Haven’t done any cre­ative writ­ing in a long while. Years, in fact. First, I ran out of gas and inspi­ra­tion from being too immersed in the poetry scene, and then, life inter­vened. I stopped writ­ing poetry reg­u­larly in June of 2007 (By Brakhage), only two poems since then (Tide Line, This Domin­ion), both over two years ago. They’re […]

I evict. The most I must kill is a mouse. A rat. Just a tray of clear glue. And then squeal­ing. It is said: dirt is mat­ter out of place. How long did it wait, unknow­ing, for me? Unable to free its paws. I need pli­ers to clean it. Reset it. It squealed. It took three blows of my hammer.

13 weeks after tears and trep­i­da­tion, it hap­pens quickly. You wrought to sound; she the seashell woman you hide inside. The day you first spoke to me; I put my ear to our blood ontol­ogy. like first steps, like the sea.

Hol­lowed, the body upon a table; no verbs for the inan­i­mate, a cicada shell. And men in long coats have removed them; peeled flesh — skull over face — sawn through bone crack­ing wal­nuts for the meat inside; each soft and hid­den part apprised; the inside of your breast, the open boat of your body sprayed clean of gristle; […]

For Cleve­land So that oth­ers need not fol­low my exam­ple. So that we may no longer be called Job’s chil­dren. So the spoor of our smoke­stack heart can be impaled by its steeple sur­rounds. So there shall be a reck­on­ing. So what buoys is more than mem­o­ries from a gen­er­ous pour. So sin­is­ter becomes dex­ter. So […]

I’d com­pletely for­got­ten that April is National Poetry Month. Usu­ally I throw a con­test and try to write a poem a day, but I’ve been so damn busy lately that it com­pletely slipped my mind. I would offer a poem by way of apol­ogy, but I’ve got to get going to a meeting. Woops.

a wry­neck for ronv and James Agee When our best effort grips no pen, last-​falling ink illeg­i­ble; When decon­structed grins edge tooth and bone; When graves or ash scat­ter truth; When the day drone mutes; the night downs around; When the fluted thrust of grass or hands evade autopsy; When: for­get roses; When the breath bank­rupts and hours […]

a wry­neck for Was­covich If we were rust broth­ers before the rain and salt Before there were no scarci­ties of tanks to tread Before the slow toe ware­house of sound was a real knife in my head Before the shine of steel nativ­ity Before we trussed the tracks for holo­caust Before sanc­tity for­est mur­der black-​coat cacoph­ony If we are rust, brother […]

Prob­a­bly my favorite thing about Rafeeq is that he tells his truth and damn you if you can’t han­dle it. The other night at his read­ing at the Lit he told us that unless we write from per­sonal expe­ri­ence and belief our stuff is going to con­tinue suck­ing. I’ve been really strug­gling with writ­ing lately, […]

I signed up for a mem­ber­ship at the gym two blocks from my work­place yes­ter­day and got up at 5:30am this morn­ing and rode the 23 in for my first work­out. I feel like I’m in the worst shape of my life, and I likely am, so I made sure to take it easy. There is a room where they have […]

At first, a hip sway a bough bend­ing in the wind reit­er­a­tion. Fish­mar­ket lovers wrapped in clas­si­fieds fin­ger­nail col­lar­bone leg slide naked, up past our bed­times. Our laugh­ter has sticky fin­gers and a sud­den sun­rise. When I look at her I feel like a man. That old crutch called objec­tify. Still, when she talks I lis­ten— as if words mean more when she […]

I lib­er­ated this idea and made lit­tle books of my shorter poems. I didn’t want to invest too much time into it, and since I’ve been going through another Eric Gill phase I thought to make it a lim­ited edi­tion. It is a lim­ited edi­tion of 25 +1 and I’m going to sell them at $1 apiece tonight at […]

The city is tired and the peo­ple are watch­ing tired of watch­ing the city’s col­li­sion bend sin­is­ter, with the same sor­row and the same song and the same some­times. We, the city, har­rowed, the valiant hence. Kook­abur­ras watch and laugh and won­der why noth­ing hap­pens. Why time is laconic; abrupt. Per­for­mance note: Wear “who the fuck is tremont?” shirt if read­ing. This needs to go […]

Since I know a bunch of peo­ple who do Meet The Blog­gers they asked me to come to their silent auc­tion and read some poetry along with 10 other folks. The space was in the amaz­ing Tower Press build­ing, which also houses Artefino. The first floor artist spaces are reduced rent [$625/​mo], but for the most part […]

Because I don’t watch TV, all women [except skinny ones] become more inter­est­ing. Peo­ple ask: “How do you keep up with the news?” and I say “She could use another 10 pounds.” At the creek I found the older boys’ stash of beer. Cans sailed over rocks like drunken philoso­phers, beards float­ing on the water. Induc­tion and alco­hol spilled […]

Take my advice; tell a story. Two men set across a val­ley, have many adven­tures and return home safely. If you still have loose jaws after— that is the moral there remains a caul­dron inside you — your speak­ing grew less or more than you wanted as I grew less or more or dif­fer­ently than she wanted. Who is she? My mother […]

Hate breeds Hate. I write catch! on a shell and throwit at the­Fu­ture. pass it on play Death Tele phone the only game where last picked is best.

I went to a cabin in back-​country Penn­syl­va­nia this week­end to read poetry. 4 Tremont folks [Kate Sopko, Nick Traenkner, Steve Gold­berg and me] made the trek out to a cabin in Rock­land to stay up all night and share our stuff with other writ­ers. The guilt-​by-​associations were all through Kent State con­nec­tions and smat­ter­ings of accom­plices from elsewhere […]

chil­dren stone win­dow har­ing off. — — — - v2.0 chil­dren stone win­dow har­ing off. laugh­ter time is laconic abrupt. we ex/​ins/​res/​pers –ist in singularity .

–for Nick Traenkner There is alco­hol in me tonight, alco­hol and yes I have breathed in smoke and breathed it back out out to you sur­rounded by words unc­tu­ous, bom­bas­tic, evan­gel­i­cal. Dress me in horse hair, the hair what was once a horse and a belt of leather from what was once a cow so cos­tumed words take on […]

–for Eric Alle­man He works at the Record Exchange. I didn’t know this until I saw him there. I knew him despite his lost play-​off beard. He did not know me. He was not friendly, this man of intent ges­ture. His voice: a thumb hold­ing your face to the wall. Out­side you hear some­thing howl­ing. I’m writ­ing poems about poets I’ve seen in Cleveland. […]

I am going out­side and there is noth­ing you can do about it.

race­car rraceca ace­carr race­car cecarra ace­carr weres ecar­rac cecarra awari car­race ecar­rac rends arracec car­race rraceca arracec Writ­ing some­thing where every ver­ti­cal and hor­i­zon­tal is a word is much harder than I thought.

flckr shdw ftprnt thndr rmbl trnchct wckr rstv bmbl b wnch thrt cght cgh mth rhthm pm slp drk ngl wth grs fr wngs Do me a favor, buy some vow­els, fill ‘em in above and tell me what you think it says. Y’r m gn pg.

