baby steps towards a dismantling

it is possible to sway and ultimately change the minds of military men and women all over the country, and thus thwart the entire operation that is heading in the direction of triggering a man-made armageddon worldwide. their minds are meant to be corrupted in this way. let us go and paint the White House pink, what do ya’ think? mock the very idea of world leaders — presidents, kings, queens, snipers, and so on. these people need to lighten up. toss the hierarchy into the thorns!

the tomato carrot celery juice is basically rockin’ it right now. the free time is magical, is painless, is an evening walk around the whole park talking about the idea of getting into writing more seriously. we were both bouncing back and forth some pretty good ideas on it. we all need advice, encouragement, and support — or I know I do, at least, and I know a few others.

Fahrenheit 9/11 was pretty good, though I’m wondering why, in mentioning the Coalition of the Willing, does Moore stereotypically associate Romanians with Nosferatu? seems a bit insulting… and I thought, why not throw in that there’s a big possibility of a draft in 2005, stealing away many older people too, who would be surprised to find out that they qualify.

voting for anyone but Bush doesn’t seem to be the answer, either — since the other guy just wants to wreak havoc in his own way. while attacking the president’s motives and character is well overdue, that attack would further raise in entertainment value if it were a scattershot, attacking not just the man, but the entire system.

. . .

in America, the land of the free, they said, and of opportunity, in a just and a truthful way, but where the president, is never black, female or gay, and until that day you’ve got nothing to say to me… –Morrissey

. . .

when 60 minutes finishes up talking about the Patriot missiles – which are suck-ass weapons for missing targets, hitting wrong targets (friendly fire), firing off at random into open skies – they run another glitch of an interview on Moore, not asking him a single question pertinent to Fahrenheit. it was more like, “why are you rocking the boat? how dare you go up against the powers that be?” that sort of thing. they’d rather run cutesy exposés on road rage. the coalition of the wild-eyed, I guess, get the real stories…

MorrisseyLet Me Kiss You

“at least they are honest”

there are a few lightning bugs loose in the apartment tonight; the cats are unhinged. having just woke up, I’m entertained to watch them, read, catch some television, but again feel the pangs of hunger that come inevitably after having only a bowl of soup for dinner — and for dessert, chips and salsa.

I’m feeling run down, irritable, and in the general mood for destruction. I’m prone to outbursts and quips. I need to write more and figure out just what is the root problem. it’s that people are letting me down. they just seem to be in it for themselves. but at least they are honest. here, most people don’t even pretend to be kind. I can see a hesitance even in their hellos.

you can see in someone’s eyes if they’re selfish. this town is full of them, monsters-in-training driving into me with bumper cars. from across the street, they scream their heads off at one another with little regard for anyone else’s peace of mind. hollering “shut the fuck up!!!” out the window would only start a never-ending fire fight. the thin line of them staying out of our business would exist no more.

keeping quiet and polite, grinning and bearing it, putting up with all kinds of bullshit at work — seems to be the only way to survive. it sounds mediocre and sad. there’s so much I want to change, but can’t afford to. focusing on this causes nightmares, and depression during the day.

thinking “people are such letdowns and wastes of my valuable time,” tires me out. to focus on something else, something positive, isn’t always easy, but it can be done. at other times, the positive thought practically falls into my lap. it doesn’t have to always be forced. practice makes perfect. it also makes automation.

dial H for hunted

gone fishing for a good sandwich
slipped into a ditch and
came back up with
a sour look on my face
this all
caused by the chef with
the strange ideas

like that
my saturday
shaken like a rag doll
ran into co-worker Carol
at the grocery
said they were on
the hunt for me
even stopped by my house
looking for answers
since they have lost
my new cell phone number
five times in a row

fuck it-
give me a saturday and sunday
to myself
when I get in monday
give word of raise, back pay, and the like
friday –
spoke to the man
he hemmed and hawed
giving in
while he did so
I set a price and other benefits
he is to put it in writing
that he will “make it up to me”
admitting “I’m not paying you right”

the kind of guy that will
admit it all before you have
a chance to rebuke
because it’ll make him uncomfortable
in other words, he knows
he’s done wrong from the start

. . .

Monty Python and the Holy Grail
midnight showing
haven’t seen this joint
since I was a kid
and virtually remembered nothing of it
seeing it this way
as if brand new
was a great treat
many scenes caused
me to laugh my ass off
only the audience was
in a frenzy to
scream out every word
became rather annoying

. . .

