Trend Disturbing

Goodbye, Mr. Greenjeans, goodbye

2006-02-24T23:26:00.000-05:00

Mr. Greenjeans is dead!
Mr. Greenjeans, is dead!
Mr. Greenjeans is, dead!
Mr. Greenjeans... DEAD!!!

Rachael Ray killed him. The bitch.

It seems her Foot High (ultra simple) meringue Pie has suffocated Mr. Greenjeans.
How was he to know one could overdose on violently whipped egg whites?
It's Rachael's fault.
Ray-tard.

She must be stopped.

Visit this site please (even its the last thing you do):

http://community.livejournal.com/rachael_ray_sux/

Dear Charles Ives,

2006-02-24T11:12:00.000-05:00

Hey Chuck,
just sitting here in this internet cafe sipping a fat free machiato, so I thought I'd drop you a line. I'm trying to decide on my next great art project. My inspiration is going to be... umm, well... I don't know what it's going to be. You see, there isn't a lot of turmoil or emotion in my life, I just kind of go with the flow these days. I was thinking I should try to live homeless or something... you know, to get some material for my art. Boy, things seemed so simple back in art school. You could just throw a bunch of garbage up on a canvass and ensure yourself a good grade labeling it in the right genre ("professor, this piece is postmodern" "very good A+"). But having the life of an artist is harder than I thought. Anyway, I have to go update my myspace account now. Jimmy took some funny photos of me mooning cars with my camera-phone.
Signed,
The Artisté

A New Character

2006-02-16T13:00:00.000-05:00

Mr. Greenjeans waited a while in line at the Atlanta Bread Company. He looked around with his eyes wide, his mind turning, and his stomach churning. He had never been to an Atlanta Bread Company before, he was an Atlanta Bread Company virgin. Suddenly, the line dwindled down and he found himself facing the moment of truth at the cash register.

"Can I hell-p you, sir?" the cashier asked.

Mr. Greenjeans froze. He had no idea what he wanted. He quickly scanned the menu for a high-fiber bran bread, but he rapidly realized the Atlanta Bread Company didn't have many varieties of bread. This occurrence knocked him off his lounge chair of thought. He would have to think on his feet and be impromptu.

"What kind of smoothies do you have?"

"Huh?" asked the cashier.

"Smoo-thies."

"Oh, follow me."

Where was she going to take him? Did they have a whole big room for smoothies, with fresh fruit and juice? After all the crowd of people must be here for a reason. Mr. Greenjeans gladly followed his guide down the counter to the other side-- the smoothie making side. The cashier opened the fridge wide, grabbed three unfriendly bags of frozen fruit, and read from them:

"Strawberry, banana, blueberry; strawberry, banana; and mango, peach."

Mr. Greenjeans liked fresh fruit, but since that was not an option, he decided to get some anti-oxidants with his frozen drink. He disappointedly ordered the strawberry, banana, blueberry. It was six dollars. He felt he was being taken advantage of by a bread company which did not have much bread and that served frozen food. Mr. Greenjeans felt like the restaurant reminded him of a food factory, that was over-priced and impersonal. He began to get agitated.

But then he looked around the crowded eating establishment and saw many people who had been taken advantage of. This feeling of being part of larger group was soothing to Mr. Greenjeans. The classical music they were playing in the background also worked to ease his distress.

After all he was there for the free internet anyway.

Speechless, With Fury

2006-02-02T11:36:00.001-05:00

Here I sit, alone at the keyboard.
Rick Santorum, on C-SPAN, in the background.
My mind is active with ideas,
my body is in peak condition
to move, to move-- to act.
But my mouth stays snapped shut--
what is it worth?

Passion's pleasure falls short of
the mindful dult's solipsistic advance
schmoozing in the lobby of despair.
Our ears always filled with waves of words--
abundant, decadent rhetoric.
Seizing the celebrity advantage trend
as a twin wails at childbirth.

I am speechless, with fear.
Self righteous competitive gains
deafen our communal spirit.
IGNORANCE!
We all spew meaningless malice--
braggarts of maggots.
Rejoice in our own choosing!
Speak often of simple satisfaction!

