18.3.09
yo everyone
so i took my original post down cuz that draft was wayyyy old and its totally different now. email me if you wanna get it for whatevs reason yo.
4.3.09
25.2.09
what i would need help with
nice seeing you all last night
my worry is that I have yet to find a clear and "legit" title to tie my silence with my critical thesis. As far as the creative part until recently i was planning on using a collection of my poems but I have doubts now. I typed EVERYTHING i wrote down on my notepads the past month and it makes this surreal story! I want to do something with it. It seems crazy but I like it. I read it high, i read it sober and I like it both ways. Maybe i find it good because while I read it, I remember exactly the setting and the people and it plays like a movie in my head....so i guess i would appreciate your honest and objective opinion. It is too big to post in one piece.
bear with me
kisses and awkward hugs
silent bob kerry's wife milf crash
lucky 13
Here's a mix of newer & older. Read at your leisure and write any comments below each. It'll be a minute before I post anything new.
Next: So outlines are in the works for all of us?
Jared, can you post what you read last night?
Stav?
Next: So outlines are in the works for all of us?
Jared, can you post what you read last night?
Stav?
O grapher, Selen
You continue to phase us with your ways
So dark and milk combined
Making trips grafting rays of marigold cycles white, chopping high celestial tree
You charter graphs in oblong routes amend a chart and slice a pie
You charter paths for catch phrases like, “Peace on Moon” preparing a place for us to rest
La luna mi amor, your predictive matters of unpredictable mass shift weight less
Objects like marbles protected moving motionless projected to the naked eye.
Your methods of mapping surpass the meddling of earthlings
We are mere cartographers with no field book of you
Your moments of flags and art of trash void in your crater
You are the greater heaven ripped magnetic tides binding
Our bodies to your waistband while showers shoot eyes out like meteor’d sockets
So dark and milk combined
Making trips grafting rays of marigold cycles white, chopping high celestial tree
You charter graphs in oblong routes amend a chart and slice a pie
You charter paths for catch phrases like, “Peace on Moon” preparing a place for us to rest
La luna mi amor, your predictive matters of unpredictable mass shift weight less
Objects like marbles protected moving motionless projected to the naked eye.
Your methods of mapping surpass the meddling of earthlings
We are mere cartographers with no field book of you
Your moments of flags and art of trash void in your crater
You are the greater heaven ripped magnetic tides binding
Our bodies to your waistband while showers shoot eyes out like meteor’d sockets
Assassinate the Subject
I dialed the author of The Autobiography.
He answered,
“To interpret a dream is to assassinate the subject.
His receiver picked up the acoustics of his locale
“You’re in a room with large windows and loads of sunlight, yeah?” I commented.
With oceans of silence between us, I malformed a paperclip
and began chewing some black licorice—
He broke, “Do you know the various uses of resin?”
I told him that rubber boots are quite suitable
for traversing hectares of lawn after a storm
or harvesting rice.
Apparently, not listening, he stated,
“Slavery without submission seems an oxymoron, no?”
I attempted to readjust the focus.
“How are streets named?”
“First,” he replied,
“you must have a decent appetite,
then you must choose a plantation, and finally,
exorcise any aloha spirits.”
“In my opinion, sir, I believe liquor and pineapple to be indispensable to our economy.”
“The problem is,” he said,
“not enough people have explored chewing tobacco or cotton balls.
It’s a waste of earth if you ask me—may as well murder a nun.”
“Indeed, spirits are necessary.”
In the mirror my lips were mummy black
and smelled of star anise.
Assuming a generic voice I said,
“We’re sorry, your call has been disconnected.”
I smeared gum Arabic over the mouthpiece
pasted strips of pages from the autobiography
sealing each pinhole.
He answered,
“To interpret a dream is to assassinate the subject.
His receiver picked up the acoustics of his locale
“You’re in a room with large windows and loads of sunlight, yeah?” I commented.
With oceans of silence between us, I malformed a paperclip
and began chewing some black licorice—
He broke, “Do you know the various uses of resin?”
I told him that rubber boots are quite suitable
for traversing hectares of lawn after a storm
or harvesting rice.
Apparently, not listening, he stated,
“Slavery without submission seems an oxymoron, no?”
I attempted to readjust the focus.
“How are streets named?”
“First,” he replied,
“you must have a decent appetite,
then you must choose a plantation, and finally,
exorcise any aloha spirits.”
“In my opinion, sir, I believe liquor and pineapple to be indispensable to our economy.”
“The problem is,” he said,
“not enough people have explored chewing tobacco or cotton balls.
It’s a waste of earth if you ask me—may as well murder a nun.”
“Indeed, spirits are necessary.”
In the mirror my lips were mummy black
and smelled of star anise.
Assuming a generic voice I said,
“We’re sorry, your call has been disconnected.”
I smeared gum Arabic over the mouthpiece
pasted strips of pages from the autobiography
sealing each pinhole.
Optic Chiasm In Order
What is my diagnosis
From seed—a bundle of nerve
I’m on a quest to find it
Our lizard self steeps
If ever anyone finds a need to critic
At the root of the brain
They will unfind anything to say
Our serpent spine
To need to quest for meaning
Sits hot & dry
My diagnosis
Slipping off skin
The critic needs to know
Silent coil at sunrise
That meditative technique to see
A rod of sulphur
What is inside of me—anyone
It circulates smooth around
If ever I find anyone
Evolving for extremity
It is me
Enrolling in ecliptic eternity
The critic
Scales height & pallor
My diagnosis
A cold wet moon falling into mercury
It melts to minus color
From seed—a bundle of nerve
I’m on a quest to find it
Our lizard self steeps
If ever anyone finds a need to critic
At the root of the brain
They will unfind anything to say
Our serpent spine
To need to quest for meaning
Sits hot & dry
My diagnosis
Slipping off skin
The critic needs to know
Silent coil at sunrise
That meditative technique to see
A rod of sulphur
What is inside of me—anyone
It circulates smooth around
If ever I find anyone
Evolving for extremity
It is me
Enrolling in ecliptic eternity
The critic
Scales height & pallor
My diagnosis
A cold wet moon falling into mercury
It melts to minus color
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