out of bed

2nd cup of tea morning greeting. my first job, very first, was mowing lawns. official first was filing away cards in a greeting card factory. at the interview the guy asked me what bands I listened to, I said Judge, Gorilla Biscuits, and so on. later he admitted to me, because of this, he thought I was a “druggie,” but for some reason hired me anyway. he was not a great guy and didn’t treat me or anyone else there with a tremendous amount of respect. the ex-wife was on board as well. I could never understand that, how his ex-wife could even stick around like that. nice enough lady.

bits of data, ideas, jolting through my brain. I’m not particularly thrilled to be up wheezing or writing about wheezing, but it always comes down to that. my own apocalypse then, is losing readership because of the constant complaints brought on by this chronic condition I’m living with. am I that classic character driving everyone away, the only remainder of people being close relatives or those in debt to me.

down at the race tracks…

I was not there. never been to a race. not in the last twenty years. btw, almost each year I get the question, do you feel — whatever my current age is? 31 in Roanoke, I guess I can answer the question again, maybe in a new way. yes, definitely 31 when downtown and everyone else around is 16-20 and behave that way. this is what the poetry readings are all about here, poetry readings on a school night. those kids make me feel old. the people at my work, on the other hand, make me feel young, or sick. next to them, I just feel completely alive. I mean, they are walking dead, stale people.

I’m hating to admit this, but I’m not having a fantastic time in Roanoke. that’s when I think about my job. though in some ways I feel myself getting smarter, or wiser. that always feels good.

Sunday was more eventful, driving down with C. to Floyd county to do an interview with a farmer (I’ll write more on this later). school work. getting back, I ate so much Indian food I became super punchy and felt as if I was high. this put me to sleep for what seemed 3 hours, perhaps contributing to some of this lung trouble that I’m now experiencing.

Saturday was my birthday, which I started off well by going over to the zendo to meditate. we sat and discussed a philosophy tape afterwards, later resulting in the fragments… “imputations of the mind.”

Friday, went into work dressing as casual as possible hoping no one would say anything. they wished me a happy birthday in passing, which was nice, I think. maybe by this point we all have hard feelings for one another. the copiers are always breaking down and adding to the stress. this of course doesn’t help. it’s been a year now. things are busier and most there are still not competent enough to perform the simplest of tasks. so work piles up faster.

I need to pace the floors and read. bye for now.


guy got ground up in Fargo
we caught the last half
North Dakota accents
foot left sticking up out of
the machine like that

our day driving around
from time to time
woke up from nap
two guys screaming
at each other in the back alley
at the top of their lungs
someone beat us to calling
the cops on them
besides, thought:
“if I’m such an anarchist
what business of it is mine
to call the cops?”

birthday calls came in–
I am reading
rubbing my irritated eye
kalika, our 1.5 year old kitten
rubbing hers

when the weather is better
in two weeks
poetry readings
at the fountain will
start up again
downloaded a outline program
you know, how you
write outlines for essays?
take a look at my
disorganized mess
of apartment essays

you’re hosing out spiders
and lighting jack-o-lanterns
sneezes begin irritated
tremble the face and
finally got to see
eternal sunshine of the spotless mind | link 2
here is my 20 word review:
“one of the few that tears me up and has me walking through the graveyards by the time it’s over.”

thinking much today about that line, familiarity breeds contempt. maybe then we can be less familiar with one another, then the breeding will bring about something else?
once we get used to someone
we think we have a right to
be angry with them
that we have a right to scream at them
argue, abuse
we have not learned very well at all
how to be gentle.

. . .

imputations of the mind
assigned a meaning
to the very real or non-real thing
(which by the way is connected to various other things and in that sense is not in the least fully independent)
which then becomes abused, used, rejected, held onto, cherished, owned, stolen
written about, filmed, audibly recorded, thrown like a football, called a football, or soccerball, kicked in the face of, front side of, polished, autographed, handed down through generations, flipped open like a world war I pocket knife, slid under a napkin in a diner, forgotten on top of a jukebox, traded for a Sony Watchman mini tv, a prize at a bingo hall, a much valued Modest Mouse album, and so on.
superimposed meaning
you know all about it
that’s why you’re not talking
because it’s been talked about
because it’s been talked out
because in the morning new things new things new things
all you want all you want all you want
new meanings new meanings new meanings


a fiction:
on the first night you saw a UFO, ran into the house, and to your dismay, no one else believed you. this made you cry steadily alone in bed for many hours, but in the morning you awoke and went about your day without much trouble.

the next night you stayed inside, read a book, and went to bed early. they were out on the porch, looked up, and saw the UFO. then they were abducted, received anal probes like on that South Park episode, and tucked back in their beds before sunrise. they woke up that morning remembering the whole thing.