For fury's future may be violent;
and darkness will be speechless.

Get ready!!!

2006-01-03T13:41:00.000-05:00

Oh yes there will be more to come, there will be more to come. Time is now our messiah instead of our adversary. I cannot wait. I cannot fucking wait. It's gonna be grand. It's gonna blow our unsuspecting, simple, rapidily expanding minds. It's gonna be like Matthew Lillard in Scream, all over again. The old standby cliches will be rendered obsolete and we will be forced to sit back, relax, and.... get ready...

Immortality

2005-10-18T01:27:00.000-04:00

Stand up please. Walk over to the X on the floor. Yes, stand there relaxed. We’re going to take a few pictures. Ok, thanks. Now I’ll need you walk over to the grey console with the red light. Good, now lean forward and place your chin on the pad. Stay still for a moment while we do a quick scan. Great. Your physical and mental data is being processed to enter our virtual environment. Welcome. You’ve got mail. Goodbye.

A Lesson

2005-10-13T21:49:00.000-04:00

These sad and dreary rainy days mesh into one epileptic memory. Today, I will return to my Opa’s house. I will sit in his old and rackety rocking chair, leaf through a book, a newspaper or a magazine, while my Oma, stares at me thinking of her sleeping lover. Sometimes, out of the corner of my eye, I see her smile; a smile of pain, a smile of love an eternal smile of heartbreak.

I cannot imagine how she feels. Can I? Maybe I can, but I don’t want to. Is my resemblance to him that uncanny? I am sick, I am a monster. I am an arrogant, youthful prick. Fuck me and my thoughts. She is old, lonely, beautiful and fragile, like a porcelain doll.

She will recall stories about my Opa, stories that I have heard countless times and I will sit and listen attentively, as if hearing the stories for the first time. I will stay with my Oma for as long as she needs. Even when she says “Go back to school, you need to be with your friends, I will be alright”, I will stay for at least another hour. I have gotten so much from my Oma and Opa and have given so little in return. I try my best though.

When I back my car out of the driveway and see my Oma standing stoically on the porch, arms waving me home, I will begin to cry. I will feel lonely and begin to worry that I have already wasted thousands, millions of opportunities in my 21 years of existence. The hour ride back to school will be filled with a lot of distractions. I will play a mix tape extremely loud and sing, no shout the lyrics to every song. I will think of beautiful, elegant, well crafted things to say to my unattainable crush. I will play games with the license plates of the cars as they make their way to a better place, fast. I will cry one more time.

When I get back to school, I will call up a few friends and we will hang out until around 3 in the morning. We will hate the first person who leaves because they will have sparked the mass exodus, of stoned, drunk or just plainly tired kids, back to their beds. Why don’t we all just sleep together? We could keep our cloths on. Why are we so good at repressing our desires? I will be the first person to leave.

God how I miss him. Five months have never seemed so long. I only think about him at the most inopportune times, like when I am drunk or when a teacher calls on me because it appears that have been dreaming. Well you know what; I have been dreaming and don’t interrupt, motherfucker. He was the only Adult who truly understood and helped me with my depression. Why didn’t I write him the letter, the one that was already written out in my head? And why didn’t I give it to him on his 91st birthday? It’s too late.

I hate going back to my Opa’s house. It used to be my only sanctuary, now when I visit my Oma, I feel that I need to bring a friend for support. Today nobody will keep me company but I will keep my cool, for Her. My Oma deserves that, after all she’s the tough one.

Sometimes I just get so lonely that it is unbearable. I often close my eyes and forget about everything; all my cares, all my worries, all the good, all the bad, this world and that world. When I open eyes, my eyelids feel heavy and internally I feel a oneness with the world. I smile, showing all my teeth.