I say to Win in a cheesy
way “don’t let go of your dreams.”
oh no, she says —
“I’ve already
fucked my dreams
in the ear”
they are
drunk off various
substances
weekend partying
boy I sleep
and read hours lonesome
deliberate and content
they think I
am anything but…
if they come to ask
why I am mad at them
I will immediately quote
to them from
Grant Morrison’s The Filth:

“The Filth contains the active ingredient metaphor.

The rectangular, multicolored comic books marked ‘The Filth’ contain 500 mg of active visual and thematic metaphor per issue. Comic books also contain the inactive ingredients paper and ink. Metaphor is one of a group of problem-solving medicines known as figures of speech which are normally used to treat literal thinking and other diseases. Metaphor combines two or more seemingly unrelated concepts in a way that stimulates lateral thought processes and creativity. Patients using The Filth are required to participate in the generation of significant content by interpreting text and images which have been deliberately loaded with multiple, overlapping meanings and scales…”

and win converts

. . .

after dinner sipped
from C’s drinks
which were very good
still my way
is sober

I have so
little concern with
trying to
build shallow
relationships
over any line
and kicking and
tormenting myself
how I fell short
don’t measure up
and should
jump from a
high roof
throw it all into the wind . . .

Promise Keepers bumper sticker reads: “I love my wife”
I will create: “Hummus Monsters — I love my freakin’ life”

a handsome antique mirror on the
back wall of the bar
glasses hanging upside down in Connect Four rows
E! Channel on mute
couldn’t make out what
they were talking about
forgetting to bring a book
I starred off into space
but remembered to
scope out the details of my surroundings
write about them later
living well is to
take in details…

get out of the house
some, get off the couch!
before the world
caves in on you

Baltimore days, part 2

the rooftops of Highlandtown…
the helicopters…
looking out the windows
at night
down at the rat garden…
my job at Sam Goody…
the bus rides
through the neighborhoods
to the harbor….
passing Gay St.
overthrown by porn shops…
Patterson Park where
I would go and
attempt writing the
last issue of Journal of Thought…
the Patterson statues…
remembering chanting japa
in the house…
the sweetness of the place
in the daytime when the
lights were out and the
blinds mostly shut and
just a little sun coming in…
that computer in the dining room…
Dharmaraja with his numerology program…
what was it, August?
no September, if I recall correctly…
the excitement…
the brotherhood…
my mostly screaming poetry
competing with College Park java machines…
Dave M’s Lord Jagganatha, Baladeva, and Subadra…
his great care and attention to detail in
dressing and worshipping Them…
Kara calling him “Shutterbug”…
my first night moving in…
sleeping in that big bed on the top level…
the music out on the sidewalk…

. . .

Baltimore was crazy
and driving us out of there
without our knowing

a lot of anger
on different levels

coming out
in different ways

. . .

I was happy
to be in good company
perhaps too happy

in the group
I most readily
assumed the role
of jester

it was hard to turn off
at times

this landed me
into trouble

I placed
myself in range

. . .

Dave H.
and I would
have great phone conversations

by the time
we were living in
the same house
(later a small, cramped room)
we were at each other’s throats
what happened?

“you changed” he would say
meaning: you’ve changed
into someone I can’t respect anymore
you’ve let me down. this is why I treat you
the way I do

I could argue what he knew of me
through phone calls wasn’t all of me

it’s like a couple making the rash
decision to get married
or move in together —
I brought the ugly mantle pieces
and the couch that clashes

perhaps other personal problems
of his own blended in
and while he was looking to me
to be one of his stable role models
I was acting like a goof
letting him down
fueling his resentment

I worried for him: his anger
was escalating, getting the best of him
sometimes he would be
crouched down
holding his head

what the hell was the temple
going to do about it?
they who would hardly notice
they who would say –
just dance it off during the morning program

. . .

I was asked to write an article for Cass & Craig’s zine
I titled the article: “Malice and Chains”
a play off of Alice in Chains (who I really liked at the time)
Dharmaraja’s best joke ever
was to say they made a typo…

by the time it came out in print
it read “Glenn in Chains, by Malice Burns”

Dharmaraja, you bastard!

. . .

these Indian gentlemen were some serious cooks. their breakfasts would have me knocked out for three hours afterwards. those off days when I didn’t have to go into the city, I’d wake up just in time for lunch to get knocked out all over again. Indian food still has the same effect on me.

one time they made us cake and ice-cream; we got so high off the sugar, we laughed uncontrollably for 45 minutes straight.

