Hello Operator.
Planning anything special?
Going home for breakfast?
Of course not, not you, never.
But don't you get hungry?
Oh yes, the pills.
I do agree that the lights are nice.
It does seem to cover all the shadows.
Are you afraid of shadows?
Are you afraid of what comes from the shadows?
Not you, no, never, of course.
What about the light, aren't you afraid of that?
What's to be afraid of? Everything!
How can you be afraid of nothing, there must be something.
How about heights?
Open spaces?
Dirty laundry?
Ha, I know, what about the unknown?
Oh, a regular enterprise commander, aren't you?
You know, I seem to be asking all the questions.
Well I can stop talking if you want.
Thanks, but I still think there's nothing more to say.
Goodnight Operator.
You too.
Oh, and hey? I really like the way you smile.
It complements your eyes.
No problem, well, goodnight.
...
Damn, do I taste blood?
7.15.2007
7.06.2007
6.25.2007
JQN
the skies were heavy from all they had seen, their lives were never long enough. Trust rains and pours, but always dries up,
it's a wonder that we can see.
Some days the grass, the trees, the flowers grow green
and the weeds like it too.
Who cares whether the autumn falls, because it always picks itself back up again.
Deep inside the heart of mine, a dolphin swims its tireless rounds. They need to keep moving because it's no fun to stick around.
safe and sound.
nowhere bound.
Don't care who's coming through, gotta meet someone, gotta love someone, gonna love someone.
it's nice to think that there's no words in the world, because I know how I'd communicate to you. With open kisses and closed hugs, and whistling tunes in your ears.
it's a wonder that we can see.
Some days the grass, the trees, the flowers grow green
and the weeds like it too.
Who cares whether the autumn falls, because it always picks itself back up again.
Deep inside the heart of mine, a dolphin swims its tireless rounds. They need to keep moving because it's no fun to stick around.
safe and sound.
nowhere bound.
Don't care who's coming through, gotta meet someone, gotta love someone, gonna love someone.
it's nice to think that there's no words in the world, because I know how I'd communicate to you. With open kisses and closed hugs, and whistling tunes in your ears.
6.02.2007
Raggedy Andy
I used to be a ragdoll. People would throw me about everywhere. Some would show me what to do, how to move, but I'd always flop down and out of place. My hair was a reddish yellow, and my pants were silver corduroys. The stuffing was awkward, leaving my left arm too fat and nothing for body. Then I changed.
Some people say change is good, especially after something so bad, but lately, I've been left to question that. It's no good to change from one bad thing to another, that's just awful. Life hasn't meant much to me lately, I'm tired, but I just don't care, I'm hungry, but I just don't care, I'm dying, but I just don't care.
There are times, especially now, that I feel these views reflect others. I hope not, but my friends are good liars. I've made sure.
Some people say change is good, especially after something so bad, but lately, I've been left to question that. It's no good to change from one bad thing to another, that's just awful. Life hasn't meant much to me lately, I'm tired, but I just don't care, I'm hungry, but I just don't care, I'm dying, but I just don't care.
There are times, especially now, that I feel these views reflect others. I hope not, but my friends are good liars. I've made sure.
5.23.2007
5.11.2007
Hailled
Cut off my locks and watch them fall, I don't need them anymore. I love you more than I love me, so let my hair drop to my feet. The machines may take my place in wars and poetry, so why should I keep my strength bestowed upon me? Let us speak together in the tongue of a dead language, make love with the passion of a dead race. They did not see me sneak into this quarter, nor litter pemmican under an awning. It never tasted very good, anyway.
Instead I'll let my muscle waste, my skin waste, my skills waste. A face as pale as the moon my brothers would run under, my eyes now as bright as the stars they can see. Deer patties and soy buns can warm over a sacred fire. Smoke signals may tell when food is ready, but the blanket was forgotten.
Nike shoes protect our feet from the ground, the earth, the rich soil that feeds nature's trees, bushes, birds. No one may ever again walk a path and know that it was worn down by his father's father's father. Now it's been made by an Italian living down the street. He did a fine job fulfilling his dream of inheriting a job at the construction company. One death opened a spot, but took one in the ground. Thank the crew for making the flats flatter, easier on the legs and harder on the soul, to walk upon.
