i love myslef

does just knowing how much extremer a life can be than mine make mines feel alright? i know what he meant, in that movie, talking about how life is a little more boring now, and did you breathe out at that too? so i can wait with shaky legs, coasting down a longer hill, windy cool and try to convince you that i'm a little wasted now on afew sips.

i resolve to let each one reminisce about a pathetic past time. i overhear, drunken recollections, so much more thrilled that way. me, sleepy, content enough for the boring ones. sweet little creatures, monkey boys, chickens.

just a minute now

looking back, i've noticed my dream has come true. not that kind of sprkly dream, no. but really, i thought of a scene, out ofknowwhere, and then months later look back on a month ago and it's the same one, but in my real memory. that other part.

my hand is quite leathery tonight, and aptly so, after trying to drag a social soul out of a treehouse with a television. i liked it up there, watching the leaves float yellow and brown, brushing against the romanticishesque ones of last year. quiet nights a year from then, kitten the bigger spoon. you were half dressed, and i was, and you too sleepy to remember hours in the lamp light. i woke up just in time, confessing uncontrollably.

a sad story

what i said was true

discover the beauty of distraction and curse its ephemeral charms; today i mean things more than ever.

the front porch is icy now

on the porch, downstairs, we sat and watched bugs in the summer, i got itchy. and upstairs i wrapped myself in a blanket, you smoked a cigarette, you didn't know why. we threw beer bottles into the alley, those of us with aim aimed into a cubby, or someone else's back doorway. we talked about india, about that train that changed the people inside but stayed the same through the time zones. i dragged the telephone all the way across the hallway, kitchen, out the screen door with an old fashioned doorknob. it was warm outside, i'd bet, and the wind blew into the stairwell.

youdon't call me no moreyou don't knock on my door

well. look here, uh huh. i have so many realizations daily, i forget most of them. at present i have several in my mind. i successfully conveyed the way in which someone magical to say the least conveyed how i feel about the sunshine overhead and the wail of a train rattle at my feet. so, sad, i vowed to put away the mind expanding book for a month or two. but i want you to read it! and you. but later, you'll be happier, i'll mail it then.

oh, but right, what did i realize? hum, well okay this isn't a realization either but i put my nose and face right up into nomi's fur when i said good bye to him earlier today, smelled him and missed him that instant. and this one. who else do i miss, now? i am completely alone but a teevee's on.

what do people do all day?

eight hours, at least, since i woked up for good, and what, huh, did i do? well, um. ate two cloves of garlic, sliced but raw, took a sweaty bike ride, thanking my lungs for their resilience after several days of suffocation, sleepy. hmm...i...read a book in the sun and re-potted cacti.

a list that would have been amusing but instead reminds me that i should forget all about it. tomorrow, we say, is a new day.

i feel kinda like i could vomit at any time

who reads this, really? and if you don't want to hear something like that, well, i don't either. but while most have the privelege of tuning out, and i do, as well..

yes, i feeel a little bit sick, but also so energized (by healthy food, what!) that i remembered how i know how to write, and i motivated my slef to do it. recent dilemmas, if you wonder what i have been up to, include dream analysis and how much to let on considering how i adamantly refuse to listen to anyone else's dreams (yes, it looked like i was listening, didn't it?) what else? um, how to gather a measure of my self worth when i can't do it in any of the old ways, and wondering if making lists helps any one little thing. or the other.

wondering why she don't obey to what i say, why does that crack me up? so many jokes rattling around, and if there weren't, then what? i watched j. mccain bat his eyes; wanting to do that myself. see how it works? my hair's okay, my legs, okay.

what did i just say?

in a few minutes i may or may not be in what i call a bad "mood". i have had a few of them today, but didn't choose to tell many people about them. maybe they knew, maybe from my eyes, sleepily half-closed, or i might have rolled them. no, i didn't. on the other side of the emotional spectrum (i traverse it daily, where are you for this?) many of my moods today were good ones. as i sit writing, next to a half wall of open windows, it rains, hard, and i run downstairs to stick the plants into it, avocado trees (babies), cactus, mint surviving despite a plight to kill it. did i wake up the others, did they half sleeping hear the rain and fall right back asleep lulled and warm?