I thought aliens were supposed to erase your memory of this kind of shit.

lungs? check. calm? check.

handle on
grasp on
finger on the pulse
of america
it’s not a small
still I can
much of what
will happen
b/c many
go the basic
route of the

a voice box
lego construction
flag burst of flames
a logo
a person in need
america does not
help tibet
china is china
a tank
anyone in the way

I am a man in West Virginia buying
candy to give to trick-or-treaters
going to the store around 6 pm
hoping I can get back in time
(kids start going out with their parents
earlier and earlier, before the sun is even down)
the roads are tinier but the area resembles
my hometown Silver Spring neighborhood
growing up with the Gooch down the street
our mothers would all fight with each other
find some reason some quirk not to get along
so there would be silence animosity isolation
all things you’d think kids shouldn’t have to
learn from their parents but that’s what
the whole punk realization was about,
to put things into plain sight
heros were not atomic
we would find them elsewhere
in ourselves
and our fanzines were just the beginning
of bigger and better things
maybe just more fanzines

. . .

bring ammo
our friend’s bf is being sent to war because he signed up for it but is upset he has to really go, though he is super into all things GUN — we find out it might not work out because he’s allergic to eggs . . . this is something they’re just finding out? it’s weird. maybe they’ll send him to hawaii instead, or discharge him altogether. the military, the militant military. I’d like to tell them where they and their courts and army intelligentsia can go.

no no
monday wheezes
an accordion
I can feel the
rush jobs
heat up already
five miles way
I grab morning
snacks to hack
through the brush
and with
jokes sabotage
hostile attitudes
that ghost over the place

it is so easy to be upset about the past. I don’t have any sort of formula that’s impressive to anyone. I’m trying to be big hearted enough to let many things go and not be discouraged. I’d like to think I’ve busted free from the vehicle and am floating up and out, to do as I damn well please. on the otherhand I say, “I’m trying to have such a hippy attitude about things, but you keep trying to get me to kill you…”

cult of personality

once again a late night bout with the lung trouble short of breath stationed with my tea in the front room. this is what I get when I try to clean the place, but how cannot I not clean? should I invest in a surgical mask? I can operate on the hallway closet some more when I have more time. I spent an hour cleaning the dirt from it today from when the cats got in there and attacked the remains of an old plant, scattering much of it off the shelf down into our belongings. my old army green duffle bag I purchased 12+ years ago in India, I finally tossed.

these are just details I feel like throwing in at this hour.
because I’m so distraught. may in fact have to take the
emergency medicine, tussin, that makes me
tremble and shake but puts me to sleep finally.
I loathe the cherry medicine taste and often
vow to take it as rarely as once or twice a year
or better, once a decade, but realize it’s something I
need more often
makes me shake just thinking about it

back in arlington I tried to perfect
a simple life of working a small job
with little worries, living in a house where
I watched practically zero television
when I would get off work, I’d come home
and curl up to the epic Brothers Karamazov and
be pulled into that world
these days it’s X-Men, Sandman, 1604, and other comics
someone mentioned that back then Tolstoy and others
were television for people
I think that’s what drove me in some of that reading
and that was the mood I was trying to invoke in my recent poem
“bones act like leaves blown”
where I go: a traveler on business, a train carries them in the dead of night, he meets with cousins for the first time, sits down for a meal.” this is how Dostoevsky’s book The Idiot starts out, the protagonist on a train, starting up a conversation with strangers and making new friends. the mood is very quaint, for the lack of a better word. candlelit. a storm at night, rattling of window panes, a gathering for a story, for poetry. I want to build a cult based on gathering in evenings like this when the sun is completely down and like minded folk who feel excluded from other venues, can gather and quietly swap stories and ideas naturally in an old wooden house almost about to fall over from leaning to the left too much.

quiet moment:
dumping garbage into the backyard bin. tomorrow they collect.

today I list negative realms in the office:
ass kissers
pussy whipped

a friends says to me:

glenn, life is amazing…and games and puzzles and axing into the unknown are the keys to happiness.