# 1, from a drunk

2005-10-04T16:11:00.000-04:00

white man dances
named!
there s something special in the air tonight
black man free
named?
Let me fuck you please

Untitled 1

2005-09-21T19:20:00.000-04:00

Menstruating men running down the street while priests fall into a guilty sleep
a womb of thought aborted
my life controlled by thoughts of mediocrity
the fog of the bay area drifts away as the last beat dies
a home not worth looking for
a path
a lie
no zen
just a lunatic drunk
the chains of our heart fight to keep us apart
fight to keep the divisions
perpetuate the current
electricity
fought to keep a dream alive
fought to keep my hands clean
inaudible words spoken without meter without rhyme chaos of conformity uneasy feelings about sexuality a repressed child i was
sleeping in my dreams unable to sleep
a life i thought i wanted no longer
the east coast died the night i told it to

Calluses

2005-08-13T15:14:00.000-04:00

Hands are soft, at birth.
Pillowy, puffy, new.
Innocent invisible fingerprints.
Our minds expand--
gorging on linguistics.
malleable minds,
thrusting consciousness,
quenching intellect.

Then off in our outer space...

A wrench calls out!
The hammer wants to play;
and pound, and pound, and pound,
away all day.
Building your home;
a callus forms--
hard.

Biologically brailed anatomy;
unreadable, blind.
Rough, ruined, skin.
Dead surface, alive.
Numb digits
signs of ticking time.
Leaving prints behind
But we want it all
the lists run long.
Life forever supple?
impos-upple!
Evolution's gentle gift...
ignoring conscious progress,
burning passion callused.
Hearts heavy,
hands hard.

Peace and Quiet

2005-07-26T14:40:00.000-04:00

What happens
When
you've been beat up
and beat down
When you've been kicked one too many times
and your stuck in the ground.
You've been fallin behind
yer losing the race
and you can't even find a friendly face
to help pick you up and put you in yer place.
You've been over here
You've been over there
and you ain't found no room that nobody can spare.
You're livin on the street
with an achin in yer feet
and you ain't even found no girls to meet.
Yer just alone with yer thoughts
they got you twisted they got you fed
and they only come out to play when you're lying in bed.
They keep ya from sleepin
They keep ya from dreamin
and they make yer brain start a-bleeding.
So ya get outta bed and grab a brew
and you hope to turn into someone new.
Someone with good skin
Someone with a good heart
Someone who won't let the world tear'em apart
but the next morning ya wake and yer the same old you
ya look in the mirror and start to feel blue.
With the past so far away
you carry yerself into the new day
thinkin that you just may find what you've been lookin for
but you can't even find yer way out the door.
So ya ask for some help
Maybe a dime
but they ain't gonna help
they ain't got no time.
they're too busy stayin clean,
all the while not realizin they're turnin into machines
but at least they will climb the ladder of the social scene.
You'll be left behind
You'll be hurt
all because yer shoes are covered in dirt.
But that's ok
ya grab the air an keep it inside
ya go back to that place where you can hide
and you say "this is where I want to reside".
What yer lookin for can't be found in no house
it can't be found down some girls blouse
it can't be found in no college dorm
it can't be found in no summer storm
it can't be found with no drugs or drink
it can only be found when you close yer eyes and begin to think.
But when ya close yer eyes ya see nothin
and ya say to yerself
"What am I doing? What am I doing with this brain I've been givin
and with this life I'm a-livin? Is this all just a waste of time or is there something
out there for me to find? Is there a God above and will I ever find someone to love?"
You haven't found any answers on the road yer walkin
You haven't found any answers in the North, the South, the East, the West
You haven't found any answers in the heart inside yer chest.
You ain't got no heaven
You ain't got no hell
but you sit back and relax
cus only time will tell
who was real and who has fell.
Who knows if you'll survive
Who knows how long you'll be alive
but you gotta try yer best
to clear yer mind
and put these bad thoughts to rest.

Hyper Sensitivity

2005-07-24T22:42:00.000-04:00

Her malicious intent
climaxed post passion.
Seductive helplessness.
in vulnerable fashion.
Lying in the folds,
alone together;
she hurts and holds.
Pain so sharp,
pleasures so true,
guilty innocence--
evil virtue.