. . .

years later, I’m visiting Casey in WV. Chris and Dave H. just so happen to be there. we sit at a table in Govinda’s and enjoy a little reunion.

we are each cheerful and laughing.

we move on
let go of misgivings
and stretch our imaginations
to reach the inconceivable
teach the unbelievable
speak the re-speakable
repeat the delete-able
erase white marks on a white table
tell your
English teacher her red marks
are blemishes
that you are
fully capable

to this
vermin shoots
out her mouth
as answers
not translating
into anything streetlight deadening

blinded shifts of grueling
hardening shells
labeled work
stitched into moral fibers

liquid mirror behooves you

cut me some slack
pain in arm heart-attack serious
as a heart-attack
laying down taking a nap
across train tracks

perfecting a perfectionist side effect
this pays tribute to
days of B-more
up and down the map
Lombard and Pratt
that’s where I’m at
check it check it out

Baltimore days, part 1

circa 93–94′
I moved to
Highlandtown
in Baltimore
to be a part
of Chris Stain’s
stylish
Krsna temple
I left my job
behind
and he
gave me
the master bedroom
on the top floor
for 100 bucks a month
his grandmother had
moved out
into his parent’s place

we were sort of
revamping this
old townhouse
and filling it
with life
the best we could

there were roaches in the kitchen
and at night
I could hear in the walls
rats squeaking and scratching
claws over wood

a few of us
were living there
and we put on
evening programs
occasionally
for classes and
vegetarian feasts
(prasadam: food offered to God, sanctified)

good days
but hard, too

at times I was the
shoe-in for being
the blunt end
of a practical joke
or two
naturally I had
to swallow my
pride if
I wanted
to keep them
as my friends
and
I felt
I was above it
anyway — if they
wanted to humiliate me
and exploit my
trusting nature
it reflected on them
not me
so while they
were laughing
I was smiling
and moving on
wondering
what the next
practical joke would be

Dave pretended
to be
on a downward spiral
Chris told a tale
that he found
McDonald’s
wrappers
in Dave’s car
and was also
suspected of
coming home
late blasted

buying into this
I was
concerned
and the
hilarity of it
would be in
“how will Glenn
confront Dave
on this
‘sensitive’ issue?”

me
being me
I finally
blew up on him
very directly
blurting out
something like
“are you drunk often
and eating swine?”

. . .

wasn’t long till
we felt we
were devoted enough
to take that
next step
and move into
a real temple

myself, having lived in
temples before
I bitched against the idea
“we already
have something
very powerful…
the austerities there
will snap us”

this was taken into consideration, but quickly thrown out. the possibilities were too exciting. so I joined them. we left the house standing as a storage shack to be robbed three times despite barred windows.

. . .

ISKCON’s Catonsville
this was Dharmaraja’s doing, now that I think of it — a guy who lived close by and was hanging out, who we sort of accepted as our elder. I can appreciate it in retrospect, how he was pushing us to question things (and you’re doing this why? and why are you doing that? well what does that mean? think about that for a second, the definition of that word…). but he had an agenda in this not to help us, but to show us how deep and intelligent he was, and thus surround himself in admiration and “followers.” for some time we were intimidated by this person who was articulate and focused. he was the one who talked us into moving into Catonsville, and me almost out of writing.

for you, writing will be hard.
“it already is. always has been.”

your writing isn’t direct enough. it’s artsy.
he didn’t see soul and rebellion
he didn’t understand poems

perhaps Dharmaraja was an essayist at heart.

. . .

do this and this and that and your dreams will turn into solid gold. Dharmaraja was hot on the self-help circuit always committing us to Napoleon Hill books and the like. I’m not against this sort of thing, but some of it resonates as a little cheesy, and I can’t take it seriously word for word. of course, I can find humor in some of the smallest things and am one of the quickest to start wise cracking, even in inappropriate conditions.

he had us type out some of these quotes to tape on the wall.

as I had predicted, temple life was rigid. the four of us — me, Chris, Dave H., and Dave M. — were living in one room smaller than my current living room. it was not always easy. of course Winter was the roughest. Spring is the Bhakta breaker. you come out of your shell and want to leave for good.

tension in
this cramped
room
Dave H.
and I
quarrel
things are
not what
they used
to be
when we
would talk
on the phone
now we
live together
and he
often rags
on me
I find myself
looking
to hit
back and
cause damage
and there are
days more
calm and chill
but things
get said wrong
either one of us
can be so
touchy and
feel hurt

Dharmaraja
has Chris
fucking pissed off
a lot of the time
D. is always
so critical
always laughing
at you
for something
he’ll always
find something
it’s really
annoying

that solid quote
on the wall
today
Chris
turned it
upside down
and is
smirking
waiting to
see if Dharmaraja
will notice

. . .

the rat is not real. another practical joke. for weeks I thought it was real, but tonight the temple was roaring. I threw it from my chest a fake rubber toy, and was like, “shit…” ha ha. ya got me. I should be acting this out on stage. lights out for now.