. . .

people are writing interesting things these days and I’m backlogged with plenty to read – I’ll be all caught up by May or June. c’s friends stopped by tonight and hung out. just having people here in the apartment brings life to the place. Rudra was loving up the attention, Kalika was scared to freakin’ death, nothing new.

the days are getting longer, the temperature is 52 degrees right now. so I’m good, albeit bored to fucking tears at work most of the time, not handling it well inside my little sweet mind. when it’s over I let it all out on you guess who either positively or negatively (in psychology, this negative bit is known as “projection”). the positive stuff, well at least positive to me, generally means I’m surcharged with energy, goofing off singing songs in the car, extremely talkative, hypothesizing, etc. tonight for instance, we went out on a date. it was good. we got our taxes done, and ate veggie sushi in the parking lot. before I got there I said, you know those marathons and the runners have numbers on their shirts? they should put numbers on the trees, make them feel a part of the whole thing. they’re just really slow runners. and the slower of the slow runners, too, can feel good that they’re at least passing someone in the race.

. . .

quote from Feed:

First, in the deserts and veldts arose oral culture, the culture of the spoken word. then in the cities with their temples and bazaars came the pictographs, and later, symbols that produced sounds as if by magic, and what followed was written culture. then, in the universities and under the steeples of young nations, print culture. these – oral culture, written culture, the culture of print – these have always been considered the great epochs of man.


“we americans,” he said, “are interested only in the consumption of our products. we have no interest in how they were produced, or what happens to them – what happens to them once we discard them, once we throw them away.”

. . .

dream from the other night:
I was with my grandparents and I was recalling alien abduction experiences that were coming back to me. we looked out the window together, me and my grandfather, and we saw one of those greys down there walking around. we could not take our eyes off him, and he looked up at us. I knew that connection had been made and it was impossible to sever. how on earth could we stop them now? I locked myself in the bathroom and started to cry curled up on the floor as they broke into the house and made their way toward us.

dayuniverselifechocolate experience

the idea of sitting down to write a journal is… write for ten or fifteen minutes what happened to you today, or what you’re thinking about.

I get the idea. I just don’t think it’s so easy. it’s not that I want to over complicate it, either. but first of all, I just don’t see what’s so exciting about today. and I don’t see anything exciting what I’m thinking about at the moment.

what about thoughts from all time? thoughts from ALL of time? what about what has happened from as far back as you can possibly remember, just pick anything you like and go to it? how does that sound?

now you’re talking about a journal entry I can relate to.

so… what are you gonna write about?

oh, nothin’.

just sittin’ around chewin’ cud on uh fence.

write your dayuniverselifechocolate experience
tell us how that
makes you feel

okay, here. sold many records that I had collected when I was young, and with the money up and flew off to India for three months with some rock star friends and wondered how the hell I made it back. did a lot of traveling all at once, then watched it taper off. but it was under false pretenses. what the hell I mean by that is, I couldn’t continue in that direction forever. I had do settle down and switch things up at some point, right?

what else? what else is coming up to the surface? let’s see, it is March. think of other March experiences. you’re reading this while eating mashed potatoes, aren’t you? are you? me too. wait.

this March the weather is strange. my cat is talking out of the window. no he’s not. but he’s got his head poked out of the hole of his little apartment. he might as well be. “quiet down!” he’s yelling. “keep it quiet down there! I’m trying to get some sleep.” he is a grumpy old man, like my grandfather. what he said was law. he was a boxer and an electrician. he was responsible for building one of the major subway stations in D.C., Dupont Circle, if you’ve ever heard of it. yeah, Saturdays are for name dropping. old R.J.