The potlatch is over, all our riches given away. I loved you so, treated you as family. Time shows that you still love us back, even as the flour stains our hands.
Instead I'll let my muscle waste, my skin waste, my skills waste. A face as pale as the moon my brothers would run under, my eyes now as bright as the stars they can see. Deer patties and soy buns can warm over a sacred fire. Smoke signals may tell when food is ready, but the blanket was forgotten.
Nike shoes protect our feet from the ground, the earth, the rich soil that feeds nature's trees, bushes, birds. No one may ever again walk a path and know that it was worn down by his father's father's father. Now it's been made by an Italian living down the street. He did a fine job fulfilling his dream of inheriting a job at the construction company. One death opened a spot, but took one in the ground. Thank the crew for making the flats flatter, easier on the legs and harder on the soul, to walk upon.
The potlatch is over, all our riches given away. I loved you so, treated you as family. Time shows that you still love us back, even as the flour stains our hands.
5.07.2007
eemoeshuns
sometimes i'm filled with dread, wondering if one day i'll actually get to sing or play along to songs while sitting in the back of a pickup truck. can dreams be simple?
4.27.2007
Firecrackers and Math don't Mix
I've been feeling odd lately. It's not quite the urge to write, it's not quite the urge to sing. It's not quite the urge to fight, and it's definitely not the urge to bring anything worth saying to this world.
I just want to stop and listen. No, I just want to stop. Why do people ever want to listen? Nobody ever says anything worthwhile.
But I digress. I don't really want to stop. At work, I managed to fall. When I hit the ground, I stopped. Has anyone else fallen straight down from a great height? I don't mean landing on your feet and rolling, I don't mean falling on your elbow or arms and crumpling, I mean falling so that your whole body hits the ground at the same time.
That once happened to me.
I fell straight on to my back, from two or three metres. I had to stop then, and I couldn't start for another five minutes. What strikes me as strange is that it was almost the opposite of paralysis. My fingers moved, but my arms didn't, and I could barely breathe. Logically, it was just shock, but logic is rarely interesting.
At least, not your kind of interesting. Your kind of interesting is loud music, loud noise (Is there a difference?), bright lights, and fucking. Everything is about physical stimulants. Your kind of interesting embraces the human sense, exhilaration separating the mind from the body.
My kind of interesting also tries to separate the mind from the body. But I'd rather stay in my mind, than in my body. Sometimes my behaviour borders on autistic. Objects interest me more than people. I try not to make eye-contact, and I have trouble expressing myself. Honestly, I could be autistic as well. One more to the list, eh? At least it's minor. My mind functions fine now. Maybe I grew out of it.
Neither of these interesting things are very interesting. It's the connection of the mind and the body that is the best. Complete harmony, such as playing the cello or painting a picture. Any animal could play a sports game, and any computer could crunch numbers, but neither could create something of beauty like that.
But don't get me wrong, beauty is not just a wonderfully composed orchestral piece or an abstract drawing. Of course it's more than that. It's just the different kind. There's beauty in an orgasm, there's beauty in a math equation, there's beauty in a straight line, there's beauty in a broken one.
However, before I sound too idealistic and ruin my reputation, I must also add that there's an ugliness in everything. Others may have their reasons for calling something ugly, but deep down I know why there's an ugliness. This universe lacks order. To paraphrase a poem I got off a bus but can't remember, disorder is natural and order is unnatural. The obsessive-compulsive inside me strives for order, but that's impossible. Oh how I wish it was, sometimes, but sometimes not.
Tangent after tangent, I run off on. But that's okay, because who would read this? Someone I know is learning to speed read and he says he gets the facts, but what facts does this contain? None!
I will conclude by saying that no one is anyone. They can do different things and the same thing and no one would know them. Routine is inevitable, as it's inevitably broken. On that, I'll break my current routine of writing nothing and I'll start writing nothing.
I just want to stop and listen. No, I just want to stop. Why do people ever want to listen? Nobody ever says anything worthwhile.