I have always been bet­ter at tac­tics than strat­egy and I’m not try­ing a new tac­tic at poem writ­ing. Instead of putting it down fast­like, I’m work­ing on it micro-​sized for the mini-​times a milli-​muse comes stalk­ing. Writ­ing by attrition.

Mar­tin Luther King has got bet­ter things to do than put his hearse here.

You are pretty with birds on your arms. One day I will star­tle them and they will carry you into the sky to see the heart laid out below and feel my smile in your hair. v.2 You are pretty with birds on your arms. One day — star­tled into the sky — A heart laid at your feet […]

At Ster­ling Pond the reeds are old women whis­per­ing; the red­winged black­bird a priest with a martyr’s stole. It will not cease to preach nor the wind kill its wild ser­mon. This is where you were beau­ti­ful all those years ago, when we walked along the shore lis­ten­ing to small waves and tree frogs, hand-​in-​hand. When we […]

My first key had no key­hole but I felt grown up any­way. I had respon­si­bil­ity now, and secrets though even I did not know what lay behind its lock. I would play with my parent’s keys and ask them to tell me sto­ries about each, this one opens the door to work, where things I wasn’t quite grown up […]

for Megan I don’t trust the post­man. My let­ters arrive in a cer­tain order on cer­tain days where the shad­ows of limbs cross on the mail­box like a lock. I never hear him arrive; I try to watch for him but always some­thing makes me look away — Nicode­mus want­ing water, flick­er­ing leaves, a strange noise from my other room — and a full box […]

He sad­dled his Sop­with Camel and went on a milk run for some cheese. snap trap! No more Ace in his hole.

Billy the Bully, a school-​yard ter­ror, likes lunch money shake­downs and pulling girls’ hair. He’s mean and mad and rude and big. Even the teach­ers think he’s a pig. But I’m his friend.

Sisy­phus and Tan­ta­lus are arm-​wrestling on their cof­fee break. One has cracked and dusty fin­gers hard as rolled stone. One has algae in his hair and lips like the Gobi. Sisy­phus is stronger, but Tan­ta­lus talks good fish– tongued trash. They’ve got a bet. Each wants what the other has, but break time is over. I haven’t written […]

When the siege and assault had ceased at Troy, Aeneas paid me a visit. I offered him some plan­tains and he told me “veg­eta­bles are what food eats.” He strode around my wat­tle and daub, gri­mac­ing. Pulled on white gloves as if it were inspec­tion day, my bil­let a mas­ter work of jack­leg engi­neer­ing. He asked if I was […]

Every ime I wri e his ll of he s, s, and s dis ppe r. I hi k here mus be e er hidi g be ween he li es.

A great cloud of smoke hanged over town. The color of my mother’s lungs, orange-​dawned sky, white birds rav­elled like thread. The Goodyear clock hadn’t been lit in months and even then it only flashed the wrong time.

Okay, so Tom Waits, Roberto Beg­nini and John Lurie are in a jail in Lou­siana and they’ve got one cig­a­rette left. The con­crete walls sweat with humid­ity and the mat­tresses stink like stale sweat and dry urine. These guys have one cig­a­rette and a pack of cards. Beg­nini don’t play gin and Lurie won’t play spades. […]

oh, [it is like leap­ing once from a moun­tain, then kneel­ing at the earth’s core; with wind still whistling past your ears] yes.

I have cut them three times and they are still too short. I will force it. Save me a dol­lar my matreshki, work big­ger in smaller. When I steal your sheep, thank me for doing it. Say: “Ver­ily! Ye cor­po­rate gods.”

jet fuel does not burn at first; there must be that first spark there must always have been a first spark, like when we greeted each other our hel­los col­lided and there was a flash but no clap of thun­der though there should have been and the sound of trum­pets or at least some­thing more than just hello. […]

The entry­way always smelled like some­thing rot­ten in late sum­mer. We didn’t have time to do more than wrin­kle our noses, Billy and me, those double-​glass doors with the wire inside were just part of the dis­tance between mom’s apart­ment and the street out­side, like the torn and curled rub­ber on the stair­well like the […]

¿ is a naked light­bulb always a good idea – When she walks her hips curl like smoke and back room deals – old now bent like a ques­tion mark – she bends from ? to ! in his arms then . – imper­a­tive? imper­a­tive. imper­a­tive! – What you say? Just a lit­tle experimenting?

there is a caul of dust on the stairs where, past his bed­time, he used to watch free­dom through ban­is­ter rungs the feet on handme­down paja­mas too large; sleeves too short. he still won­ders what they meant by “you’ll grow into it.” If you can’t tell already, this is speed poetry week. I’m spend­ing ten min­utes or less on […]

When the bell rings he comes from all angles, short water drop jabs to face and shoul­ders; feet cat-​confident sly-​eyed with years of train­ing. later, a sin­gle upper­cut under­cut slips by and while he takes it stand­ing, the judges declare defeat by deci­sion. This one goes out to any­one who has ever worked extremely hard for […]

rail spli tter tall like pine thin like reed lick any man that will wet his horns. you’ll talk’em down first if you can or if you cain’t you’ll put fire on the moun­tain and in our bel­lies teach us to speak lead lead us to speak of your speak­ing as of prophets and mar­tyrs you were all of […]

heart­beat hear eart h beat be he r ear art bea r t he hea t I woke up in the dead of night, and for once it was com­pletely silent. No changes in air pres­sure from the fur­nace caus­ing the duct­work to flex, no rat­tle of my upstairs neighbor’s fur­nace, no truck rum­bles from 490 or creaks from floor­boards or coughs from some­one smok­ing next […]

- thanks to Joseph Camp­bell “Through me; the way to the woe­ful city;“1 a hero with a thou­sand faces;2 a story you always wanted to hear. We con­tinue though we know we con­tinue end­ing. A des­o­la­tion of hope. That is the story. and I say: This must be a prophetic life– Why else cry to the deserted places? Why seek wisdom […]

we wrote love poems before pomo. now, all must rep­re­sent, symbolize. not just your body under mine its t w ist; but also, a hand; under the table.