Organized Labor (against you)

2005-07-22T14:13:00.000-04:00

Organized Labor,
I love you so dear.
You hate the Mexicans
your number one fear.

White's all right,
while black's ok.
A man needs caluses,
make fun of the gays!!

Spend all the money
on booze at bars.
To impress the women...
buy Japanese cars.

Play cards at the hall,
swear and spit.
Get her Versace,
you got credit.

Times do change
and worms do turn.
The union man's losing.
Your rental income burns.

Its not your fault!
You pay your Dues!
But Unions are business
don't be confused.

They're winning, they're winning,
Exposing the lies.
the Union makes the money--
the union man dies.
So...
RE-organize.

Summer

2005-07-21T13:33:00.000-04:00

You've been looking out the windows of cars
sleeping on planes
reading on buses
and standing on trains

You've been in the south
the north, the east, the west
and you still ain't found a good place to rest

You lost your hope
You lost your love
But you'll never back down
when push comes to shove

Your feet have been aching
Your heart has been broken
and you can't even begin to measure the toll
your mind has takin

So what happens when you're lying in bed
wrestlin with the thoughts that are locked in your head?

They keep you up
They keep you down
They keep you from staying around

So one morning you get off the floor
and quietly make your exit out the back door

Your back on the street
blazing a new trail
but you don't know where to go
you don't know where to look
but you think you'll be ok
cus you think your a character of a Kerouac book

You ain't got no rhythm
You ain't got no rhyme
You ain't got no reason to stay behind

Your girl's got someone new
and your money is tight
but you don't want to go home and proove your parents right

Out on the road with no rhythm or rhyme, no space or time
just a couple of bucks and an empty mind

But your feet are aching
your heart is breaking
and you're afraid that you're the only one that they've been fakin

You ain't got no God
You ain't got no Love
You're just walking a lonely road
looking for the answers to questions
but the only thing you're finding is harder questions.

So you go back home
back to your bed
and you think about what a waste all this travelin's been
So you close your eyes and let a new adventure begin

Patrolling the subway

2005-07-20T23:32:00.000-04:00

Patrolling the subway
Originally uploaded by rllayman.

Do not let "them" make you afraid. But... who is "them"????

Karma Meltdown

2005-07-20T09:49:00.000-04:00

It is true...
Young life un-full-fill-able,
Trying to squeeze in inherited mold.
Those close to death
look back and smile.
While I--, while we--
have to walk the mile.
The distance gets longer.
Cheap Chinese made rulers
must be mismarked.
Working men fired
their life's unready to retire.
Fifty years young? 70?
possibility scary.
Nothing to do,
self-worth-less-ness sets in.
We all seek the success.
No marijuana in the mold.
self-soothe-- repress.
Actuality opposes reality.
The BIG show must continue,
honesty's death perpetuate.
Sexuality, just because, fades truth.
Molding our molds--
all poets are old,
neighboring the big white open.
Physicality linked spirituality:
Karma Sutra

And God says, in new proverbs
to the young-- from our elders
(as we know them):
" Learn business. Become a public school teacher. Honor thy new wife. Stay away from drugs. No free love. Dress nicely. Prejudge everything. Life is unfair. Kiss ass more. Be safe. Live in a major metropolitan area-- until you want to start a family. Killing isn't murder in times of declared and undeclared war. Little lies don't hurt anyone..."

The daydream should now begin...
For now fantasy can the mold fit in.

Drunk in a new City, Same bar

2005-07-17T03:44:00.000-04:00

Hipsters
Everywhere I turn
I see Hipsters.
A gay guy grabbed my cock and
then bought me a drink.
I guess he liked my cock.
Why won't a girl ever grab my cock?
Drunk girls with tattoo's on their lower back
look for Mr. Right.
I hate bars like this.
They are a waste of time,
I'm never going to talk to you again... so
leave me alone
and let me get drunk.
Fuck You,
I'm leaving
I'll see all of you again
tomorrow night,
in a new city,
Same Bar.