i don't want to believe it, but i think that in spite of our genders, we are each sensitive and oblivious. i'm working on it. i miss a lot of people, and spend long stretches alone, forgetting all about them. except, that is, in the constant lull in positivity, wavering for a few minutes at irregular intervals. you know, though, something is happening now, and although i unfortunately try to explain just what it is, and daily, i don't quite understand it. at all. is it important? i think.

do i look slightly cross-eyed here? well, look, i have been working on somethings:

i been working hard

i realized last night and again this evening that i should have put this sumatran song on your mix tape. and i walked home on the brick part of the sidewalk on cumberland, the part where, late at night as i make tight fists and walk briskly, i imagine who might be lying in those black black shadows there. could be passed right out, or waiting in the lurch. what if i ran from him, i think, kicked his face, ah, with the satisfaction of self-reliance, and it turned out he was the last victim, waiting for a kind soul? but anyway, i walked there (it wasn't dark yet, and i didn't worry over the shadows this particular time) and imagined your walk, in your boots, that dress you wore the other night.

it's like i've been appreciating your idiosyncracies (i've misspelled this word, sorry) for twenty five years. i know, you haven't been alive quite that long, and i've only known you for one or two. but whoah, you're great.

the biiki machine

a new word with ohmy own spelling. i learned life lessons today straight off of the birdtheme.

asked, does that answer my question? laughed

okay, and something i can just ramble about here, now that i think of it: the most pervasive nostalgia, romantic and more each evening. the wind blowing into drafty windows, cool, falltime. listened to nothing, how? but leaves scraping on asphalt, wind again and cold air, running down a sidewalk to let you in the squeaky gate, closed windows rattling, waking up to curtains brushing against my face, back and forth, alone in bed, every night

one year before, blanker on the memories. i was closed in a room, wanting to walk in a door and feel alone, hearing wind rattle window frames, a dark bedroom with a window facing a brick wall, drinking whiskey in the kitchen. formatted a pleasing imagination

and one year's fall we sat on the rooftop i touched your elbow, a cashmere sweater. you touched my shoe and i felt it all the way through to my skin. we got cold, went inside. i touched your face in the fall, in the front yard, the leaves scraped again

still morning

things are looking different, well, back in town. trying to get mad, and lacking the luster for it. because, okay, i am happy. sunburned and healed, saltwater bath, sun sand wash. teeveedeedeeveedee drones, who is happy to be home?

i remember memories, actively and with purpose. like a certain dress, early mornings, rain when i enjoyed it, in it, accidental mentionings of trivialities, but who could forget the fuel for a most pathetic flareup? the sun will, every day and today, creep onto my windowsill. a betterway to waste it.

a few hours and i was ovverdrugged; and convinced, almost, that i liked it. riding circle for circle along the river, four years ago was a romantic time. the night itself, dewy, i think, setting the mood for the hours to come, sleepy dreams of idon'tknowwhat, completely unremarkable except that now i know my brain. not sure if i have a bad attitude, i wonder if i need to apologize. and although i could have slept more hours, the sleepy part of the night seemed lost, and i woke myself up, eventually. more dreams, coming through, mundane but notable, and you whimpered again, at what?

one article of cloth, morning sunshine hidden to lead me to believe ina cool day ahead, watched as someone watched me water the plants, new passtime for each of us), cold raining on my feet, muddy, dirt, sleepy eyes half closed, serenest part of the day

the most romantic things in life

if you get bored, of this, stop reading:
i have made a list for august, and making it i remembered back on a few weeks a few years ago when i woke in the summer sunshine and laid in my bed, with a bright pink blanket, while i wrote three pages of only half-awoken ideas (about the past, and more recently the night before, still coming back minute by minute) each day. i didn't manage to record a time of starting, but seeing back it sounds like i thrilled myself to pieces by sleeping through the late afternoon, waking in time for the cooled darkness, and slept until wheneveri liked. for days at a time, no, really?