A run across Carnegie Bridge, I see for miles. The north rock tow­ers, Lake Erie dis­tance. Under­foot swans tack the Cuya­hoga snow crust. Art deco, over­head eyes swad­dling Cleve­land, steel carved in stone on steel under stone. Traf­fic is light. There is silence even in my stride. The pace a great muf­fler: my girl, her slow smile, that dead-​end […]

–for r.a.washington These are– gran­ite days, they demand– hard men, for­ti­fi­ca­tions of strange shapes watch­words– must blend in We split the rift wider– brother gives grift– but my words are for­eign cur­rency in his hands. The song­birds The long words spill into our ears– “from whence came ye, wan­derer? to loi­ter in the eaves of spring.” “I […]

Bach­e­lor­hood: I have four dif­fer­ent kinds of mus­tard in my fridge but no mayo.

Today is for you; for today is you; eupho­ria is to dance more enhance your glory; ignite incite rewrite his­tory; trust mys­tery; reform hor­ror sto­rys and remind all to recall today; for today is you if you are for today. Dog­gerel helps dust out the bats in the belfry.

In which Adam writes yet another poem about fishing.

In which Adam writes a poem that is an exper­i­ment in form, and which ulti­mately fails, in his mind.

You beat me again and again I run and again I return to the famil­iar com­fort of ter­ror and the bruises you leave and I leave on you on me. [no this is not about my life, for] we jump not toward the sky but away from the earth; a moment of tear­ing, a prim­i­tive need like pen­e­tra­tion or face deep in the fold of […]

A poetry night recap.

In which another entry is made into the annals by our hero con­cern­ing poetry, pot and delib­er­ate word abuse.

In which Adam shares a present dif­fi­culty with writ­ing a poem.

In which Adam writes a poem about the car acci­dent he saw this morning.

“Truth is that mon­ster in the closet that, when your par­ents turn on the light and open the door to reas­sure you, eats them.”

An exper­i­men­tal med­i­ta­tion poem about some­thing I know noth­ing about.

A poem.

In which Adam writes a poem about grow­ing up.

In which, in a piqué of bore­dom, the author tells a story with maybe only one grain of truth in it.

In which the reader will read about a poetry reading.

In which Adam writes a poem about liv­ing in Cleveland.

In which the author writes a poem about an excess of relativity.

Charles “Choo Choo” Jus­tice built Ohio’s only elec­tric chair at the turn of the last cen­tury, a bright machine of sea­soned hick­ory, stiff leather and the gun­metal smell of fear. Unlucky thir­teen years later he was exe­cuted in the same chair. Here lies Chuck Jus­tice, killed by irony. The best way to per­form a humane exe­cu­tion during […]

These days, peo­ple com­plain about “gas prices” and “poli tics” and how noth­ing makes they veins pump with flames except “real­ity tele­vi­sion.” That makes me so mad. I want to shakem like bad rat tles, dammit. I want to plug they noses with Dura­cells to light that bulb in they head. Folks want oth­ers to solve they prob lems. They refuse. They lay back […]

we all say things we don’t mean to mean until they are said. the clouds over the switch­grass swear they are just passin’ thru. today they are the only ora­tors in Oz. Our words dis­solved like a dusty jackrab­bit— too proud to lie in the rain.

they say you are always an alco­holic always addicted to nico­tine that after you cease smok­ing desist drink­ing each day starts from scratch and when you see some­one else drink­ing or smok­ing or doing those things they do when they need a drink or smoke you get that itch in your gut or lips and can’t […]

A sun­flower is grown tall between the path stones. A month ago I paid it no mind. Now it sheds pollen in my hair. Come here, chuckling bees.

Here I am, again Orion. Orion again I am here. Here Orion again am I. Empty field wit­ness dark under night sky small watch­ings small noise silent. Hail al-​Jabbār! chronic-​combatant star-​clouded rigid Rigel taut cud­gel, hoof, rudius. Orvandil, Osiris all name none; famous heaven-​belted, celes­tial celebrity… Hail! tête-​à-​tête yet— cry high above, bright immor­tal. Dark, down below, me, free to leave. There you are Orion. Orion, are you there? You are there, […]

there are four men inside of me and they are always at war. the boys drink their whisky and plug big round red holes of hate in each other. when they get low on ammo they patch each other up, pass around the bot­tle and take pot­shots at passerby. after awhile they make enough to […]

At 5am the gulls out­side my cabin sound like an army of clown noses. [pre­vi­ous title: Cana­dian Alarm Clock]

I dreamed I was a but­ter­fly buf­feted about my meadow with tired wings and mem­o­ries of leaf-​eating before wrap­ping myself in silk to sleep. I awoke as Chang-​Tzu under silk sheets and ready for break­fast on my win­driven moun­tain. but wait. Am I Chang-​Tzu dream­ing I am a but­ter­fly or am I a but­ter­fly dream­ing I am Chang-​Tzu? Let me sleep on it.

three kestrels are tow­ing the sun about the wide smile sky mag­is­te­ri­ally as it were their insis­tent inces­sant incan­des­cence that made it atomic in the first place Horus’ houris herd­ing old sol— who is always still grouchy like a watery-​eyed man telling kids off his lawn aim­ing for evening not evening.

This was inspired by a com­ment by Jef, else­where. Work­shop away, o my brothers.

The 4^th Annual Organic Mechanic Poetry Con­test is over. The results are in and Every­body Wins a Mix CD. I received so few entries this year that I decided every­one wins. There is still Mega-​Jumbo-​Super-​Happy-​Joy-​Sauerkraut Grand Prize win­ner but all the other entries are now ROFLMAO-​Indigo-​Kielbasa-​Opium-​Heavenly-​N-​People-​Tied-​For-​First-​Runner-​Up First Run­ners Up. Details past the hippityhopotamus.

First you’ve got the prime the engine, one, two, three — and if you’ve got the right idea, and pull that cord so hard your shoul­der jolts, you’ll get its atten­tion. That blade’ll turn and growl. It is best to mow the lawn in a rec­tan­gu­lar spi­ral, four cor­ners shark­ing in on that last king dan­de­lion. Cir­cum­scribe trees […]

This may not turn into a poem, it mayn’t even turn into song lyrics. It might just be a writ­ing exer­cise, but I’m gonna beat that metaphor! If you can think of some­thing in this vein that I missed, feel free to add it. I think this sort of reminds me of Short Skirt, Long Jacket by Cake except […]

This is a reminder that my Poetry Con­test is over on April 30^th. So get writ­ing people!

This one took a bit longer than a half hour, but I wanted to fin­ish it. Still needs workshopped/​reviewed/​edited.

This poem is pretty bad, but my half hour is up. Oh well.