But I digress. I don't really want to stop. At work, I managed to fall. When I hit the ground, I stopped. Has anyone else fallen straight down from a great height? I don't mean landing on your feet and rolling, I don't mean falling on your elbow or arms and crumpling, I mean falling so that your whole body hits the ground at the same time.
That once happened to me.
I fell straight on to my back, from two or three metres. I had to stop then, and I couldn't start for another five minutes. What strikes me as strange is that it was almost the opposite of paralysis. My fingers moved, but my arms didn't, and I could barely breathe. Logically, it was just shock, but logic is rarely interesting.
At least, not your kind of interesting. Your kind of interesting is loud music, loud noise (Is there a difference?), bright lights, and fucking. Everything is about physical stimulants. Your kind of interesting embraces the human sense, exhilaration separating the mind from the body.
My kind of interesting also tries to separate the mind from the body. But I'd rather stay in my mind, than in my body. Sometimes my behaviour borders on autistic. Objects interest me more than people. I try not to make eye-contact, and I have trouble expressing myself. Honestly, I could be autistic as well. One more to the list, eh? At least it's minor. My mind functions fine now. Maybe I grew out of it.
Neither of these interesting things are very interesting. It's the connection of the mind and the body that is the best. Complete harmony, such as playing the cello or painting a picture. Any animal could play a sports game, and any computer could crunch numbers, but neither could create something of beauty like that.
But don't get me wrong, beauty is not just a wonderfully composed orchestral piece or an abstract drawing. Of course it's more than that. It's just the different kind. There's beauty in an orgasm, there's beauty in a math equation, there's beauty in a straight line, there's beauty in a broken one.
However, before I sound too idealistic and ruin my reputation, I must also add that there's an ugliness in everything. Others may have their reasons for calling something ugly, but deep down I know why there's an ugliness. This universe lacks order. To paraphrase a poem I got off a bus but can't remember, disorder is natural and order is unnatural. The obsessive-compulsive inside me strives for order, but that's impossible. Oh how I wish it was, sometimes, but sometimes not.
Tangent after tangent, I run off on. But that's okay, because who would read this? Someone I know is learning to speed read and he says he gets the facts, but what facts does this contain? None!
I will conclude by saying that no one is anyone. They can do different things and the same thing and no one would know them. Routine is inevitable, as it's inevitably broken. On that, I'll break my current routine of writing nothing and I'll start writing nothing.
4.09.2007
Sticky fingers can still let go.
My Head:
The Ice Cream.
My Life is a Cone.
Scooped up ever so
Unpleasantly high.
Employed by a mother
For not her dear
lover, but her,
--Nicely put--
Clumsy,
Retard
Of A
Son
The Ice Cream.
My Life is a Cone.
Scooped up ever so
Unpleasantly high.
Employed by a mother
For not her dear
lover, but her,
--Nicely put--
Clumsy,
Retard
Of A
Son
4.04.2007
Tell Me Something Interesting
The willows that blow under the moonlight are not green, but silver. They're spider webs with no spiders, clinging to the clouds on either side. Each night the stars stick to it like dew drops in the morning. The tire swing attached to the maple swings lonely in the wind that blows through a young man's teeth. His skin, dark from the sun, peels from his arms underneath his blanket and flakes into the wool. His eyes are lost from the lives he's lost, and they shudder as the rain starts to poor. He lives without a goal, only a starting line. There is no running in this race, for the distance covered does not depend on pace. A phone rings in the distance, but no one answers it. Maybe it's for him.
3.16.2007
A Collector's Collection
Would it be alright if I just took a step out into the rain, and kept on walking? Down a path never tread by me before? I'd let the storms soak through my brain and bleach my skull. Would anybody follow?
I'm tired of this, and that, and everything in between. These aren't mine, they are their own. How silly is it that I answer to other people for little more than warmth. A conscience is useless and can draw people further away. A string can push others closer. A motor car can leave all its windows open and let the sun in through the roof.
But why, why, why? I have words to say that get stuck in my mouth, like peanut butter crackers. The words won't be swallowed but can't be spit out either. I think I know I believe that in my opinion there is something I have to say. It's three bloody words, more difficult to conquer than an empire or a queen wearing a blue, but bloody, dress.