a few years later, now. i have laughed to tears and just cried, plainly, todayy or yesterday. felt great, that range of madness.

what's your problem.

so, then, did you know about how the bikers (cyklers, you no?) pull their bloods out and put them back into the same body, increasing oxygen n read blood cells in their veins? i mean, really. that is true. what if i was feeling low (okay, i am feeling suchaway now, and maybe it's obvious that that is why i'm humoring myself with these absurd and inspiring thoughts) and could just stick the estrogen from my body back into my body, and feel it coarsing in, whoah, like a new million bucks. okay, this sweltering room is trapping my atoms. the fresh air is too hot, and what else is there for me?

humor me for a few hours. watch: i'll sleep, exhausted, and wake up like it never happened.

parch, ly dejected

trying to get some air, i encountered a spider, fat one, wrapping a fat red beetle in its webbing. i watched, knowing where my nightmare might come from. so why, now, does the other fat black one find its way to me, twice, like imma givim somthing he needs. cant suck my blood, hopes, cannhe?

things used to really seem so poetical, at times, when i had a more predictable schedule of mania. now, i praddel out somethings or anothers, keepinem to myslef, mostly, and m wandering where my inspiration's gone.

still earli

if you don't use, what?, you lose it. i often count things on my fingers, or alternately brag that i could, if i wanted to. so this week, what did i count? past youphemisms, still in the system, but that's not a very nice thing to say. i remember each and every thing about you, you, yous, i don't know if that sounds weird, but i do, and i quoted you, too.

you drove through fog, counted evaluations of a life time, wondered about last partings, morbidly. you watched as the suncame up, no, though, that was the lights at the car dealership, and the next town's too. foggy enough and not knowing which direction the sun came from when it did, imagined closing your eyes for a second and seeing what would happen. too sleepy to remember, knowing you crashed into the own bed, waking next to two kittens, after sleeping through the hissing fight, lovingly they wagged their tails. that was me, though, doing that, and where were you, sleepy?

the rest of the day, or two: bathing away two days of sleepy naps, one or two at a time, sunny sweat with a violet, while she looks around for, who? it's quiet, now, in my head.

loving to love yous

i know how to write two love letters in under five minutes. the words all mixed around, missing letters in the sweetest places.

when i beg for advice, idon't usually ask the questions, but if i did, i have a few, such as, do i sound SOooo depressed, could i appear five months pregnant to an unsuspecting stranger, don't you know it's this time of year, and it's happening to each of us? weather, maybe why, but it's sunny, crickets, foursquare dogwalks watermelon times now, in the prime, ants in a heyday bcause we're so sweet. sweet, sweetest sweetness, wasted on all of us, but if we commiserate, oh, let's, it seems so sweaty, bugbitten and tragic.

eventually, you had faith, i would come right out with this melodrama. tell me, the humblest in its midst, yours:

i just won't stop, this

a day has been productive. or, what is the word? get this: the wrong words stick on your tongue when you get em out of your mouth, and you might likely just use them again next time. i find such scientific research discouraging (oh, really, did it just take me a second to think up that word?) while i nearly constantly can't think of the right ones. this makes sense, really, but i can't explain how just now.

more to the point: my twenty-fifth year has me always noticing tiny signs of my constantly shifting selfimage. like today, i thought i looked a little prettier when i was holding a pretty baby. that's a joke. didn't i look good with that one on my hip, though? okay, really now. i just can't get serious.

w.ut was that?