. . .

the temple president wanted us to sign contracts, committing five years of our lives; this would provide them steady man-power. this never happened. we got sick of each other and started moving out, one by one.

a casting out of spirits

not many people want to read someone’s piece about how they are tired. it’s the end of the day and I’m more tired than 11 or 12 o’clock can make me. I need the kind of change that possibly a vacation could bring. my tired is something more serious than aches and pains by midweek. in gaps of moments, I feel ill at-ease, discomfort, uncertainty.

I try to be as silent as possible. written words come fumbling out. the journal is here for me to write all over it. today I did this. today this and that happened. I was a polite witness. today is reserved for doing this thing called a poetry reading. some of what I observed was a typical style of delivery that intends to impress an audience. “I’m so deep and word-spun. let me soak up the lime light.” today I noticed how tired I am of impressing people in flashy ways like this. the dilemma is that I do like to write, and I want it to stick with people, but I almost have to write as if human beings don’t exist, so that ego doesn’t interfere.

a public journal can become a nice mix of shouting and quiet notes of late night grumbling. snotty people can throw these pages over their shoulder for all I care. it’s going to come down to more poetry and that poetry transforming along the way — into something more alive, that will, on occassion, kick people in the balls, and on others, smack them upside the head with dud bottle rockets. there’s still a lot of writing out there that can entertain you like a movie theatre. I don’t know if I’m somehow going to become a part of that, or just remain a fan. I know for certain I will always be a fan.

I’m putting
it out there
as they say
inviting changes
some of which
will be beautiful
others painful
but essential
inevitable
scary changes
on the edge
always

a love of
writing
talking back
to myself
saying
“I’m seeing
some superficiality
in you
and you’ve gotta
get beyond it”

I know
it’s sobering,
brother

are you saying
what you’re
searching for
is to be
sincere?
I think that is it!
so sincere
it hurts . . .
which does
not mean
I want to
be
sickeningly
nice
and force
feed guests
canned food
each and every
visit . . .

silence wished into this to create a certain state of mind. I need to hear myself think. I need to find my deeper self continually. that self finds its energy and barely sleeps.

looking at things from the outside

dreams. I get caught up in them thinking they’re real. get caught up in my emotions like that, too. I think something is so real, and then like a bubble it pops in an instant and I’m left storytelling the pieces of it, moving my hands in the air. you know? like this, you know?

I was displaced
an obscure Texas town
on the phone with
my mom telling her
where I was and to
stay on the phone
still we lost
connection and I was
left explaining to a
very kind woman just
what the hell I was
doing in her living room
it had turned night
I was trying to gather
my ransacked scattered
belongings
this had gone from
stepping into a Dunkin’ Donuts
in DC
standing in line to pay for
one single doughnut
to everything changing
into someone’s kitchen
and yet
I believed it all to be so real
so vivid
awake I look back on
the details as absurd
and wonder how I
bought into it

the man who threw my coat and bag into the backyard, what did he represent? a liquid expanse, my belongings submerged, what did that represent? asking for help, was I too cowardly to dive in myself? there was a monster down below, wasn’t there? and such a quick nightfall!

what the hell?
get me back to DC, Roanoke, Philly
Baltimore, Laurel, College Park, Silver Spring
somewhere recognizable
before a
final departure

. . .

Saturday semi-broadcast

“your face is the manifestation of my mind.” I said this to Jaya once, sitting in a restaurant where someone was being really ridiculous or pompous or something and we were reading each others minds, laughing at the whole thing, above it, below it, outside of it.

looking at things from the outside.

if this were Showtime at the Apollo, the Sandman would be out here in a second kicking their asses off the stage. these so-called punk kids. they pile up outside the window and make me feel antsy.

good seeing
you again
at this
late hour
I’m going
to skate
off the loading
dock by
my lonesome

when I go home I’ll listen
to the audio ghost stories of
Zen and the Art
of Motorcycle Maintenance
imagining a camp fire
closing my eyes
drifting to sleep