Choices

2005-06-14T23:59:00.000-04:00

Sirens
calling
calming the sea in my mind
float ashore
Surrender.
-caesura-
I'm troubled by
the beauty in your eyes
I'm drunk by
the fruit from your wines
held hostage
a willing slave
Tortured
Paradise and Pleasure
or
Hell and Love?
-caesura-
Paradise lost
Pleasure denied
Free will
I'm coming home for you.

HV #1424

2005-06-12T16:03:00.000-04:00

Trashcan hopes dumped into a notebook.
Carpets dangling from the ceiling with lampshades blocking the Moons light.
Clothes in a pile on the floor, the Laundromats going out of business
cus I ain't got no money.
satellites follow me wherever I go.

Foggy nights wake my irrational desires.
nostalgic trips in my sleep help make the future obtainable.
Times have changed but people haven't.
The road is open but it isn't paved.
Let's ride until the sun wakes from its sleep

Baby Corn

2005-06-10T11:12:00.000-04:00

We drove fast through northeast Kansas on our way to Lawrence. Lawrence is a liberal hot-bed these days. Dopey college students spend their families money, and loans, protesting everything from the Bush administration to the wrongful imprisonment of a certain native AIM leader (for those who don't know AIM stands for the American Indian Movement). The town is situated in between a major state university, and good fertile Kansas farm-land.
The fertility of Kansas is not restricted to the soil. The people there help to populate the world. The Midwest is the American India as far as baby making goes. They fuck like rabbits out here, and since they don't believe in abortion-- or because a kid is another past-time-- the baby's are born. Young and immature twenty-somethings have young and immature ten-somethings.
As the gas peddle is lowered further, the car picks up speed. I felt we could have out ran a twister if one dared showed its devastating funnel. I am told that out running tornados is not recommended, but I am also told that a real macho rush can be gained in the practice. People do out run them.
Instead of clouds we are given a sunset. A sunset that reminds us of the intrinsic beauty in every moment. The pinkish perfect circle lowers in the expansive twilight. As it slowly falls it begs to be captured in photo. Done. Snap. Forever mine. Then I realize what the sun is circling, and what we are surrounded by. In the fields to the left and right is all the young corn, barely recognizable in infancy. They are like Corn sprouts, or cornlings, if you will. Thousands of plants, each no bigger than a foot, will latter in the season grow to be over ten feet tall. They will block our view, give us tunnel vision and be the manifestation of the symbolic Mid-west.

A Rant:

This country has dumped on Kansas. We treat it as a fly-over state, or a drive-through-fast-shit-whole-of-a-place. The highway was designed to get people to Denver, and the west as fast as possible. Good American history took place here. Kansas was free, Missouri was slave. Kansas is NOT FLAT. Kansas bled for freedom during Bleeding Kansas. John Brown slaughtered the Texas types. While the guy next to me studies his Dictionary of Marxist Thought, the birth place of the populist movement directly to our neighboring west, becomes a reactionary chess pool of Fred Phelps-like wack jobs who would rather see hate than love, and an incest baby conceived through rape-- born over aborted. We turn our back on good people and they turn to the whack job religious leaders who become congressman that have a hand in all our fate. The true Federalistic triumph. We are losing Kansas, but it is going no where. What's the Matter With Kansas? Patriotic ignorance on the way to California. The baby corn will grow tall.

Disappointed

2005-06-09T17:22:00.000-04:00

It has been raining for days
Sometimes in the distance I hear thunder but
most of the time
it's just God bowling
I lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling
I listen to music
I read
I watch tv
I turn on my phone and think about calling people
(but I never do)
I contemplate masturbating but decide against it
(I don't want to deal with the guilt)
I do anything to pass the time and stay dry

I wait
for something
to come
but it never does.

A Society Self-Destructs

2005-06-09T00:56:00.000-04:00

Run, you animals, the sinners pervert you!

>>Click Here to Enter the Kingdom of Heaven <<

The tree of knowledge is now an endangered species.