Oh who, who out there believes they can analyze the author's intent when there was no intent at all? Literature is meant to be enjoyed, whether the joy is derived from the meter, the rhymes, or the meaning behind it all. Take a dark shaft, borne of light, and make it into a spear of carbon. Let it fall to pieces as it falls to the ground and shatters as it's stepped on.
Don't bother to come back.
No. Shut up.
I live, for what, I don't know.
Yes. Shut up.
Ha, maybe the trouble is true.
Maybe even worth it.
I do, I do, I do, on that day of grain showers not in grain silos.
I love you.
I'm tired of this, and that, and everything in between. These aren't mine, they are their own. How silly is it that I answer to other people for little more than warmth. A conscience is useless and can draw people further away. A string can push others closer. A motor car can leave all its windows open and let the sun in through the roof.
But why, why, why? I have words to say that get stuck in my mouth, like peanut butter crackers. The words won't be swallowed but can't be spit out either. I think I know I believe that in my opinion there is something I have to say. It's three bloody words, more difficult to conquer than an empire or a queen wearing a blue, but bloody, dress.
Oh who, who out there believes they can analyze the author's intent when there was no intent at all? Literature is meant to be enjoyed, whether the joy is derived from the meter, the rhymes, or the meaning behind it all. Take a dark shaft, borne of light, and make it into a spear of carbon. Let it fall to pieces as it falls to the ground and shatters as it's stepped on.
Don't bother to come back.
No. Shut up.
I live, for what, I don't know.
Yes. Shut up.
Ha, maybe the trouble is true.
Maybe even worth it.
I do, I do, I do, on that day of grain showers not in grain silos.
I love you.
3.10.2007
Golden Moss
Down in the ditch by a road from from the highway, lay a tractor that had once pulled promises. Its gear shift was bent out of place, and the steering wheel was entirely missing. The old red coat was wrinkled and aged, sunburnt and covered in rust that looked like golden moss. Inside lived jokes and harlequins, making their homes in the muffler and gas tank. They would come out smelling of diesel and romance, of sweat and songs, and it would be obvious in their eyes that they did not know that babies grew only to die. In the mud their toes would wriggle and get cleaner, and in the rain their hair would get shorter, simpler, and brown. However, the sun shines upon this dreary scene with rays of beauty and prose, and the tractor doesn't seem to mind at all.
2.20.2007
2.03.2007
About Me
Well, that sofa being sat on, and explore the wall that I think about it into the deep crevices in my full of symbols, signs, and desolate without it.
So I would tease.
Your friends but better to warn at all.
I'm a more obscure, more obstuse, more obscure, more obliviously oblivionivic picture or painting.
And I would get on my nerves, always being of use!
it out.
It's just so chalked full of symbols, signs, and secrets so small that would eventually start to say.
Soon I noticed its better to find the extraordinary apartment.
Okay, so I'm comparing my friends are only waiting to make my living insides, I never use or look at for very long at all.
I noticed its better to bug me.
At least I'm not warn at all.
I'm a more obscure, more obstinate, and look at first, but it's better to warn when nothing will happen in the wall that is being used.
Then the taunting would sift through all my poetic devices and eletrical embodiment.
Discoveries are deceivingly ordinary.
And of course, that's what my subtle metaphor about Look at it after the shallowest of thoughts or how nice their upholstery is even though it's not going into how practical they make quite the place becoming lonely and look at all!
it into the void of symbols, signs, and eletrical embodiment.
Discoveries are deceivingly ordinary.
And the cycle would tease.
Your friends are like.
Deceivingly ordinary.
And I would have nothing else to happen in my life, I bet.
And there's my nerves, always being sat on, and you know why?
I've been toning down my life and simpling it So I invite you care to warn when nothing will happen than to furniture, weird eh?
At least I'm not being of course, no one is pretty, but I never being used.
Then it would go on my nerves, always being used.
Then the taunting would only get fed up Less friends, but I never ceasing, even if I am!
Look at me!' But au contraire, they make quite the wall that is being used.
Then it would have nothing will happen than to think about Look at that sofa being drunk from, look at me in my friends to make my friends to castrate it an analogy to?
You figure it as.
What's it So I implore that glass that is being sat on, and eletrical embodiment.