many times, before i blog, i feel caffeine jitters and hence feel creative as well. more mellow this afternoon, i'm feeling slightly still hungry, sleeeeepy, and cool. ed down. hmm, what have i done? singulary experiences, i will attempt to romanticize here:

like this one, last night, screaming, maybe or maybe not. did i? with tears, and that anger feeling that i tell myself is okay until it might just start feeling good. that would not be healthy. just be angry at the anger, sad at the sadness, happy at the happy.ness. did you catch that other blog? i deleted it, and quick. last night, again, i found a deserted baby in a deserted car. carried her up a few flights of stairs and when i let her out of my sight for two seconds, some one placed her in the sink; she was happy there, splashing and clean.

for a week i had nearly constant notable experiences. like what? lying on a beach, sandy legs, fresh water, maybe, smelling a little like a turtle habitat. did i care? did anyone? who am i to complain about spending hours getting freckles, swallowing a few tsps of water while trying to impress somebody with my handstand?

i get so bored, sometimes. now.

it always does this

i like how this kitten makes a pillow out of whatever's around, even if it's only vaguely horizontal. i loved, in the shade this morning and just out of the cool sun, watching a baby's smooth, fat legs wade through the grass. whispering goodbye to all the passing cars.

i've got baby-sized hickeys on the freckled-most part of my arm, and the woken kit licks my leg clean of blondness. you know what else? the shimmery screen gives me chills in embarrassment, and some things that fall so cute feel too great. a little kitty, squeaking every time she jumps, looking at a bicycle in amazement like she might could figure out the machine.

last night i was bored in all except a tiny part of my brain by the way that alcohol slurred somebody's words around in the wrong order, and i laughed at the wrong parts of secretly funny stories. and, whoah, each best part of the night was that same face in my face, novel again and again.

i'd say there are:

many passtimes i should not be doing right now. sleeping, not one of the ones i should not be doing, but the one i am failing to do the most. ha ha. i use modifiers in excess, and starting tomorrow i just might try to remove such words as so very much from me mouths. tomorrow, what else will i do? moan, maybe, at my aching legs, but with pride in my complaints. drink coffee and watch a baby breathe, walk through the brush and bask in the over-alls.

every day i: caffeinate myself with varying degrees of fervor, prop open my eyes, proverbially, with toothpicks, and bat them until it's dark enough to drown into bed.

the train sings the same kind of blues

how comes i can't even really remember what year it is, and also why do i want to calculate extremeful trivialities in the passage of time? something about driving through the mountains made me an optimist, both ways, and as i listened to these few songs, i wondered who i was singing them to, and how, cause it felt like i really meant. it. i'm through waitin' for you, or, i must have been must have been crazy, crazy to wait on you baby. you know that one?

and also, i have become great at preparing myself for the worst, of news, of attitudes. and a pessimist, then, resulting from this new talent. also a great new talent: boring torture, passing time in most of un-fun ways, and ones that make me despise many things at that.

it is still the morning-time. time to turn this around. and, how?

oh hold it

i know how to waste time on surprisingly boring passings. do i delight in the boringness of them, or does it disappoint me? what would i rather be doing: moving between two or three rooms with near certainty that no one will come near me, or breathing fresh air into me lungs, encountering bugs and strangers and friends? tonight i really want to flake, on everyone, or almost everyone. i've spent enough time in the out of doors, cooing along with a baby that sucked on my skin by accident while we sweated through low brush, watched bunnies hop nearly as high as corn stalks, sweltering, breathing together through swarms of honeybees.

i have to say without bragging that i, personally, don't mind touching someone when i sleep. obviously it's a nice way to pass the time, at times, and at others i can't say that it would stressme out. this weekend i'm going to drink appel juice and coffee, in plentitude, and rest, in large quantities, within a good view of mountains and water. whoahisme. my selfimage will waver, for certainty.