after he passed away, I had a dream with him in it. he was towards the end. first I was at the other end of this room, a dentist office of sorts, preaching Krsna philosophy, I think, to a woman at the counter. not heavily, but in an informative kind of way. I went and used the bathroom, urinated blood, and at the sink I washed my hands, rinsed my mouth, and what do you know . . . my mouth was just falling apart all out into my hands. teeth, gums, more teeth. when I cleaned up the mess and exited the bathroom, the room was now a dark library. towards the back of it (and my grandfather was never a person known to be surrounded by books) was my grandfather, getting up from one of those musky old chairs in a very ominous manner. “I am so glad to see you,” he said. “How are you doing?” I was also glad to see him. “I’m glad to see you, too.” but I had to admit, “I’m not doing well. I’m not feeling well.”

that bathroom incident scared the crap out of me. many dreams reveal much of the worry and dread we hold down inside us. we talk a good game, but it’s the dreams that get the best of us when it’s time. “hold onto your dreams!” people say. depends which ones, I say. comes time to dream and the dreams are giving us a serious whooping the second we step into the ring. that’s why I’m not a proponent of all dreams. they are just as complicated as anything else, I suppose, if not more so. especially when you try to read them. I tried writing them. you know, keep a dream journal. it’s funny but, I got tired of it. maybe there’s something to say for that. I’m fucking slipping. I don’t know.

there’s all these choices. dreamweaver. weaver of. it fascinates me how a stand up comic weaves material together and makes it flow. most people don’t even have a conversation that beautiful. a good comedian puts some effort into it in the beginning maybe, but then it just becomes fluid. I envy that. no, I applaud that. that’s right, big ups to Bill Hicks. that’s who I’m thinking of directly right now. no need to be vague. I really like what some people are doing with their lives. I envy them. no. I mean. I. I emulate them. I reflect them. I am them.

how’s that for some new age prose? daily affirmations. there’s a lot of truth in that. in some of that. in bits of it. I don’t know, you decide what you’re going to take. if I say daily affirmations again and instantly you shut off, then . . . what can I say? I’ll have to package the idea differently. or I come back to it later. let me put it like this. others are affirming so many things for you as is. especially growing up. there is a lot of pressure to achieve or just survive, and most of us go the mainstream route because it is easier. in one way or another, we are giving in or compromising just to get along. along the way we build upon many subtle or not-so-subtle attitudes about ourselves that this is the way it has to be because this is just who we are. sure, if we were bigger and better, perhaps there would be more choices for us out there and we could do exactly as we want and feel better about ourselves, but the truth is we’re just a bunch of low life. . . we give in, resign ourselves to an idea that suits a current condition, solidifies our notions of comfort. we’re all about affirmations. just negative ones. I am this, when you’re really not. I’m born to lose, destined to fail, when you’re really not.

you’re really not anything.

is that true? – I don’t know for sure. but if you’re really not anything, and at current you are something, why not make it something decent? no, why not make it something incredible?

it’s just something I’m thinking about. like a fountain filled with coins, in you, you contain many positive and negative ideas about yourself. unfortunately, most of them are probably negative, dealing with how you appear, a worry that the rest of the world is seeing right through you somehow, that you don’t amount to anything, they’re sizing you up and putting you down. and oh yeah, putting you in your place. what is your place? do you have one? why not throw in positive ideas and make those real?

in March I am reading books so intensely and every problem at work I deal with calmly and am able to assist others while I watch all the panic die down as it seems to do naturally. I’m still standing. in March I am listening to hip hop and drawing on the flow of styles how these wordsmiths sync up with various beats track after track. I rock out like this at night, losing sleep.

in March I start saying happy new year because it is the right thing to do. in March I am finding that thing that you and I have in common and strengthening our bond.

in March of 1973, I was born and inherited many unique experiences and situations. my grandfather became the first person I was scared of because I was just a small bibby and he was all “I’m an irritable boxer turned electrician and I joined the union, dammit, blah blah.” and I’m all, I don’t know, quiet quiet baffling school teachers with more quiet quiet, and this makes for quite a show. by 1993 I am staying with them, him and my grandmother, on Bradshaw drive off a newly constructed road in a newly constructed neighborhood after fleeing the Potomac temple scene, regrouping my thoughts. he was shaking his head when I left the first time. I should be working hard, working my fingers, every inch of my body, down to nothing. like him. he worked hard and got a lot of sun working out in the garden. when he sat down at the table he didn’t have much to say. my grandmother made him eggs and bacon. sometimes they’d turn on that small ass little television over by the sink and ask each other what was going on. or she would tell him, this is what she just said. they would scream at each other because they couldn’t hear well. this is where I get my loud voice from at poetry readings. I’m just hoping everyone can hear. it’s all hitting me now.