Yes­ter­day I became enthralled with James Tate’s poetry. Thanks go out to this MeFi post. I’ve got to get my mitts on a book of his stuff and then maybe he’ll grab a spot next to E.E. Cum­mings and Richard Brauti­gan. Here is a poem of his.

Four pigs and a goat went a-​hunting dressed in white rib­bons and bunting the pigs were all dead from hooves to the head for the goat got tired of their grunting.

By request from Wait in the Lobby.

Early morn­ing, early Spring, in the wet woods, crunch­ing sticks. Search­ing for a mush­room ring to fill our buck­ets. Hunch­ing under a cob­web lan­yard, the first line of a spi­der doily, drip­ping, unmarred. Steam­ing earth and wild onion, mud and prickle-​thistle scents and our dif­fer­ence of opin­ion– last evening’s rents– mend­ing as we make our way past old quar­rels. In […]

A milk maid and farm boy went danc­ing, the stars in the sky did their pranc­ing, nine months later that maid, gave birth to a babe; there is more to this tale than romancing.

via Scrum­bling.

I locked myself out of my apart­ment last night for sev­eral hours and then had an night filled with wak­ings and half-​sleepings and noises that made me think the neigh­bors were get­ting raided and stan­dard 3am dry-​throat-​get-​a-​drink activ­ity that wasn’t stan­dard because some­one was qui­etly argu­ing with some­one else about leav­ing some­place. Some of that […]

Pep­per­mint told me to write a poem about a sand­wich. I think this one should be made into a much longer poem, but that’ll have to wait till I have more thyme.

I’ve got to post an excerpt from Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, since I like it so much. I can’t find an online excerpt of J.R.R. Tolkien’s trans­la­tion [my favorite, duh] so this infe­rior ver­sion must do. Mid­dle Eng­lish ver­sion here. Groovy paint­ing here.

Two poems in 45 min­utes today. Boo.

All of these are from The Last Night of the Earth Poems by Charles Bukowski.

This week I’ll post poems by other folks as well as some from myself time and again, along with other nor­mal stuff maybe if I feel like it. Today’s poem is by James Agee and comes from the excel­lent book Let Us Now Praise Famous Men. My man­i­festo also comes from that book: “Isn’t every human being […]

I wrote this poem a month or two ago, and since I don’t want to sit and write at my com­puter on a day as pretty as this I’ll post it.

I wrote this about four years ago, but it still seems a bit applic­a­ble now. Espe­cially today. Here is another go ’round it. I’m only allowed thirty min­utes, remember.

I shall post ran­dom haiku/​senryuu here as they come to me. Fri­day is a day for relax­ing. Feel free to do the same.

I busted out my sax­o­phone last night and played it for awhile. Since my gui­tar skill has plateaued for the time being, I thought toss­ing another instru­ment into the mix might increase my skill-​to-​hours-​practiced ratio. Since I have a tape deck now, I can lis­ten to my blues method tapes that I’ve had for so long. My jaw and […]

I hate moth­er­fuck­ing, here jump-​through-​this hoop, and this hoop, and this hoop, fill it out in trip­li­cate with a vir­gin wit­ness and then so sorry we’re closed come back when it isn’t The Feast of St. Bureau­crat, cock-​blocking red tape. So here is a not good poem.

It is National Poetry month, stimpy. So I’m gonna crap out poems from time to time in lieu of writ­ing other crap instead. I make no claims on the qual­ity of any­thing that appears, since I’m going to give myself no more than a half hour on each. Work­shop ‘em if you want; rewrite ‘em if you […]

I’m going to learn myself some poetry and poet­ics this month, it being National Poetry Month and all… I’m going to inflict upon you my learn­ings and the path I tread along the way. I came across this great haiku link awhile back, and have been brows­ing it ever since. Most of the con­tent is pro­vided by […]

It is that time of year again. I find it hard to believe that this is the 4^th year that I’ve had a writ­ing con­test. The first three years were haiku con­tests, this year I’m broad­en­ing it in form and being a bit more spe­cific in regard to con­tent. I hope you like the prize. April is National Poetry […]

Flint on steel today from a ran­dom bab­ble on mak­ing a eunuch out of Vin Diesel. A fel­low friend fel­low teaches an Eng­lish course to col­lege frosh, they’re doing poetry and now think every­thing is a sym­bol. I’ve been there.

The 4^th Annual Organic Mechanic Haiku con­test is approach­ing. I’m try­ing to decide whether or not I should keep it strictly haiku, change it to a dirty lim­er­ick con­test, or make it a poetry con­test proper. What would you like?

Any brother can dream. Ego fra­ter­nity grates his id. “Just kid­ding!”, laughed my niece, open­ing presents. Qui­etly read­ing, sis­ter turned up very well. Xeroxed years zip.

Achilles became calm. Defeat­ing efforts from great heroes is just killer. Lean­ing momen­tar­ily near occi­den­tal porn­stars, quite relaxed, supine — ter­ri­ble undu­la­tions volleyed within xeric Yid­dish zealots.

At the end of another long and appar­ently fruit­less day doing what he did in the flesh­pots, the last thing Andro wanted was another main­te­nance call. But it came any­way, a flash­ing light glar­ing into his eyes and a noi­some chirrup nest­ing in his ears. “BLING BLING BLING!“ “Fuck.“ He put down his bur­rito, shot down the […]

BFD posted a notice for The Daniel Thomp­son Poet Stone Fund ben­e­fit that is hap­pen­ing on Feb­ru­ary 12, in Lit­tle Italy. Here are some of his poems and some other press. The event is free, billed as “an evening of poetry, polemics, and per­for­mance,” and the rest of the details are past the jump. I’ll see […]

I uploaded all of my poetry last night. Ver­bal Impo­tence no longer exists, I’ve just got them shoved into a sub­cat­e­gory on the main site. I don’t like any of my poems. Some are just blobs of words, some are too men­tal, some just plain suck. Still, they need wrenched from me every now and then. And […]

There was once a clown who worked at a cir­cus fac­tory that made clown parts. This clown was a qual­ity tester at the factory.

It hap­pened that three men died at the same time. Since this occurred in such a syn­chro­nized man­ner, they decided to travel together to the realm of the dead.

In my dream of an anti-​gravity rock­et­ship lived the Scare­bear. It was crash­land­ing on Earth because it was out of solid fuel and its pile drive[r] was fid­gety. It was good, [I sup­pose] that it flopped crunch­ingly right into the assem­bly bay of Amalgamator.

One of my cowork­ers is a poet. Last week we assigned each other an assign­ment: to write a poem to be work­shopped by the assigner on Mon­day. My assign­ment was to “write a mus­cu­lar poem about masculinity.”