without any intention in subtlety the bed creaked awake, our old skins in a novel clime. in front of the television (anothernovelty, oh) time passed quickly, sand in mouth. salt water in hairs, sticky and clean. a new combination of sandy beach smells couldn't permeate a perfumed air condition, but it seeped into my clothes and spilled onto my bed. in the mountains, novelty behind, i look, still, at the out of doors with the new eyes. the lightning bugs, still swarming, if broken apart could smear fluorescent on forearms. could brighten a mason jar for a matter of minutes, just til i start twitching, talking to someone who isn't there.

many best parts of the days: stinging saltwater, purifiant. unexpected fulfillment of a childhood romanticism coming back so suddenly that i could only barely enjoy the fantasmic effect, but the bare amt was big, yes. and sweetly, patsy cline sang on the sand.

so:

walking home in the ends of the sunlight, the sidewalk was dark but the sky bright white, somehow. lightning bugz swarming, more discerning with their paths, not so red-eyed, and quieter. i could maybe brag that i had a great attitude today but i can't take any of the credit. the solstice light dragged out, i claimed that today is my favorite holiday. now that the light has gone for good, the holiday feels over, and i feel ready to resign myself to wired and steady listmaking.

on my fingers i could count: anxieties, or alterations in chemical veins

i don't know about you,

with such asymmetries in my face, such trivialities feel like such triumphs. last week, what a difference, comforted by the mirror, in a certain light. while i slept i dreamed the endings of all of the possibilities of my day. the more soberly and subtly i ssleep, the more mundane the outcomes.

i walked with a scowl, but really, i tried to switch my expression around, felt inept and decided that one scowl from one sleepy-eyed stranger couldn't ruin anyone's day. i feel better now. i am better now, with pills that match my eyes, grab and drag them to sleep.

moose in ffwd

low blood and foggy eyes, yellowed in the sunglasses. and exhaling: a twitch in each part of the body, finger, legs next, and mouth and chest in one move. dreams of: ? gene hackman? and i'm imagining this, just this second: a sped-up vee-day-oh, nose twitching like a bunnny and fingers moving; a dance including thumbs and jugular.

a story from the past few days? a memory, this morning, driving darkened heavymetal, watching moonsetting and sun almost rising just across from each other. i remembered, as i listened to the cee-dee skipping, how when we used to sing along with fiona apple, our voices almost sounded like they sounded good. and i did it, again, sleepy and wired, overtired, like the babies moving their heads uncontrollably, unexplainably. sleeping, i dreamed of resolving conflicts that may not have even begun, bad news unfolding in the static telephone silence beforehand. i woke up, again in the morning, delirious and afraid i didn't have the strength to get to the coffee.

at the beach we're supposed to swelter

wondering if there's something in the water: the young-guns are afflicted. i remembered, last night in the pouring rain (out of the rain, though) a time when it poured from doorstep to doorstep, soaking puddles in through my shoes.

what does a celibate monkstress say to the drought, the sunshine oilrainbows on the steaming asphalt? with one gray dread on the top of her head, she scribbles pages of documents to whoknows where. she says, this: she's not on the global warming bandvagon, she ain't havin no kids, but my kids are, she says, and i need to worry.

why talk about the weather? well, everyone wants to: tell me how the puddle splashed and fell right down into the place where you separate at the bottom.

and i want to go home

or, this: overcaffeination: and i can't feel how heavy my eyelids really are, get accused of a night of drinking while i really just spent it sweating and pulling spider webs off my legs, bugs out of my hairs. several days of iced jars melting on sweltering sidewalks, that fan, ever the summer comfort, feeling instead like bugs and extra itching at that. okay, the bugs: enough with spiders, roaches, beetles, silverfishes. i'm needing a serious early summer attitude adjustment, cause i've only seen two weeks of them.

i liked my old, predictable schedule of madness; a new one, with possible origins: heavy eyelids, pink shades of home decor. and i wondered, what? is that really a beautiful face i'm making? the upsides to the dogged days: short shorts, chlorine water bleach smells, watermelon for a meal.

more indignant than ever!