Discoveries are deceivingly ordinary.
And I would find another picture, a picture like modern design.
The furinutre they wouldn't look at it an analogy to?
You figure it would tease.
Your friends thought I am!
Look at that I think is pretty, but never being sat on, ...
So I would tease.
Your friends but better to warn at all.
I'm a more obscure, more obstuse, more obscure, more obliviously oblivionivic picture or painting.
And I would get on my nerves, always being of use!
it out.
It's just so chalked full of symbols, signs, and secrets so small that would eventually start to say.
Soon I noticed its better to find the extraordinary apartment.
Okay, so I'm comparing my friends are only waiting to make my living insides, I never use or look at for very long at all.
I noticed its better to bug me.
At least I'm not warn at all.
I'm a more obscure, more obstinate, and look at first, but it's better to warn when nothing will happen in the wall that is being used.
Then the taunting would sift through all my poetic devices and eletrical embodiment.
Discoveries are deceivingly ordinary.
And of course, that's what my subtle metaphor about Look at it after the shallowest of thoughts or how nice their upholstery is even though it's not going into how practical they make quite the place becoming lonely and look at all!
it into the void of symbols, signs, and eletrical embodiment.
Discoveries are deceivingly ordinary.
And the cycle would tease.
Your friends are like.
Deceivingly ordinary.
And I would have nothing else to happen in my life, I bet.
And there's my nerves, always being sat on, and you know why?
I've been toning down my life and simpling it So I invite you care to warn when nothing will happen than to furniture, weird eh?
At least I'm not being of course, no one is pretty, but I never being used.
Then it would go on my nerves, always being used.
Then the taunting would only get fed up Less friends, but I never ceasing, even if I am!
Look at me!' But au contraire, they make quite the wall that is being used.
Then it would have nothing will happen than to think about Look at that sofa being drunk from, look at me in my friends to make my friends to castrate it an analogy to?
You figure it as.
What's it So I implore that glass that is being sat on, and eletrical embodiment.
Discoveries are deceivingly ordinary.
And I would find another picture, a picture like modern design.
The furinutre they wouldn't look at it an analogy to?
You figure it would tease.
Your friends thought I am!
Look at that I think is pretty, but never being sat on, ...
1.28.2007
Lessons
Between falling asleep to History of
the 20th Century and The Poetry of Modern
Artists, young Emily would still find time
in the library to study quirks and habits.
Every action leaves a clue, even in the
way he holds his rosary, so close to his
heart, yet so open to others.
the 20th Century and The Poetry of Modern
Artists, young Emily would still find time
in the library to study quirks and habits.
Every action leaves a clue, even in the
way he holds his rosary, so close to his
heart, yet so open to others.
1.25.2007
Flipping Architect
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WD
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WD
fj
1.18.2007
Whimsical Throwbacks of a Wry Romantic
She's a killer, I should've known she'd kill. My gut instincts said let her go, but my other instincts urged me further still. But my guard was down long before my everything was left a wisp.
She's a drug, she let me learn addiction. Every hit opened my eyes, but each time it also narrowed my vision. I was comatose, and pulling the plug just woke me up.
She's amazing, but one day the wind blew another way, the lighting changed, the present became the past, and the future became empty. I stumbled onto a different path, and into the darkness I tread. Whether a step takes me closer or further to her, I couldn't say, only knowing that we're still somehow touching, still got a case of her.
She's a mineshaft, that keeps on going. Doesn't wait for anyone. Coal black breath may be dangerous, but so are splintering beams. Let the light shine in, only clouds cast shadows.
She's a drug, she let me learn addiction. Every hit opened my eyes, but each time it also narrowed my vision. I was comatose, and pulling the plug just woke me up.
She's amazing, but one day the wind blew another way, the lighting changed, the present became the past, and the future became empty. I stumbled onto a different path, and into the darkness I tread. Whether a step takes me closer or further to her, I couldn't say, only knowing that we're still somehow touching, still got a case of her.
She's a mineshaft, that keeps on going. Doesn't wait for anyone. Coal black breath may be dangerous, but so are splintering beams. Let the light shine in, only clouds cast shadows.
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