I’ll salesman
guarantee
you
a
saturday
bridget entry
not making
a whole damn
lot of sense

we try to get out of the house like this. come down to the coffee shop, usually bringing our laptops for the wireless connection, and a few books. it’s nice to be around people every now and then. but it can be annoying too.

they want to talk loudly in large groups, drunk, maybe stir up some fights.

semi-broadcast from a downtown hotbed. c. picked an evil soda for the night, in imitation of the mango. I realize I need to go off alone and devise topics to write about so I can take this in a more serious direction. I admire all these other people for for doing it. it’s about time I set off…

journal entries

Monday evening – random act
dinner in the bakery tonight. that tempeh sandwich is amazing. waiter comes over and says: “your bill has been taken care of.”
“what? what do you mean?”
“someone payed for your meal?”
in shock, I asked, “who?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know them.”
I looked around and no one was looking in my direction. I put a tip down on the table and left with a huge smile on my face. this has made my whole day; if only I could find and thank this person.

. . .

Tuesday
strangely enough, co-workers have been a little friendlier — more so than usual. and things are quieter, less stressful. casey’s to come home from Boston tonight. Matthew and I are talking about my new book project. I really like the quality of stuff he’s publishing these days. he’s picking out pieces from LJ entries to be published on paper, and new things will be thrown in. anyone else is welcome to pick a few favorite selections from my writing on here, if they have any.

. . .

Wednesday
night at the coffee shop. they’re having a country ho-down in here. while Casey is loving this, I’m under the impression that she thinks I’m in absolute misery. but I’m doing alright. it’s not my first choice of music, but I give a nod to these people. I’m glad it’s going on. almost any music brings life in, and Roanoke needs a whole lot of that.

. . .

Thursday
rains in the evening. disappointed to find no one even there at the poetry reading. after a few minutes of sitting in the coffee shop, reading Transmet, the two of us are antsy and wanna take off. the guy at Swagat lets us have our samosas on the house.

job interview tomorrow. the excitement, just thinking about how I could be out of here and never seeing these people again, has pumped a strange adrenalin in me, causing me to act like a complete fool.

upset that I’m drowsy in the evening all the time. long days of work take a lot out of me, postponing my own projects. I realize it’s an excuse. but it’s a solid one — one for which I will have to find a cure.

we had a nice talk with our new neighbor about our travels, tours, going to India, how I got involved with KC, politics, etc. the more I explain my KC involvement, the more I’m able to fine tune in my mind the ups and downs of those days, the reasons for coming and the reasons for splitting. I spoke about patented responses you’d give to a person as way of explaining off accusations towards sexist statements found in the scriptures. you realize, “hey, maybe I am brainwashed. why am I defending this?” you’re not brainwashed to the degree that you’re squirrelly in the head, necessarily, but there is some indoctrination going on at perhaps a deeper level that is more serious, detrimental…

. . .

Friday
I’m going to
a party
one where
I get
to be
by myself
let the games begin
get away from
people
and clear
some cobwebs
the news rambles on
about R. passing away
my news is
I’ve already
chucked
each and every
president off a cliff
in my head
but the world
and its movie stars
still want to
go to funerals
and kiss ass anyway
you’ll find Mr. R.
at the bottom of
the canyon where
Wile E. Coyote fell
outwitted by
Road Runner (RR)
Ragged Robin?

come out with
guns blazin’
I saw you
on the Mississippi River
having a
good ol’ time
why’d you
even come back?

utopias turn out
not to be so grand
once you
start waking up
to things
and new
utopias are
sprouting

the “meek” inherit the earth

Saturday night
it is all about generating ideas for what I can write here and just how long I can keep my eyes open. the day passes quietly, and the town, being a dead one, does not protest the continuous onslaught that is mediocre living. the town sheriff bags groceries. my father writes back in return an absurd one sentence blurb about how I should worry about bad people who want to kill me because I’m not of Islamic faith, and moves on to discuss the local weather.

how’s the weather where you are? so I go and visit my mom and grandmom — celebrating my grandmom’s 92nd birthday. the three of us probably have the most interesting conversation of all time, about our ghost sightings, psychic knowing and predictions, the mind’s ability to store and retrieve, and so on.

briefly I mention the sun’s symbolism in society since ancient times. political powers knew to make their advancements according to the sun’s positioning; the public is easier to control in certain astrological time shifts than others. to this day we see sun symbols in architectural structures encircling water fountains and so on. these are not whimsically placed for aesthetic appeal.

. . .