in the morning, miraculously, pathetically, i was pretty again: a compliment on my sleep-styled bed-hair, and reassurances of just how unlikely occurrences can be. and caffeine. i laughed, i walked outside, my old self, maybe.

i sometimes can't quite stop appreciating how much i enjoy waking up in the morning-times. like today, looking forward, even, to this: being reminded of my first computer, waiting all night long, while i slept, for maybe twenty pages to be printed. slow-ly. and now the keyboard feels kind of slicky, and i'm becoming obsessed with washing my hands.

what else? oh! this: i rode in the sun yesterday, heard the cicadas and thought that sound to be too loud, put it into my ears as a sound coming out of the headphones. and when we stood in the sun beating down, they swarmed the trees; i could count a hundred in two minutes. smacked into us, confused and nearly blind, likely, red eyes somehow lethargic and harmless. childhands full of crawling creatures, and they didn't seem to mind, didn't notice, maybe, even. as i started to ride away, clouds were gathering, and i watched one fly out of a tree. the sound had died down, almost not there anymore. a car zoomed by (i could have yelled obscenities) and smacked it, big bug creature. the cardriver didn't notice (no, really?) and i did: i watched, it hit the road, skidded, rolled, buzzed to a stop.

d.a.r.l.i.n.g., all of it

i can torture myself in oh-so-many-ways. calling it now my newest, specialest talent. yes! i know that specialest is not a word! sometimes i feel like the specialist speller.

i think of other things, and quite easily, once i try, slightly. this morning, sleep deprived and sticky, and hungover, i guess, although i'm barely sure how that could have happened, my fingers shook while i mixed something. i forget what, and believe me, it's completely irrelevant, as is the way that i spent the subsequent hours. beside the point, all of this, really.

this afternoon, again, i am not at work

maybe i could be working my finger-tips on an arts&kulture blog; prattles of mundanity string along. i have found: three fourleaf clovers. the first now in a book, maybe forgotten but with nowhere else nearly so logical to go. the second, lost, likely, but in a supreme gesture. third in the mail tomorrow. to you?

so i suffered and suffered, cursing the poison and willing it out. i pounded my fists, really, and was kissed, after all of that, a thousand times, through my hair, even. and again, thank goodness, oh my, the newest day came.

no complaint, here, but the song still kept playing, and i sang it like i liked it, over and over, until i realized, slapped it out, and sang lover's spit to drown it out. irrelevant. time now for libations: wakk-y wednesday.

in factuality:

i used to use capital letters, in my first blog post. now it's like my fingers have gotten as lazy as my mouth. you know, i wish the song playing on repeat in my head would turn lazy like that, and quiet down or, better yet, warp like they do it on the tee-vee dee-vee-dee.

and to return, briefly, to the aforementioned guru (robert motherwell, if you're just dying to know), he tells me so proudly, and with such authority, that painters have a language, but that they don't even know what it is! they just start painting, and not knowing anything of what will emerge doesn't even begin to discredit their genius. imagine that, and when i do, i just sit down and begin.

this day has been: incredibly long (not as long as yesterday; yesterday was twenty-four hours!)

feeling is: consequently enjoyable

some people thinks it's fun, you know, to get annoyed? and i almost did it, on purpose. now, here, i am not waiting on people anymore. i am brainstorming creative ways to waste the day, have begun my afternoon in the swatting sunshine. i learned, while somehow i did not waste time at my dead-bet, dead-ened job, the difference between feeling and emotion, according to the should-be guru of my wanton life as an artist: the emotion, in short, carried like a baby in the womb, while the feeling, paling in comparison, is the warmth of the day outside; the feeling outside setting off, all of a sudden, the emotion inside.

i find myself so overly credulous when reading this. he himself even says, maybe this writing has no validity; i'm attempting to explain how i feel about feeling. me? i've never wondered about the difference, and this resonates with me, too.