Friedrich Nietzsche's last attempt

2005-06-09T00:35:00.000-04:00

Stop!
Please stop whipping the horses' eyes.
Such a beautiful creature.
Please stop whipping the horses' eyes.
You are the antichrist!
God isn't dead, I am GOD!
Father don't leave me again!
Mother please love me!
The world is deep but
joy and suffering is deeper.
I'm the Ubermensch, and
I'm going to have a nap.

Alienation's Gathering Storm

2005-06-08T17:34:00.000-04:00

I feel it.
I sense its presence.
Clouds darken, daylight is lost.
Humid heated stagnate atmosphere.

all thunder...
no
l
i
g
h
t
e
n
i
n
g
STRIKE!

The classifieds foretell.
God given real estate
EVA P o r a t e s.
Knowledge erodes
e r a dic ates

Society demands
life commands.
Talent floating dreams
in the rapid rising river flow.

A flash flood of tears.
for all the lost years.
Divided into teams--
our humanity drags in tow.

Mercenaries. Praying for one final fatal blow.

Maturity

2005-06-07T10:49:00.000-04:00

She was the typical suburban mom.
Everyday she picked her kids up from school in her SUV and drove them to whatever sport they played. She was a member of the PTA and everynight
she had dinner ready for her husband.

Her kids made her feel old and
her husband made her feel older.
He didn't care if she came anymore,
His idea of sex was a three minute commercial break.
She felt like she was dying.

But she cums alive for me everytime.
Maybe that's because I make her feel young again.
Or maybe it's because I don't know what the hell I'm doing.
(Probably the latter of the two)

So, all you guys my age can keep fucking the prom queens
and the virgins. That's fine with me because I like fucking death.

Kansas Hills

2005-06-06T14:56:00.000-04:00

They told me it was flat.
flat, flat, FLAT!!!

With Nothing to offer; nothing to gain.
Wind blown bare, gold gone,
lost to the miandering river flow.
They say the people are of a lesser
c-a-p-a-c-i-t-y.

Maybe they are right. Stay away!!!
These are my green, luscious, nudes,
as they dizzy me to a drunken vomit.

Crutch

2005-06-06T09:05:00.000-04:00

Camus loved to steal.
Bukowski sucked dick for beer.
D.H. Lawrence fucked his mother.

So what if I like to shoot dope once and a while.
We all need a crutch.
Besides,
I like it when the needle penetrates my skin.
I like it when the poison has intercourse with my blood.
I like it when my brain goes numb.

Dope frees me from the power of gravity.
Dope reveals the vastness of infinity.
But most of all, dope allows me to be what I want to be...

a new logos

2005-06-06T01:42:00.000-04:00

When I try, as hard as I can, to place the image of my Self at the centermost place of my mind, where thoughts are perceived and being becomes, the most I am able to conjure up is a jumble of images, images, images. The jumble is not inert. It feels. It/’? is evolving. The pronoun is useless, an ancestor now deceased.

The more [it] feels the more alone [it] becomes the more [it] feels the more alone…

Looking, looking.

[It] now= It./////””””???????????

/a screen
‘a window
?a body

perceiving
now dying
now born

Looking, looking.

[It.//////’’’’????????????????????????]

$: a new language is in order

Local Papers

2005-06-06T00:45:00.000-04:00

If you do not live in New York... please buy your local paper. Put your community a head of your unessessary, hyberbolic feeling for the Nation's leading conservative justifiable whipping post. You should care more about weekend yard sales than you should about a journalistic update on nuclear proliferation. So with your tea and crumpets-- read your town's police blotter.

Gifted Education

2005-06-06T00:32:00.000-04:00

Her body dotted eloquent-
her mind an unfurrled array.
Her mother such a soldier,
she always is away.
Around the block to laugh and run--
she gains her scrapes and scars.
Daughter gets to learn here
while mother fights foreign wars.