I can’t seem to write stuff any longer. Ideas are few and far between and when they do appear, attempt­ing to make some­thing come of them is always abortive. There are many pos­si­bil­i­ties that could be caus­ing this. I’ve thought of a few.

I once knew some­one in col­lege who used the jok­ers from decks of play­ing cards when he left notes for peo­ple. Unfor­tu­nately, he was the most bor­ing per­son I have ever met. I thought the joker was the only cre­ative idea he ever had.

Dear, Every­thing is going to be alright. I finally under­stand. Yes­ter­day I had an epiphany and reached enlight­en­ment of a sort. I know you are madly in love with me; and that is okay. I’m writ­ing this to tell you that being totally con­sumed by the fires of your ardor is a good thing. You don’t have to fight against […]

Once upon a time, in a galaxy, far, far away, there lived a small and deter­mined band of heroes who fought evil for rea­sons con­cern­ing Truth, Jus­tice and the Amer­i­can Way. Since Truth and Jus­tice are, at best, sub­jec­tive terms whose def­i­n­i­tions change depend­ing on who has power and since no one who they fought for [or against] […]

Here are the win­ners, the plac­ers, the show­ers and the rest of the mag­nif­i­cent few who were priv­i­leged to enter the 2004 Organic Mechanic haiku con­test. All entries are the copy­right of the authors, they just hap­pen to be here.

The Haiku con­test ends tomor­row. This is your last chance to sub­mit entries. Some of you have only sub­mit­ted one haiku so you can sub­mit one more. Oth­ers [B?rd, Phil, epm] have not sub­mit­ted any­thing. You, I think, are com­mies. So click on the damn con­test pic­ture over on the side and sub­mit some­thing. Win­ner is […]

Only 12 more days in the Haiku Con­test. So far I have 12 haiku. Pal­try folks. Pal­try. feh, deh, teh, meh and beh. my knee is creaky some­times it tries to kill me it really hates the rain igno­ra­muses with screen doors on sub­marines in North Dakota horse­rad­ish and more haba?ero pep­pers please tor­pedo sandwich

Here is the Mad Lib that every­one helped on: There was this wheel­bar­row, see. He is the one who did it. No no no. Pay atten­tion. It was yes­ter­day dawn and I was about twenty-​six yards from the near­est cof­fee when sud­denly there was this ter­ri­ble sound. It was like 66 lla­mas mat­ing in uni­son with […]

I’m mak­ing a sort of Mad Lib thing and you, my dear reader, have to sup­ply me with the miss­ing words. I’ll take what you give me and post them all tomor­row. 1. Thing 2. Time of day 3. Num­ber 4. Noun 5. Num­ber 6. Ani­mal 7. Musi­cal instru­ment 8. Direc­tion 9. Color 10. Noun 11. […]

Per­ci­val comes. If I pre­tend he is not here He grows larger in the barn, fill­ing all the shad­ows, And then I can­not go in to feed the cows And I hear those who give milk cry­ing for milk And I see their hearts, like children’s palms, Open­ing and clos­ing in the gar­den. Even in win­ter I keep the garden. […]

It is time for the sec­ond annual [and this time orga­nized a bit bet­ter] Organic Mechanic Haiku con­test. Go here if you want to edu­cate your­self a bit on haiku. The Prize: The win­ner will receive A Glimpse of Red : The Red Moon Anthol­ogy of English-​Language Haiku and a com­pi­la­tion CD of ran­dom­ness made by yours truly. The […]

Each day I see men dri­ving their cars like the dead. Tear­ing down the high­way, some­times I dream I am my grand­fa­ther in the 2^nd World War. He sweats on Leyte and shoots at the Nips, as if he is his grand­fa­ther forced into the fens but still killing Sax­ons. A smooth-​tongued Welsh­man who wishes he knew his grandfather– […]

Once Upon a Time there was a mon­ster called the Great Pur­ple Mur­ple. You might have heard of the mur­ple as a small roden­tic pet, this was not that kind of mur­ple. This beast was dis­tin­guished from the stan­dard house­hold mur­ple by its gigan­tic size and over­whelm­ing pur­ple­ness, and peo­ple feared it because of this. The Great Purple […]

I once spent an entire day dri­ving a pen­guin around New York City. I didn’t exactly ask to do this but I’ve been paid to do stranger things. My boss was a six foot four inch Samoan with a chipped incisor and per­ma­nently affixed antique avi­a­tor glasses. I was only allowed to call him Mr. McFitz. I knew that wasn’t his […]

Jack was the last one in the office. As usual, as soon as the door cut off the view of Ms. Cramer’s mini-​skirted back­side, a stream of mut­tered exple­tives issued from around the cig­a­rette in his mouth. Too many dis­trac­tions. Jack spun in his chair and glared out the win­dow at the lone street­light illu­mi­nat­ing the […]

A very long time ago there was a boy named Jerry who had magic. He lived in a brown house in a brown town between a brown river and a snowy grey moun­tain. No one in the town knew that the Jerry had magic; so he was raised like most boys. When he was hun­gry he was fed brown bread […]

Today’s issue of Organic Mechanic mag­a­zine fea­tures a rare inter­view with one of the most fas­ci­nat­ing and con­tro­ver­sial fig­ures in the early twenty-​first cen­tury. A mas­ter of faux pas, feng shui, and the fox trot; the defender of all things taste­less: Cap­tain Spacepants. OM: Cap­tain Spacepants, I must say that it is an honor to have the chance […]

there was a man who had a goat. this goat was like any other goat. it could eat tin cans and do com­plex algo­rithms with lit­tle or no paper­work. one day, while the goat was walk­ing around in cir­cles, the man chucked a piece of poly­eth­yl­ene gly­col at it — thereby piss­ing the goat off. the goat pro­ceeded to calculate […]

a man with a cane sits on a bus. some dirty snow at his feet a gift. it melts. he limps off the bus. his knee hurts. – a woman with wispy hair in a bun kneads dough. she has sev­en­teen pet cats — two are preg­nant. today is her birth­day. she is bak­ing them a cake. – a young poet has no TV […]

For years, you asked me to write you a poem. You who gave me life ? I can­not say no any longer ? but do you know how hard this is? Try to remem­ber exactly how I slept warm in your womb ? or the sim­ple way I brought you tiny fist­fuls of wild­flow­ers. How dif­fi­cult is it to recall? […]

Nikos and His Don­key — Robert Bly Let’s tell the sweet story about the day Nikos, Wan­der­ing around with his don­key and sad­dle­bags, Turned up one day at a farm of God­seek­ers. The God­seek­ers all came out when he knocked. They wel­comed him, gave him tea, brought His don­key to the sta­ble for oats and water. “Stay for supper,” […]

e.e.cummings it may not always be so;and i say that if your lips,which i have loved,should touch another’s,and your dear strong fin­gers clutch his heart,as mine in time not far away; if on another’s face your sweet hair lay in such a silence as i know,or such great writhing words as,uttering over­much, stand help­lessly before the spirit at bay; […]