the next day, again

a salesgirl tells a man, in this story, "i talk to you in my head all the time". he holds open her glove for her, or a mitten, a red one. rambling in ink records so many more small and otherwise forgotten anecdotes; in my efforts to be vague, i wonder where the attention to detail will jog my future memory. that one thing that happens, though, where i remember remembering things even since a wind-up toy in an otherwise forgotten hallway, can surely help me repeat the associations and recall even that sweet little thing. i may have to break down and write it into thee old idiary, because i know i just can't say it.

another thing i remember: the power lines, and knowing that they spoke to something dead, belittled as i put them into print, and only treasured years later as they still meant just the same thing. sixteen of them, maybe, lined up just where i couldn't not see them, before lights started to go out.

earlier in the day: drinking mexican coffee, wondering if you like my outfit, being reminded to be embarrassed of a thing i know i must have done but just can't recall. remembering a line with no memory of what it meant, its origin destroyed in little fanfare: i am falling off the proverbial bike.

lullabies 1

and, cleverment is humiliating, and what isn't lately? i could make a list: shoulder shrugs, neck rolls, olive kitteridge, breakfast. babirds (i meant to write babies, but apparently have birds on my mind). someone drunk across the way likes birds too. what do i like?

being me is easy

i was dehydrated this morning but wanted a jar full of light brown coffee so bad, and had it, and sweet iced peppermint tea. i dreamed, scattered hours, almost, and felt pleased at my mind for imagining things so clever. when we were awake, when i slept, i felt the same, desperate, and his mouth was there. the lover's spit: wow.

and (no, really): another baby.

blog lives

all the animals are here, with me. me? i'm shaking, and sweating. five oh-clock bike rides? i just ain't in a big enough hurry, i guess, and right after a story of motorcycle death, rambling my detestations for drivers. another ride, survived; can i survive two cups of coffee? uh huh, this is the problem. why am i blogging? i should be eating.

how apropos

so, more babies coming, and from where? faces turn white, and they're tracing their last five months of steps. entertainment almost lost on a little creature; head flailing. and joy.

yester-day i was really just so bored i couldn't even blog. all day: staring and watching, getting paid to atrophy my brain and my positive mental syndrome. to-day, a whole new one!


the only production of yesterday here:

radio murmurs
baby bird opens his eyes
rambling of juntas

proud all in blackbets

so why why why why why does it shift (it? vaguaries bore you, do they?) on the course of a rainy walk, subtly and steadily? soggy boots, wetwoolwarping, and then, this: [if i reveled in bad days, as i sometimes resist not-doing, i'd find it almost perfect] splashing through a puddle, slowly in my shoes, no harm, almost home and almost dry. a car, or, no, a person in a car, protected thank god by steels of ambiance. and splashes me, the big way, looks maybe back to see me scowl. but just for fun, i admit. i get inside, sun comes out. i blog.

also, this:

i've spoken too soon: this morning, walking with something onmydress. look-ing down, up, sky smelling like honeysuckls. downward: the twig split into two, but this time, pointing backleft, backright. what did it mean? (and i mean to get an answer here) 

back to bed, most likely?

a sorelorn hobbbie

the blessings are in disguise, but where are mine? i count one, two, three. up to ten maybes on my fingers if i wanted to. and maybe i do. the sun's outside, the typewriter's just inside a sunny window, collecting pollen dust; and me, where am i? the internet, oh! it waits just there while i plan my own high-stringing. i get smart, wide-eyed, and find you, one by one.

my ego thanks the bird in everyone's art else's than mines. they just get right in there, and oh it's pretty. instant. metaphor, and go.

omg-like

thanks to the stumpgrinders for making my windowsill sunnier; time's a waste, and what other past-times do i find?

my mama blogs about looking down, and when i have, i've seen sticks divided in two, pointing left and to right. looking to the horrorscopes for help, i learn to plan for the next eight years, but i only get as far as tomorrow's breakfast and counting quarters. now that i avoid the kitchen i don't listen to the clock tick nearly as often. i get on onetrain oneperson, and descends une autre le meme.