feud for the first mind

since high school I have maintained that typing has been one of the more valuable skills I’ve picked up. tonight I’m typing with my eyes closed. I can barely keep them open. forcing them causes pain, but this doesn’t mean… I have to surrender to sleep. relax and type away.

typing can be more productive in many ways. the eyes being closed is just one of them. rest your eyes, write up a storm. I’m reading this book Feed. in the future kids have built-in ‘nets in their brains. instead of IMs, there is mchatting – mind or mental chatting. just think it and it’s “typed” out instantly. think something in someone’s direction, they’re receiving it in their mental feed – words don’t have to be shot from the mouth. it is up to you. music, movies, websites, video games, all accessible at mind level.

when this technology becomes available for real, I think many people will be tempted and give into it. and I can understand that. take all that work out of handwriting or keyboard typos. just think it out and it’s there, locked down. imagine the publishing possibilities. keep making things easier and easier and easier. hasn’t that been the pattern?

ultimately something gets lost here. can you put your finger on it? well, your mind is directly connected to a net owned and operated by a corporation or gov’t. the act of blogging is already kind of like this, actually, but it’s not instantaneous. if I write out something and post it, for one, it’s because I choose to, or at least say I choose to. a direct con., on the other hand, means they’re reading your thoughts, your private thoughts, on the spot and making assessments as to how to further sell to you and program you as they please. what to speak of glitches, hacks, viruses, and people more easily being able to read your thoughts at the dinner table. in bed, automobile advertisements flash up without warning. what’s to say they don’t come up while dreaming? what’s more, what about the subliminal force feeds?

the internet as it currently strands has already created a certain amount of psychological damage, though of course both sides can be argued. often the benefits close the case for us, though. the next new thing becomes that much more readily accepted. remember back in the blah blah days when we used to question things, if da da da da was morally sound or healthy? can we become corrupted, stolen away, not returned to our normal selves?

it should all be so obvious. no brain implants! this is not a good idea. it definitely seems like we’re going in that direction. from a cashless debit card system to microchips put in our pets so we can find them when they’re lost. next, let’s put them in our children, because you know, you know. these are bleak times. terrorist times. so, a digital lasso, if you will. then… for us? if we can’t think of a reason ourselves, they’ll be ready to assist. how much you wanna bet? all this tracking device business was in the fine print when we bought the car. now we’re fucked.

this is a feud for the first mind. I have faith in an idea that all of this is there in the original heartbeat of the being’s being, human, sub or extra. that is to say mchats are actually low technology if we revive the ability spiritually, or organically, or just the idea that we don’t need to talk all the time, that quiet can be better. (for instance, we’re probably all disabled telepathics simply for the fact that we don’t think about it. disable thoughts of telepathy, chances are you’re not going to be telepathic. think about, have an interest in something, that for starters opens the door right there.)

still I dig on MP3s, iPods, Macs, Photoshop, PDFs, sha na na. I guess my age has something to do with it. I’ve always been gadget minded. C. and I were talking about Feed, and I’m laughing thinking about it now ’cause upfront I said how I liked the idea of the feeds because of that, being able to mchat, etc. still she knew I was being silly because I often like to talk all sorts of stupid shit in the car and gam out ideas dry stretched to the length of our destination. makes the time go by faster. but, to reassure her, and now everyone else, I draw the line at the brain chips. and eat plain chips. or BBQ chips. and walk with a shanked hip.