A Letter from A Girl that Loves Me (a little late)

2005-06-05T00:37:00.000-04:00

Billy,
I can't believe that my first semester of college is already over. At the beginning of the semester, I hated this school. My roommate was a bitch, I hated my classes and the boys at this school only wanted one thing, pussy. I thought that college would be different, I thought... well I don't know what I thought. Before I met you, I hated this school. I didn't want to go home but I didn't want to stay here, not with all the rumors about me floating around campus. It was so difficult to make friends. After the first week of classes everyone already had preconceived notions about me. So, what did I do? I acted how everyone thought that I should act, I became the stupid slut, who got drunk and fucked the jocks. Everything changed the day that I met you in the dinning hall. I was sitting with my ex-boyfriend (if you can call him that) and you came over to our table. You proceeded to ask my ex what time your basketball game was. Slightly embarrassed that you would talk to him in the dinning hall (with all of his friends around) he quickly answered your question. You flashed a smile and left. I asked my ex "Who was that, I've never seen him on campus?" My ex replied "Oh, that's Billy. He's a nobody. He's smart or something, he writes papers for some of the guys. He never goes out, he's a weirdo but he's got a great jump shot." From your smile I could see a uniqueness, you were totally different from anyone else. Your pale blue eyes were beautiful, Your body was skinny yet firm, not like the brutes on the football team. As the semester progressed, my partying began to reek havoc on my grades. My advisor suggested that I go to one of the tutors in the basement of the library. As you know that is where I met you for the second time. With your help my grades got better and my time at school became somewhat bearable. Not only did you help me with my classes but you introduced me to new and exciting ideas. You gave me a confidence that I lacked. You taught me that it is ok to be yourself. You actually listened and cared about ME. Whenever you smiled, I could see your sensitivity. Whenever you told me about yourself, I could tell that you experienced the Human experience more intensely than the rest. Whenever I looked into your eyes, I could see how delicate and vulnerable your spirit is to the cruelties of life. Winter break is so long. It has only been a few days but I need to see you. Please come back next semester, I need you. I'm sorry that I broke your heart, I made a big mistake. I'm sorry that you saw me and my ex making out, after I told you that I only wanted to be with you. It didn't mean anything, I was drunk. Being drunk doesn't excuse my actions but I hope that you can understand. I'm so sorry. I really care about you. Please call me! Love, Amie

2005-06-04T13:44:00.000-04:00

Dear Lisa,
Hey, thanks for your letter. It was great to here from you!
It was a shame that you couldn't make it to Sarah and Tom's wedding.
I felt like a jerk when Sarah and Tom said "Hi" to me during the reception,
I called Tom
Frank by accident.
Doesn't he look like a Frank?
Well maybe he doesn't look like a Frank but he
definitely looks like a Francis.
Otherwise the wedding was fun. I got really drunk.
That Frank was one Helluva guy,
helping me put my clothes back on and helping me find my room.
Well I have to get going...
I'll see you at your party,
Are Sarah and Francis coming?
See You Soon, Billy

a fish out of water

2005-06-04T11:53:00.000-04:00

sharkvan
Originally uploaded by TrendHewes.

All gone (an answer)

2005-05-24T00:56:00.000-04:00

Streaks of red, white, and green
disappear in this dank place.

I can see from the lines in my glass,
the history of this chilled beverage.
First I sipped you, two little frothy lines.
Then I gulped you, a window of an inch or more.
Then three perfectly spaced rings, stained on your interior.
Gulp again.
Down to the grit I chug.
All gone.

Lines of froth permeate upward
from belly to brain
threading their way around my head.
“Another, please.”
What will be your story? (a question)

Streaks of red, white, and green
enter through the opened door,
blinding for a moment,
and then,
All gone.

Distances

2005-05-21T12:57:00.000-04:00

We live next to people we've never seen.
We live above strangers separated only by the thickness of a floor.
We perform the operations of life behind a closed door.
Privacy prevails...
We grow more and more disillusioned with our public servants.
We lose jobs, take pay cuts, lose our benefits.
We approach decisions with our minds cast in cement.
The ideological divide widens.
Lines have been drawn in the sand.
We are more afraid to cross them...
We are now all a threat to each other.

A Likely Story

2005-04-12T22:35:00.000-04:00

It was you wasn’t it. I’m so sure of it. You were walking home when she stopped you.