Sunday
the day starts out with both cats bouncing off the walls. they must miss Casey. and when she’s here and I’m gone, they’re doing the same for me. Rudra does what I call “vandalizing.” I’ve never seen a cat do this before — he’ll get up on a shelf, push something off it, and then look over to see your reaction. once he knocked off a whole stack of books, one by one. Bam! Bam! Bam! this is when you know he wants to go outside. he was born in the right family.

. . .

Monday
true, our press person sucks. but damn! after I left on Friday, they fired her ass. they were like, “you don’t want to work full time, so we got a full time guy now. if you want you can come in on occasion to work some odd jobs.” she threw a job jacket at him and walked out. can you blame her? this is some typical DC craziness. I have to wonder if they’re ever going to treat me this way. it makes me feel a little uneasy. my boss better cough up the dough, that’s all I have to say.

stomach rumbling
poems about
dull rooms
the preacher
with a brain tumor
losing his
mind
preaching to
cows in the street
did you see
that one?

Yorick is about
to find out
he is not
the last man
on Earth after all

a TV show
on the flat page
better than almost
anything else on

or will these astronauts
keel over once
they breathe in
a few seconds
of the virus air?

why on TV do they
only show women
singing and dancing
in the streets —
I mean, it’s true many
women are upset
all the men up and died on ’em —
are they trying
to make Yorick angry?

notes from the workhorse’s bench

rainy friday morning with the same disappointment of opening my paycheck to find that my pay rate remains the same—over a month since I asked for a raise and my boss agreed. he did not say how much, or when. you just kind of assume it’ll be during your lifetime, you know? halfway through I mentioned it to him – bringing it up as haphazardly as possible, “are you still working on it?”—and all he said was “yeah.”

thanks a fucking lot, dude. I’m busting my ass keeping this place afloat for you, and you can’t even do right by me, even be straight with me? I may turn green today and start shaking the room to pieces. if so, I’ll make sure to take pictures.

. . .

I take pains
tell stories
like in
comic strip panes
move fast
in direction
speak in a
“you have
a call
on line 2”
voice
well put together
maintained composure
trusted
warm

my list goes on
decade by decade
going through
motions
making my
own waves
impressing upon
people
how fully capable
I am
closing out a day
counting out
the cash register drawer

selling another bonsai
tree at White Flint
and sometimes going
behind the partition
to lay down
on the floor for a nap
hands under my head
as a pillow

the tape plays
lessons on Russian
I repeat the words
embed them
into memory
hopefully I’ll get
to actually use them
Spanish will
be fun too

. . .

Boston too cold in the winter, you have my sweetheart for a few days — treat her with spring/summer compassion, return her to me gently so we can pick up just where we left off. it would be boring and miserable without her. not all Roanokes can be like you. but don’t get a fat head about it. you have your limitations like others. we did not in fact move here with any delusions that this is a thriving metropolis hustling and bustling along like a Philadelphia or even a Baltimore. my grandmother always said, “Roanoke is not a one-horse town. it’s really building up.” but what do grandmother’s know about how cities attract a younger generation?

. . .

I’m becoming a comic junkie. all week long I’ve had my heart set on pay day, going to comic shop and picking up a few TPBs. last night I slept in and skipped the poetry reading. when I woke up, I read a few issues of the amazing Transmetropolitan. now I’m looking forward to Grant Morrison’s new book, WE3. Here’s a discription from the Vertigo website:

The Incredible Journey meets The Terminator in WE3 — a heartbreaking animal adventure like no other. The eagerly awaited reunion of the white-hot team of Grant Morrison (JLA, New X-Men) and Frank Quitely (THE AUTHORITY, New X-Men), WE3 is their most ambitious collaboration yet — their own unique attempt to create a ‘Western manga’ — in a wild adventure that readers of any age can enjoy. They’re the ultimate cyborg assassins; armed with missiles, poison gas, state-of-the-art computer technology and unbreakable exo-skeletons. The government has spent millions to fuse the firepower of a battalion with the nervous systems of a dog named Bandit, a cat named Tinker, and a rabbit named Pirate. As part of a program to replace human soldiers with expendable animals, the U.S. government has transformed three ordinary pets into the ultimate killing machines. But now, those three animals have seized the chance to make a last, desperate run for ‘Home’. A run that will turn into a breathless hunt to the death against the might of the entire military/industrial complex. Prepare for adrenaline rushes and flowing tears as the world’s deadliest, most misunderstood animals make a spectacular, unforgettable bid for freedom!