Smober the Sock Gob­lin lives under your stairs if your home doesn’t have them still he is there. He’s clammy and dusty and a lit­tle bit mad not angry — but crazy — and lit­tle bit bad. When Smober the Sock Gob­lin comes out to eat he crosses the floor with slap­ping bare feet. He goes to the dryer and opens […]

Fight — Carl Sand­burg Red drips from my chin where I have been eat­ing. Not all the blood, nowhere near all, is wiped off my mouth. Clots of red mess my hair And the tiger, the buf­falo, know how. I was a killer. Yes, I am a killer. I come from killing. I go to […]

Unless I have some­thing of import to write, this week is hereby des­ig­nated as Adam Puts His Favorite Poems on His Web­site Week. Ode to Melan­choly — John Keats

My whisky sour leaves rings on the old bar’s oak. Absent­minded in this dusty place two locals argue over noth­ing. Wars of logic drown in weak beer with­out grace or urg­ing. Drunken mus­cle insults — brace for impact — bare­fisted oppo­nents glare. The leer­ing bar­tender will get a taste another run­away led to his lair. She fol­lows, dead already, behind where old […]

I have a very dif­fi­cult time writ­ing son­nets. This would prob­a­bly explain why I have only writ­ten two. I don’t have much prob­lem with meter or rhyme, but its that damn iambic that sticks me each time. I’d be much more com­pe­tent writ­ing in dactylic pen­tame­ter or hexa­m­e­ter. I think I tend to speak in dactyls. I always have trou­ble with […]

the ped­als go the ped­als go a r o u n d huff pump lean go ped­als go a r o u n d a r o u n d ROCK a… i… r… grav­el­green grass­grunt b r e a t h e burn shins bleed snick­snick­snick the wheel goes the wheel goes a r o u n d snick­snick — Up! the ped­als go a r o u n d

new to cities, i imag­ine the man at the fruit stand does he know there are places where the time doesn’t change? where apples grow on trees instead of carts? has he ever sat on a porch swing and watched the moon rise to cicada song? even in the city i can miss the stars and some­times the […]

In Castle-​town at the salty docks the pirate rats sit on the rocks and peer about the piers in search of a cer­tain long­shore­man known as Lurch. Who has often been known to pro­vide some cheese to these rats?on the side. It is easy to find him, you?ll know him on sight in every tav­ern he […]

Lurch

In Castle-​town in the grop­ing slums where rats hope for food, for crumbs there is a house, a hovel dark of toad­stools and crum­ble­bark. Lives in it a hag of ter­ror fame Miz Grum­ble­wort is her fear­some name. Her eyes are yel­low, her teeth are green her warts are hairy and quite obscene her cat is black and […]

I seem to be bet­ter at telling sto­ries than any­thing else in my poetry, every­thing else seems a bit too forced, whereas telling sto­ries comes a nat­u­rally. I don’t really have the incli­na­tion to write long things like nov­els or even short sto­ries, so instead I am going to work with what many pompous peo­ple refer to as ‘doggerel.’ […]

when I was young the­days seemed short as I was I would take old radios apart how did they­work? I stank of dust, ofburnt wires. some­one gave me a bro­ken­cam­era. I scraped off green cor­ro­sion, it worked again. they took it back ? I was that young now, I am old. twenty-​two ? obso­lete I?ve taken too many things apart to put­to­gether. I smell of […]

My mind is worst when [waxed and buffed like a black mar­ble lobby] it gives no pur­chase to feet or rede. I’d liefer leave and slide across its sable-​shine rind and reck after the janitor’s jangle-​bone key ring to Sub-​basement b with the con­crete call [sepul­chral, into dis­tant direc­tions] of ru [m] ina­tion swoll into its thews. He and I [his har­rier] wel­come the […]

With the slight­est touch, a sleep­ing dragon awakes. Odin’s ravens, Thought and Mem­ory, croak. They eat mush­room clouds for lunch, dark rain for din­ner. Gorged after this meal, they hear What the Thun­der Says: ’All the world has aged.’ Immo­lated in Inex­tin­guish­able Fire, Megiddo is quiet. Two men lay like sleep, bow­ing to once fer­tile ground. Inter­rupted by […]

I have redesigned, updated, and con­verted to Move­able­Type, my aptly named writ­ing sec­tion: Ver­bal Impo­tence. As added fea­tures, the use­abil­ity has increased and it has com­ment­ing. New Look, Same Crappy Writ­ing. I even added a new poem to it. So I sup­pose it is New Look! More Crappy Writ­ing! Any­way, I stole this link from the Riley Dog because […]

When boys tread upon anthills it is Gol­go­tha all over again, the peo­ple run about like ants who have sold their souls for a bite of apple. When a dairy­maid churns milk into sweet but­ter Pros­er­pine is tum­bled into the land of death. Win­ter and vir­gin­ity are not quite oppo­sites. Before I knew poetry was writ­ten — not lived, my beagle […]

This reflux is aston­ish­ment The imme­di­acy of their ter­ror short-​circuiting even disavowal?s detour– This too is but a train of shad­ows. The ungras­pable phan­tom of life. A strange flicker passes through the screen and the pic­ture stirs to life. A vac­il­la­tion between belief and incredulity– a ter­ror­ist mood set­ter, like a fair­ground barker, caused women to scream and men to […]

look that home­less bab­bler stands on the mail­box as usual, speak­ing non­sense (sal­va­tion thru self gov­ern­ment) in his tat­tered tar­tan. We’re out on Sat­ur­day nights dressed to kill– (accom­plices in bomb­ing starv­ing brown­skins) and our (con­sump­tion means extinc­tion) (silence is assent) Cadil­lac Escalade gleams up to the club ? there he is. Some­one (should self-​actualize) should call […]

I will be with her tonight and tum­ble her on the trails. I will take her. Let her fight. I am stronger. She can thrash and bite and tear with teeth and nails. I’ll still be with her tonight. If she’s pas­sive in her fright with no shrieks no screams no wails I will take her with­out a fight. […]

Angler sits on river­bank wait­ing for friends to call one has Whiskers one a Lantern Jaw. A line in deep waters clouds, time stream by for com­pany squir­rels, a hawk in the sky. Watch­ing, wait­ing check­ing Worm on hook day flows to dusk and shad­ows the brook. Night gen­tly falls Angler packs up, leaves. No fish joins the meal […]