. . .

the monitor and CPU
to vibrate in
the night
while collage poems
are vastly
more important
and sensational

thank you, Chelsea,
for this
debut poem

may you
take Paris
by storm
to roll
may you
get there
may the literary
(that’s just
a big word
for books)
upon you
the shiny reflective
the delectable

this other kid
he be

finding your audience (chunks & other associations)

Rudra has just yacked majorly onto Casey’s new suitcase in the front room, all into the zippers and everything. happened just a few minutes ago. he did a major job of the front room. now he is running about like a nine year old kitten, like it never happened.

this somehow reminds me of being in the 5th grade and turning that elementary school upside down the day I fell out sick like that. I decided I was starting to feel better so got up and left the nurses office without saying a word, sort of snuck out and headed back. I passed a classmate in the hall, saying hello. very surreal. being upright like that, evil was beginning to make a reappearance. I entered the class trembling and unsure of myself. a full classroom audience all eyes on me. standing there in the doorway, everything started to move very slowly and as I put my hands up to my mouth, evil. screams in the air. the entire class, including the teacher, shot the hell out – just in time for lunch. my mom drove down, picked me up while everyone was at recess and the janitor was there with his mop. remembering crying in the sink at the back of the room waiting for her. couldn’t wait to go home. what a day. king for a day.

two days later I was back in the building, and to my surprise hardly anyone said a single word about it. they were just like, Glenn, are you feeling better now? how important it is to heal from embarrassment. how lucky Rudra has it. no complicated human social life to deal with.

it is good to be and feel a little older, wise enough to better handle situations though self conscious as ever. strange how it all works. a writer tries to make sense of it. a writer decides to make a mess of it. vomit up emotions. self indulge a bit. just a tad. a hair.

commit an hour’s time finger tapping your native alphabet to see what happens. imagine the audience not as elementary school classmates with a bloodlust for your downfall. imagine something else and you just might get it.

. . .

wordpad USA. it is green this day with envy and skies grey, so tip 15% your local staff, and tip well. the head hurts and swells like in a vice, mafia wanting its answers from you. no big deal. it’s all about what you make them believe, what you can conceal. words flag down the USA along the highway and see if it will pick you up on your long journey, if it will be kind or crawl over pick your bones like vultures and move on. corporations claim new territory and ingest the old. what gets sold in a yard sale, is it of value? it is up to you. just a rambling in the late of night. rumbling of stomach. tumbling of what does not go right.

bed. bed.

You don’t get yourself something as wonderful as a hardcore scene

today I’ve been listening to old hardcore bands like Chain of Strength, Bold, etc. those days are still so important to me. they were so much more fun than they were militant. we wore shirts like Drug Free Youth and felt a sense of belonging to something ultra cool. going to shows then was always like going into a room full of fire crackers. you never knew when someone was just going to go off. a band would be playing and the forth fight of the show would break out, the bouncer would have the kids thrown out or call off the show altogether. once someone dived off the stage wearing Doc Martin’s (when they were not trendy on a large scale) accidentally kicking me in the face. my nose exploded blood all over my shirt and the floor. it took a few minutes to stop the flow as I went to the back of the club, in the bathroom, still listening to the music and getting ready to go back out there. I was a part of something so significant.

sometimes I wonder if any of it would be there to go back to. Token Entry is no longer around. the Safari Club no longer puts on shows, or probably even exists. the traffic standing in the way of 7th Street is horrendous. I am in Roanoke, four hours away. I am turning 31, bones are more brittle. I skate less, as in not at all. so life’s externals are all very different, yet I am still listening to Chain of Strength, just encoded on MP3, not 1st pressing green vinyl (“Has the edge, has the edge gone dull?!”). now there are new things to be in a good mood about. those have to be recognized, too. back then I would not have been able to recognize these things as something positive and be able to incorporate them in.

it did not matter that my mom, grandmother, father, grandfather, did not understand what I was going through, the hard times, and good times, to an extent, once I realized they were either incapable or deliberately not going to participate in my life. to that generation, well, they just didn’t get themselves something as wonderful as a hardcore scene. their lives were so much more mundane and shitty. if you weren’t there, you don’t know what I mean. words can only say so much about what a feeling that was – to be my age going to punk shows in DC.

on weekends, you could go down into Chinatown and see these legendary bands from New York, or local bands, just fucking rocking it! there was the pit, the snake pit (Government Issue coined), the “mosh” pit. it was funny how this term mosh pit came into use. very clearly, to me, MTV gets the blame for this. in reality, a mosh pit does not exist in the hardcore scene. “moshing” actually refers to the mosh part in a punk/hardcore song, a sort of slowed down, more melodic section, when everyone just goes the fuck off in way that is more… gracefully macho. sometimes you’d hear a kid say, “oh here comes the mosh part!” oh shit! awww shit! here we go! this was the real deal when Judge was in town, Sick Of It All, or any of those bands. come on, mosh it up, motherfuckers! DC, let’s see what you got! all else is slamming. what a damn shame, though. mosh has become a household word associated with “going to see Metallica and being in the mosh pit.” MTV missed the subtlety of our underground scene and brought something else out into the youth culture.