I’m totally swept away in this stuff. imagine writing like that, collaborating with other artists and piecing together such an intense visual project like that… so many things to look forward to this summer!

heros

later I think
I’m going to
write a list of heros
and keep it
in my pocket

two heros
in hip hop
that immediately
come to mind are:
Mos Def & Talib Kweli

here’s lyrics from one of my fav. Talib songs:

The proud
Stand tall or don’t stand at all, c’mon
Uhh, yeah
Break it down
What we do?

[Chorus]
We survive, it’s more than pride
We stay alive, ready to ride

[Chorus] – repeat through intro

[Intro: Talib Kweli]
One two, one two yo
Aight.. put it down yo
June 21, 2001
Timothy McVeigh is executed
And the country breathe a sigh of relief
Goodness prevails over evil, it seems
Somehow when he’s gone, we feel safer
Little do we know

[Verse One]
Today the paper say Timothy McVeigh’s in hell
So everything’s okay and all must be well
I remember Oklahoma when they put out the blaze
And put Islamic terrorist bombing, on the front page
It’s like saying only gays get AIDS, propaganda
Like saying the problem’s over when they locked that man up
Wrong! It’s just the beginning, the first inning
Battle for America’s soul, the devil’s winning
The President is Bush, the Vice President’s a Dick
So a whole lot of fuckin is what we gon’ get
They don’t wanna raise the babies so the election is fixed
That’s why we don’t be fuckin with politics
They bet on that, parents fought and got wet for that
Hosed down, bit by dogs, and got blacks into house arrest for that
It’s all good except for that – we still poor
Money, power and respect is what we kill for, for real

[Chorus] – repeat through interlude

[Interlude]
August 4, 2001
A drunken police officer mows down an entire family in Brooklyn
The judge lets him go with no bail
It reminds us, of just how worthless our lives are to the justice system
I struggle, to explain the situation to my son, it’s hard

[Verse Two]
Niggaz with knowledge is more dangerous than than niggaz with guns
They make the guns easy to get and try to keep niggaz dumb
Target the gangs and graffiti with the Prop 21
I already know the deal but what the fuck do I tell my son?
I want him livin right, livin good, respect the rules
He’s five years old and he still thinkin cops is cool
How do I break the news that when he gets some size
He’ll be percieved as a threat or see the fear in they eyes
It’s in they job description to terminate the threat
So 41 shots to the body is what he can expect
The precedent is set, don’t matter if he follow the law
I know I’ll give my son pride and make him swallow it all (damn!)
Fuck the pigs! I think the pigs killed Big and ‘Pac too
If they didn’t they know who did, they got to!
Who they serve and protect, nigga not you
Cops shot off of ten G’s but they got glocks too
Let you protect yourself, or better yet respect yourself
Straight into the hospital is where you gotta check yourself
They be gettin tips from snitches and rival crews
Doin them favors so they workin for the drug dealers too
Just business enforcers with hate in they holsters
Shoot you in the back, won’t face you like a soldier
Kurt Loder asked me what I say to a dead cop’s wife
Cops kill my people everyday, that’s life

[Chorus] – repeat through final interlude

[Final Interlude]
September 11, 2001
Terrorists attack the Pentagon and the World Trade Center
Kills thousand and permanently scars America’s false sense of security
We see the best examples of humanity in the face of the worst
As fire fighters, police officers, rescue workers
and volunteers of all sorts, fight to save lives
The world will never be the same again

[Verse Three]
My heart go out to everybody at Ground Zero
Red, black, yellow, white and brown heroes
It’s more complicated than black and white
To give your own life is the greatest sacrifice
But it’s hard for me to walk down the block
Seeing rats and roaches, crack viles and 40 ounce posters
People broken down from years of oppression
Become patriots when they way of life is threatened
It’s a hard conversation to have
We lost kids, moms and dads, people ready to fight for the flag
Damn, when did shit get this bad?
America kill the innocent too, the cycle of violence is sad
Damn! Welcome to the world, we here
We’ve been at, war for years but it’s much more clear (yeah)
We got to face what lies ahead
Fight for our truth and freedom and, ride for the dead

Talib KweliRush

bad dreams

it’s one of
those days
when
I come home
and soon
hit the couch
not waking
up until
10 PM
when
I have
a nightmare
that C.
gives away
our smallest
cat Kalika
to a friend
in our building
without
saying anything
“she was annoying,”
she tells me
afterwards
I start smashing
my fists into
the walls of
the kitchen sink
crying my eyes out

I look at her
now finally awake —
my heart breaking
“daddy’s little girl”
I sometimes
call her
how proud I am
of her

I’m such a sap

joked at dinner
last night
how going to
see that movie
Two Brothers
would
“wipe me out”
I don’t like
seeing little bibbies
lives’ being
put in danger
even if it is a kid’s movie
packaged with
a happy ending

the fan is
flipping around
feeling good
spreading cheer

dad sends more
spam really
outdoing himself
this time (link bellow —
please feel free to
respond at great length)

this is a day of
bad dreams
but good comics
a connection?