As day­break wakes the grimy check­ered street, fail­ure emerges — as a manic Czar of Rus­sia sham­bles past the Bishop’s Bar — with an automaton’s ungainly feet. The crum­bling curb­side has become his seat of power. Routed in a white queen’s war, he lost his forces fight­ing from afar and endgame, great rooks swarmed to his defeat. Around him […]

my poems swirl about with dust­devil bal­ance the lack mid­dling begin­nings and ane­mic end­ings they should be sealed in a plas­tic bag with a great orange seal and incin­er­ated i’ll clothe myself with sack­cloth and rub their ashes into my hair per­haps, then i won’t be too near to hear the breath of their whispers

i miss the woods of my youth and the enchant­ments con­tained therein adven­ture and errantry fight­ing gods and mon­sters with the self taught wood­craft of an imag­i­na­tion gone native i miss its stream and the chuck­ling bub­ble of the craw­dads nip­ping at my beagle’s paws as she raced through the rasp­ing reeds after another elusive scent […]

on the first bright day of spring the boys strap on their san­dals the girls let down their hair the sun washes their faces the green grass sat­u­rates their blood a day for fris­bees and name­less con­ver­sa­tion games of catch and leisurely naps in sway­ing ham­mocks until the bus­tle of life mate­r­ial returns for now on […]

con­fu­sion reigns and with shad­owy steps trods the well­worn ways and breathes the faerie air of mud­dled love. nim­ble wraiths flit about amid the dusky hued scents, leav­ing light­streaked trails into abyssal hap­pi­ness. Where to fol­low? each path twice tempt­ing, head­ing back only brings muf­fled stereo­phonic gig­gles and spi­rals deeper into the cloudy land­scape of […]

a man may walk in rain and still fly through the clouds a woman may run in fields and yet fall out of love a man can fear his life but also say no to death a woman can hate all men but want to feel their hands who knows our minds our means who sees our sins […]

Peace is a dream few find to be con­tent is to be God a child’s grin is brief par­adise I am still running home

too hot to move the bugs are quiet Char­lie is out there– wait­ing he’ll come out tonight but i’ll be inside watch­ing reruns. shazzam.

there are omens mutants, mis­fits, hal­lu­ci­na­tions caused by debauched somatic con­jur­ings (yes, always a chem­i­cal to make it bet­ter) then the earth rebels fire, brim­stone, ash, and grease a pan­gaeaic binge and purge of frus­tra­tion and pol­luted skies scarred by pur­ple light­ning bloated by neb­u­lous clouds (it is only el ni?o) flora and fauna implode rab­bits eat their […]

You make no sense. What do you mean ’Its not me its you?‘ I was there when you dropped the stone in the pond. v.2 You make no sense. What do you mean ’It’s not me it’s you?‘ A dropped stone. The silent pond.

[Cat sits in a bird­bath empty except for the cat] Roll your nine striped tail and blink ? one eye slower than the other. A ship­wreck if a red­bird comes bathing and finds you instead of bath­wa­ter. Swag­ger and turn, wind in jaunty tail. Close your last var­nished eye. Put har­poon teeth away, swab fur clean, stretch your sail […]

FEED ME THUNDER DRINK ME RAIN WASH ME WATER KEEP ME SANE SONGS OF FIRE POEMS OF SNOW RITES AND ROTES EBB AND FLOW EYES OF JEWELS HANDS OF CLAWS WIND OF WISDOM WITHOUT PAUSE EARTH AND TREE GUST AND GALE LIFE AND DEATH WITHOUT FAIL OTTER AND TROUT ROOK AND LARK FROST AND CRYSTAL […]

the dag­ger eyed snarky spy and ran­cid skinned enemy within went out across the tracks where janked up dreams live in sunken shacks and fast for­ward girls fuck for a rewind fix the sub­tle stars in bul­let­hole cars flish-​flash lights come closer spot­ting misty chil­dren fly­ing mish-​mash kites catch­ing stran­gle­haired night with an ancient movie poster […]

I approach at a dis­tance to make you unaware, you will not catch me how­ever hard you stare, a wolf in sheep’s cloth­ing, a chameleon dis­guise, fig­ments in your mind of fire and sea and skies. Too small to be detected, vaporous to be ignored, I stalk my newest prey to slay with sharp­ened sword, an invis­i­ble assas­sin with masquerade […]

hard con­crete and sullen cap­tive hold­ing other cards, still fire­fly lust eureka, yearn wily muse at rela­tions, fail­ures, bal­ance bound of ran­dom blueredges sold for out of bounds for­tune a last hymn sub­mit mind­squared soulscraps the fair ras­cal and wild king no tarot needs culling rest windy paradigm

soul trem­ble or scratch com­ple­tion dry stum­bling sym­bolic desire con­tent words dream flow­ing them­selves tongue toss red striv­ing which fiz­zles fur­ther frus­tra­tion and grasp­ing black inspi­ra­tion blue lyric writing

time holds pres­sure less into fifty-​two bright strikes grind mem­ory gen­tle sift­ing hand station-​mold eyes and stretch clouds or steal rain, envy the moment wear­ing steel gladly, the pass­ing serene rolling grey evening lis­ten thundercrash

spread weight to defeat imps sur­ren­der stress through­out feint obsta­cles crush­ing chaotic white scream flank­ing crea­tures of the night slow­ing down blood­lust no break stu­pid filth, a line of black dis­ease taunt­ing (RAGE) frail sup­port, a rot­ting shield com­plaints (sev­eral) dis­or­ga­nized a wall, or red vic­tory crumbling

dim, often ascetic, evade effort any­one ungodly (hint) a chaotic dis­ease vague strug­gle, some­thing thinks for trou­ble is astute seek­ing, once defeat­ing an oath seem­ing anchor mean symp­toms, any­thing seethes stu­pid punk, some­one like me

lon­es­tar mir­ror, rede­fine sim­plic­ity if the bas­tard, the awk­ward one seri­ous uptight peo­ple (so mun­dane) sense works with­out their own unwill­ing for­ti­tude often points to left­over sig­nals (tired with­drawn black­ened) mean­ing control

I have manic bones breathe machine! a nox­ious self his stan­dard con­sid­ers red dol­lar­signs with­out jerks doing things behind doors wiz­ened men symp­toms of rich pricks fore­go­ing noth­ing (laugh­ter) the ques­tion creak­ing organic verse here a time com­ing mir­rors worth just penny one

my assign­ment: tell some sort of story [what it is makes no dif­fer­ence] using an allit­er­a­tive sen­tence for each let­ter of the alpha­bet. Not all sen­tences have to be allit­er­a­tive. Also, use a sym­bol of some sort. i used to sneak secrets between the sheets when i was young. they were thin things, i could just as eas­ily hidden […]