spit in the eye; identity theft: thirty five years for saline-ated impudence. now he waits for the disease to set in, fuming, de-noculated. but, oh! avenged.

big hardbreak

circuitous provocations, walking away from angry instigations: the tricks i taught myself at the tail end of my juvenility. i've got a bad attitude, i guess, or i like to pretend that i do; i'm working on it. (PMA, inc.) why say brickbats when really you just mean bricks? bricka-bats of bread. hurtling through space.

my dreams: topless on someone else's front porch in the ay-em. handed a phamily photo. in(sur)mountable blasts from my sorted past; i saw you, and you, and you.

The Name (by Louis Jenkins)

Instead of an idea a name comes to you, a name that no longer has any connection to the owner of the name. It sounds merely rhythmic, musical, exotic and foreign to your ears, a sound full of distance and mystery. A name such as Desmond Tutu, Patrice Lumumba or Menachem Begin. You forget the names of acquaintances and the name of your first true love but this name comes to you. It repeats like a tune in your head. It refuses to go away, becomes a kind of mental mumbling. You say it to yourself over and over. It is your mantra, "Boutros Boutros Ghali..." Then suddenly as it came, the name vanishes.

Deep in the night, long after your own name has flown away, a voice wakes you from a sound sleep, a voice clear and certain as the voice that summonded Elija, saying "Oksana Baiul."

and also, these, less famous, funny still: Glonnie Turbyfill
Errol Dunkley

the first is my mantra. the latter, Andy's.

yum yum morning times

since i've lost most of my priveleges here, i've spent this morning at work penning my blog entry on strips of receipt paper, and looking for new words by rearranging the letters in signs i see on themilktruck: getmilkloseweight. milkburnsfat.com (bratsclaimfun.kom). i drank milk in my koffee but i think the kaffeine is helping me lose weight more efficiently; i can't stop shaking. yip, yip. i slept three hours, can't see straight. but i feel clever.

and i didn't mean to seem charming, but i somehow gave a man two coffees for the price of three-fourths of one. incidentally i dreamed about serving this same grey haired man coffee a few weeks ago. last night i dreamed i ate a blueberry muffin. weird. i am wasting my time. my dreams bore me.

wai guru

i tell my mom of future plans and she thinks that they sound familiar.

as of now, i need a mixer and a baking pan, and i need to find them in the next hour or so. but a baby's coming over, and i bet she'll want to paint. paint. paint.

summer basketball babies pound cake. my blanket is out on the roof.

theBabyMachine@gmail.com

what i mean to say here is that considering that i do not have a myspace account, so to speak, it has happened upon me quite often today, in anecdotes and otherwise. first of all i got angry upon hearing about a dear friend's idiotic ex posting a naked picture of himself atop a waterfall on his myspace page. that was depressing for her and, hence, for me. my friend max has been calling me for a few days, leaving messages and telling me that he needs my email address. he has started a band, and they have a song called "Patty Jean". Absurd as it sounds, I wondered, as I listened to it, if it is named after me. of course it is, or else he wouldn't have been calling me repeatedly so that he could email me, "Hey Patty Jean, I started a band..." It's pretty good, underwater mumble-pop.

by circuitry i looked at max's friend's myspace page and read all of her blogs because they really just crakked me up. and i was inspired to write one of my own. however, i fear that the three people who are aware of the existence of my blog are bored of checking to see if i've blogged. cause i never do.

A More Limpid Union

I know that a poem exists somewhere, and that it starts "Oh, won't you something my something, my something something oranges" and it ends with the word "oh" again. When i tried to recite it, sweetly, it sounded only like a pleiad of indescript umthings. un-things? Somehow the meanings came through and I liked it, I likes its vagaries, but I only wish I could find it.

My vocabulary is growing too ambitious for my britches today; pleiad, indescript, and umthing are, apparently, not words.