SPAM FROM HELL

mind off of work

letting the world
know I
have a life
outside
of work…
a coffee
poem chopped
in half
by hunger
and a grumble
grumble
for Thai food
the new
opening
a spot where
you enter
and have
to pinch
yourself
thinking maybe
you’re not in
Roanoke
anymore

sun that comes
in heavy shifts
across to the other
side of the street
giving me a break

a friend and I are
swapping comics
Invisibles, Transmet
& 100 Bullets
hours upon
hours of reading

I wonder
who it
will turn us into
if we will create our
own origami time machine
and get
the hell out of here

pressures

what an utter disaster today is turning out to be. hoping for stability in this line of work is to invite devastating disappointment. c. doesn’t even have to ask any more; it’s only, “what did they do this time?” I swear, I’m baffled that these people can even tie their damn shoes in the morning. who helps these people get dressed? all day they go around yelling at each other, unable to figure out what went wrong exactly, and how to fix it. rule number one: write shit down! if you are a manager — for the love of God — write shit down! cross items off a list as you go along. don’t just throw a fit at the end of the day because you forgot five or six things….

no stability. it’s a scary thing. you want to go into work feeling good, live a good day in the span of that 8 hours. instead, it’s like going to a funeral. it’s dreadful.

woeful tales
you can tell
each person
wants to quit
but is bound in
unison

I have a love
for writing
and want to
make that
show in
very practical
ways

give writing
to others as
postcards
very
little flare

good morning
to you both
please don’t
look over
my shoulder
hate it when
that happens
the world
the job
everything
is going to
hell

a quick hell
then
heaven
again

I bring back
a piece of
brimstone
as a souvenir
hot off
the press

quickly I
return
to comics
and lie back
on the couch
and you
say I have
nothing
positive to
emit?

I promote
non-violence
pinpoint
fine silence
refine
timed defiance

grace the pages of…

pains &
pleasures of
a relationship
with a dual world

she talks him
into his
hip replacement

“June is here
and I can
hardly believe it;
this year is
going by
so fast.”

how old are you, and how old do you plan on becoming? where do you plan to stop? this important gesture, that you mean what you say — show the aliens you pray. upon abduction, perform mudras that promote non-violence for the entire visit. tell them you prefer a fine silence as you prepare a back-up alliance. pretty soon, you will be abducting them right back anyway. extra dimensional tea parties.

boss asks
wanna end lunch
and just leave
early later?
“no”, as
firm as
extra firm tofu
I will shuffle these
pressures
expert as
a chef on
an infomercial

the physical begins to mean less

went to the baseball field today — listened to a Wayne Dyer discussion, walked through the grass, took in a view of the mountains — felt close to perfection. close to my higher self, if that makes any sense.

fan swivel
a life
passionate about
brothers
and sisters
bunk beds
a dog
chasing you
you throw
a stick
for him

the notion
that you do
something
a physical
exertion

it really just
manifests
from you heart

do you
really care about
a description
of a writer’s
keyboard patterings
when it’s
said and done?

the physical
begins
to mean less

you are
after all
soul
not
soil
not
slain

tonight reading Transmetropolitan after having finished the entire series of The Invisibles. I must say, parts of it were over my head. Grant Morrison is a trip.

poem for the
wrist pain
little kitten slashes
pain of the past memory
of depression
that can not be
bottled and
put on shelves in GNC
but imagined
images
quick bullets
on a reflective
surface

with glee
she skipped
I was
at the fountain
listening
to the man talk
say wise
anecdotes
watch me
repeat them
one day

everything is
energy
but perhaps
my vocab.
is insufficient
or my
structuring
of a sentence

focus
intention
a reality
becoming
like a
sledgehammer
a hedgehog
a needle
drawing blood
for a doctor’s
jar
looks like
young man
you have
terminal cancer
and won’t
be around
for Autumn

sir, ahem
Dr., I’ve seen
plenty enough
and will
see
plenty more