I’ve been strug­gling with poetry lately. I feel that mine is too cere­bral, I feel I make peo­ple work too hard. When I try to open the access, I lose some­thing along the way, and I’m not quite too sure what it is. All that I seem left with is ‘wry.’ Twists and turns of phrase, word play, gives a feel­ing of […]

The old man has no teeth two shoes but no laces, an incom­plete look in his eyes. He plays a gui­tar with only five strings. I imag­ine him tour­ing, coal pile to steel mill. Dur­ing the long nights he watches for the glow of another town and rubs the spray-​painted door of his box­car. Before sleep he pats […]

[Cat sits in a bird­bath empty except for the cat] Roll your nine striped tail and blink ? one eye slower than the other. A ship­wreck if a red­bird comes bathing and finds you instead of bath­wa­ter. Swag­ger and turn, wind in jaunty tail. Close your last var­nished eye. Put har­poon teeth away, swab fur clean, stretch your sail […]

The results of the haiku ‘con­test’ can be found here. Below are some things I wrote last night. in a swank hotel a fist­fight with Aquinas blood drops on the bar punch­drunk moth­er­fuck stick­le­back and hack­les hook, line and sinker Dear John on paper a list of pre­cise words in the woman’s small hands i had this odd dream don­key kong versus […]

i arbi­trar­ily end the haiku con­test as of now. the win­ner will be announced shortly. so let it be writ­ten, so let it be done.

I sup­pose I will go ahead and make this an annual event. I want some haikus from y’all. You might remem­ber last year…I had to wran­gle them out of you with sundry forms of archaic tor­ture. Hope­fully this year there will be no need for rend­ing. I’ll even give out some sort of prize, though I do not […]

I’ve not writ­ten any poetry in quite some time. I did man­age to get an A in my Advanced Poetry Writ­ing class, but I’m not quite sure how I feel about that. Over the semes­ter I felt myself becom­ing less and less fresh and cre­ative, instead the poems became steadily more like mass-​produced objects with assign­ment com­ple­tion as the […]

so… i’m — aahh — i had a poem in the stu­dent lit­er­ary mag­a­zine, The Jug­gler. does that make me a pub­lished poet? or does it have to count else­where? can i call myself a poet now or is that still pre­ma­ture? i was also inducted into the lambda alpha beta chap­ter of the Anthro­pol­ogy Honor Soci­ety. I got a groovy card and a cer­tifi­cate. I don’t really […]

yesterday’s poetry feed­back group was less than help­ful in most ways, but more than help­ful in one major way. My writ­ing, and dic­tion, needs to change unless i want to alien­ate read­ers and have them dis­miss my work. appar­ently, and i can see this quite eas­ily, my ter­mi­nol­ogy is a bit archaic, peo­ple can’t get their head around […]

it hit the fan today in poetry class, but i do not feel vil­i­fied. what i wanted was dis­cus­sion and by gum i got it. some few were offended, most dis­cussed what exactly i was going for, rang­ing from satire to prima nocta rights. some wanted me to make the end­ing dif­fer­ent to acknowl­edge my under­stand­ing of rape = […]

i don’t like to toot my own horn but jmay requested what the class thought of my lat­est. here are some of their com­ments: cool chess imagery — this is quite an accom­plish­ment. jug­gler. jug­gler… once again, your depth of his­tor­i­cal or the­matic knowl­edge here is applied and over my head, but in this case it doesn’t […]

from the Tao Te Ching (50): A per­son comes forth to life and enters into death. Three out of ten are part­ners of life, Three out of ten are part­ners of death, And the peo­ple whose every move­ment leads them to the land of death because they cling to life Are also three out of ten. Now, […]

With the slight­est touch, a sleep­ing dragon awakes. Odin’s ravens, Thought and Mem­ory, croak. They eat mush­room clouds for lunch, dark rain for din­ner. Gorged after this meal, they hear What the Thun­der Says: ’All the world has aged.’ Immo­lated in Inex­tin­guish­able Fire, Megiddo is quiet. Two men lay like sleep, bow­ing to once fer­tile ground. Inter­rupted by a child […]

Since today is the busiest day of my week i’m just going to give you my home­work assign­ment for my poetry writ­ing class. the assign­ment: Write a poem in the third per­son about an event exter­nal to you. The even does not have to be famous or on a large scale. (Do not write about Sep­tem­ber 11). the result: […]

ladies and gen­teel men, i give you…winter! ~ s( these out of in finite no where,who;arrive s trollingly :alight whitely and. )now flakes:are;guests;of t wi ligh t ~ the above poem brought to you by e.e. cum­mings. its snowing!

leaf­ing through autumn equinox epiphany yel­low red and orange

there was dia­logue at one point. some­thing to do with the Future…or per­haps Con­tri­bu­tions to Soci­ety. what­ever it was, it was heavy. at least I think so. she would relate to me her inse­cu­ri­ties about how to Con­tribute while still being able to do what she wanted to make her happy, or ful­filled or some­thing. I know […]

and it seemed that as soon as i closed my eyes they were open again. but the other side: hel/​nirvana/​heaven/​purgatory/​hell what­ever you call it, was kind of bor­ing. just shades of dead folks walk­ing around look­ing apa­thetic. it sucked. i’d rather expected a par-​tay. so i went back. and now i’m stuck, ghost­writ­ing in rather strange ways. i can […]

it hurt them more than it hurt me, so of course i would put a brave face on it and lie to their eyes as i told them i was feel­ing health­ier and would see them in the morn­ing. they couldn’t under­stand that i wanted to die. i was worn out, dying is a rough busi­ness and all i wanted was some sleep. permanently. […]

well i drove 4 hours home today. i’ll offi­cially be here for three weeks although i am going to spend some time in Chicago. as soon as i got home i began ‘nest­ing’ as my mother calls it, going through all of my stuff and run­ning around in cir­cles like a dog does to assert and make itself famil­iar with its […]

please fill in the blank at the end of this. There was a head in the shower this morn­ing, its hair clogged the drain and when I picked it up the top came off. I turned it over and on the inside stamped in bright green let­ters were the words:

well today i am work­ing for the major­ity of the day in com­puter labs get­ting in my hours for the week since i haven’t done any­thing yet. its not so bad really, but with the weather the way it is, i could use any excuse to go out­side. i was fid­dly­fartin around on the net and i dis­cov­ered my friend […]

i woke up this morn­ing and the sky was the color of a week old bruise, and the air was filled with the noise of thun­der. to some peo­ple this would be ugly, but for me it is both fright­en­ing and won­der­ful. i love the sound of thun­der and the feel of rain on my face. it […]