Zeal, were recorded, "For God, The Country, and the protection of Our business interests!" (As of press time, an unconfirmed rumor circulates that this phrase and the ambiguous likeness of the hero shall be minted upon a new coin). The hero is survived by many patriotic servants who, like him and generations previous, dutifully spend their lives on meaningless pursuits they do not desire, in order to insure that The Country's priority citizens continue to be idle and well fed.
|Tuesday, June 8th, 2004|
|Thursday, June 3rd, 2004|
|Objects and desires: Conditioned by whim and obedience
Satiation: silken screened images. High definition: a therapy beyond medical comprehension. Comfort: entertainment. The sidelines: where we must breakfast. The eyes: all the needs exercised. Dead weight: the organs necessary to sustaining life. Embedded imagery: alien false attempts at human paradigms that have become collectively "beautiful"; non-existent outside of ocean districts. Sustained viewership: the constant premeditated fist fuck necessary to continue bleacher filling. Reality: the unreality created to fill boredom, requires a distorted perception of the world, a continuation toward the more extreme, the more disturbing, to create anything near feelings of actuality; deeper, harder. See also: Sustained viewership; fist-fuck. High definition living: our reality.
|Tuesday, May 25th, 2004|
|Tied and True
Buzz saws, bass lines I've heard 1,000 times. The cutting whine increases. The young mothers cover children's ears. Why not the eyes? Cold sweat, followed by coffee leave sand barren cafeteria trays. Another young mother, most on their way. Groans file stupidity. A disdain for ink tasted only among modern man's paradigm. Decapitation lies somewhere in everyone's mind now, tucked away with breast augmentation and sluiced memories of childhood; hidden for all their horror. A grandmother at 39. Arms kept close to chest; for defense? Daily exercise among bed spread sales. Taint. Controlled air and t-shirt slogans lie. Far beyond talent is deceit's haven. How much of what is said is filler? How important is it to be filled?
The music exists
To fill the silences
We've forgotten words for
A pack of ravenous teenage girls once waylaid this place. They laid waste to all in sight. Sucking off real slow the details and gasping in a horrid ecstasy of visceral consumption. Creating within themselves new reality, where talent and beauty can be passed by bodily fluids, and they, to they only, became a part of nous.
The mephisto movement closes in. A dangerous project to begin with. Pragmatic perspective can gain all but the smallest details. Those most important, sincere clips that contain value, rather than filler. Lessened size will lead to enormous import. We're short on (time that I've ignored till now). The exterminator approaches. A wrench of sound, avocado implant. Freshness, reserved for corporations. Palpitation short of heat-death. I am my own universe, to dedicate to another, lost in a galaxy.
|Monday, April 26th, 2004|
The dreamy look of old Jazz. Blurred by backlight, as cautious as smoke. Forget the name. A discussion of plight and hope. It was heard as sympathetic circumstance found only in forgotten romance. There’s a reason the best designs fail. Grandeur at once a product of self-defeat, an ignorance of the need for security. Arms locked, the time comes when no danger could be great enough. Now, an hour could be a minute could be the noise that stole any sense of perception, and carried it away on dreamy-dreary clouds, with the sight of song.
I love that look. The one that comes with contemplating the brevity of feeling, created by memories of walks in the rain and first meetings, only given life by the catalysts of the present. It’s free with a slight smile. Complementary awkwardness has become orange and comforting in this light. I’ve got an idea, let’s follow it through. Throw water in the air until the image you’ve wanted appears.
|Saturday, April 24th, 2004|
|Rollback Paradise --- Always Open!
I have to think, that if another culture, some other-worldly anthropologists, were to observe us, humanity I mean, they would declare the supermarket as our place of worship. It seems ridiculous, but I believe that looked at objectively, they would have no choice but to proclaim that Wal-Mart, Super Target, Meijer, and any other beacon of consumption would be the place where we feeble humans seek our salvation. A man alone, empty-handed, escapes the dark and cold, and enters a monument of light, a stalwart defense against our fears. Here, he may gain what he needs to survive. He is greeted warmly by his elders upon entering any establishment of post-mortem salvation, all clad in religious garb. He basks in the works of his kind, and chooses what he deems right for his soul then humbly waits in line. He piously hands over slips of paper that he teiously and penetantly slaved for throughout his week, to alcoloytes, young and also piously working, yet garbed like their elders to learn equality. Yes, they would proclaim work, concrete, light and consumption to be where humans have created their paradise. I have to think they would not be so wrong.
|Thursday, April 1st, 2004|
|An Ex-Patriot Finds Herself In Canada
Thoughts weigh down on me. These things we're given; stated purposes in manilla folders, tricky meanings, those are often the most contrary to any measure more than existance (living?). Continuity could perhaps be found, but this perpetuated flux, for which the guilty parties are yet to be found, leads us from metered lines to metric maze, in circles, stagnant cycles of systematic disorder (it's simple economics!). Even with this in mind, I can't shake this feeling of need: for origin, and something else, either undiscovered or forgotten like poetry never put to paper (would that count as destroying priceless art?). Everything feels like necessity. As a kindergarten class holding a rope we're led to the word "progress". It stands in neon, 10 feet tall; an idol to bow before. I can still recall my own blood sacrifices. I'd rather have spent the day outside. Perhaps one day the lead can be let go of, so that I can wander, directionles but self-emancipated. No longer treading water, but choosing to consumate my own existence. An inverse origin, with enough humanity behind it that no force could contain it.
|Saturday, March 20th, 2004|
Choose a seat arbitrarily, at least, I believe it so.
The last thing you said to me was the first to return, "Whatever you do, don't stop running." I had failed in that much, hoping myself the wiser. Wiser than what though? It was all sealed with a kiss, on both sides. I'd doomed myself to that much.
The thought could still make me feel like a little girl. No one seemed to know any better.
Eternity had been a constant exposition disaster. Over laden with a volatile mix of logic and metaphor. I understand it well enough, second favorite, "Sanity is not statistical."
I had considered this for a long time. Then decided I was a fool and did the opposite of what I thought best.
Suddenly, I feel the need for a seat belt.
"I'd hate to tell you, honestly, but the best way to eliminate crime is to eliminate laws." Was that my voice? Honesty is obscenity to many.
Third favorite, "Something called the Politics of Lonely" or was it poetry? The way doesn't matter, it still makes us the baby Jesus suckling from a breast. Tight, warm and God-Loved; despite all the isolation, all the responsibility inherent in awareness.
The vents are loud. I'm convinced it is raining outside, thought I know it is much too cold.
The clouds had gathered today. They are in upheaval against the dominion of man. The battles of clouds are fought quite differently.
The lights flicker. Again, I feel the need to be strapped to something solid. Someone in the back laughs loudly, not comprehending the complexity of it all.
A desire for a taste attacks my tongue, or rather, my sense of my tongue. I'm overwhelmed with brief glimpses of memory; suddenly I am five again, all I desire is chocolate, I am crushed by the news of vanilla being the only available flavor. This sense of recollecting what is so suddenly old and new is overwhelming. A distant memory, tucked within the folds so discreetly, it had been biding its time, waiting for the best moment to strike. I feel weak, and emaciated.
Despite it all, my favorite remains, "I am covered in blood."
The lights flicker.