I just took this silly online quiz, what DC hardcore band are you? One of the questions: what do you like best about hardcore? choices: you get to be yourself. it’s an honest forum to hear and exchange radical ideas. experimentation. there is just so much energy that you can let loose, vent, have fun, etc. it’s in our own hands and we can do whatever we want. it’s a good way to open kids’ eyes to the things going on in the world.

I just answered the one that got me being the legendary Faith. there is so much energy that you can let loose, vent, have fun, etc. out of everything, I thought this encompassed those days as truly classic, even romantic, and I don’t think that’s pushing it.

. . .

we were talking in the coffee shop about writing, having no style, or having all-style-no-substance. I think with myself, there is often a lot of self doubt. this can be warranted and unwarranted all at once. today I make no attempt to write out stanzas, which to my mind’s eye, are not approachable or cuddly. the coffee shop has these old library looking books that appear so useless and were put there on the shelf to make the place come off political or intellectual, which trips me out, the idea of trying to be something extra, to add value, enhance.

need a safe place to write and think inward, be with myself privately. meditate? meds. yes. Jim has passed away. a silent time sadness. park’s lovely weather. casey is into her new book, Feed. she keeps reading passages to me aloud as I’m trying to write this. sounds good, though, a quick read, as she puts it. I’ll probably rummage it when I can.

I want to start a fast typist’s club, a blog community – haha. not really. simply type fast sentences out. watch the paragraphs appear out of no where. in no time! chime of 1AM chimes! that old watch of mine with the rickety watchband. write like you’re fiending for crack. something like that. when in bed, listen to the spoken word, radio show, or Bodysong soundtrack. read in the bathroom! illuminate, to bring light to.

What DC Hardcore Band Are You?
what DC hardcore band are you?

quick thursday notes

there is a price to pay
you get into something
you don’t know what
that price
comes for you

an arrogance
swells red

on the intuitive aspects
top of the head

shovel coal

an upset, a feeling hurt

music playing slightly over management chucking it up with some corporate outside of door. typically insincere. this makes me more and more want to be myself. in other words, to just let it fly, not be like a little mouse. as I passed by, they were joking about a new age church here in town, saying how the materials we’re printing for them are pornographic. how is that pornography? I thought. again, didn’t challenge them on it; it’d get me no where. but how is that pornographic, fliers for some seminar on how to increase your sexual stamina or whatever? so many of us attribute anything sexual with feelings of guilt, something that may be done only in some hidden chamber, never talked about… don’t feel much like talking. I’ve entered a quiet state. I have next week off from school because of spring break, so I look forward to enjoying that time to myself more, and maybe writing more. perhaps working on a new project.

Cat On FormSet Them On Fire With Their Own Matches

cross a rickety bridge

after long sickness, cruise out slowly. appreciate the world scape that with head held up, able and wise, wiser. in my friendly evenings have returned to Neil Gaiman’s Sandman comics and horizons expand. I’ve big hopes for now and for later, writing poems, collecting stories from dreams and moving around a bit. march, month of my birth three decades back, the worlds and hard knox, experienced my third eye opening at an early age. headaches accompany. I gain the whole world upon inhalation, exhale the universe, at least a library w/ fines for books over due. cross a rickety bridge and make sure you don’t choke on your food, spit it out on the window. the book is out. the gods are angry. at me? at me? she said my God is strong. some gods are lovely.

words weave
it’s almost hard
not to
rhyme any more
I agree
I will not be
another white
boy who uses
the word nigga
I have too
much respect
and this would
make things
this is not
a petition
it is
I’ve left
I’ve left