“Please, my foot is broken- help me carry these things up to my apartment,” she said.

You were following her up the steps, she was hopping up slowly on her crutches, the she slipped. She fell backwards to you but you dropped her groceries and caught her, you’re so strong. You smelled her hair didn’t you? You smelled her hair and she smelled like a thousand different flowers. You carried her up the stairs to her apartment. You didn’t even put her down when she took the key from her purse and unlocked the door. You carried her right through the threshold, like you two were just married. You laid her on the wheat and you separated the chaff didn’t you, right there on the threshing floor.

The sun went down
the moon came up.

The milk she bought lay
on the landing where
you left it to spoil
and felt her hair.

The moon went down
the sun came up.

She made you tea.
You cooked her eggs.
She made you toast.
You looked at her legs.

Look at you smiling. You can’t even contain yourself. I know it was you, I’m sure. I can’t believe it. You did, didn’t you? How do you do it? Unbelievable.

Benefactor

2005-04-01T16:34:00.000-05:00

He was always borrowing the yellow Porsche from me. I allowed him to use it on nights and weekend. Jeb thought the car vindicated his prowess as an aspiring writer. Jeb perpetually dealt with self-doubt. I could tell how much more masculine he seemed to feel in that car. In the driveway, with me watching, he would back he car out gently. As soon as he thought he was out of my sight I always heard the loud screech of burning rubber, my rubber, with Jeb confidently the culprit.

Jeb thinks this town is bigger than it really is. He thinks what he does at night doesn’t get back to me. He thinks I do not know his every move, but I find out. This town likes to talk. He takes my car to the only bar in town. He looks at the same people every night. This is a small town, and I live high on the hill. Now, what Jeb does on his own time is not my real concern. I am only his benefactor, not his master. I do not own Jeb, and he only owes me what I feel is just. If he wants to take my car and have some good times with it, I feel it can only aid his writing.

I hear Jeb is quite a character when I am not around. Word has it he stares at any girl who comes in a little too much. The townie men don’t like him for many other reasons. It seems perfectly natural for a man, young and talented, to show off his intelligence. I hear he does the daily crosswords just as the growing crowd starts to mingle and the jukebox starts to blare. This is not a bar where the patrons work on the expansion of their vocabulary. It is a bar that gets filled with fisherman, laborers, and the women that seek these types.

I hear he always appears over-dressed, wears his sunglasses inside buildings, and loses all his money trying to hustle pool. He always tries too hard to 'fit in,' but he is chronically out of touch being an Alabama on the California coast. Someone mentioned a conversation Jeb had in which he bragged in front of some callused men outside the bar while smoking a cigarette, how ‘he loves to drive the Porsche.’ He said how much he 'liked to drive recklessly' around the mountainous coastline. To which one of the guys said ironically, “I hope it has a winch.” I don’t mind him using the car, as long as he brings it back at night, and his writing doesn’t suffer.

What is Earned

2005-03-31T23:56:00.000-05:00

I could win an Academy award.
You could win an Academy award.
The stage is immense.
Crazy characters are cast.
Lights up, lights down—
inner monologues,
dance sequences,
Drama personified reaction
Never forget a line.
Cry on que; naturally laugh.
You are the best director.
I am the best actor—

only I just pissed myself

I Almost Made it to Big Sur

2005-03-31T20:58:00.000-05:00

The four of us rode in my van north up Route One with the clearer skies behind us. Before long it started to rain. We were driving north from L.A. to Santa Cruz where we knew we had a place to stay before going on to Berkeley (Berkeley, California, I have been told is named after the Irish philosopher, George Berkeley who held that nothing can exist outside of a mind). We were having such a good time chatting in the van that we must have missed a sign saying that Route One was closed due to a rockslide. Blind to this fact we traveled on, navigating tight, slick curves in the rain, which was coming down harder and harder. Below us to the left, down hundreds of feet, the invisible Pacific Ocean crashed against the rocky cliffs.

After a few hours we reached a store with a hotel above it. We went in to grab something to eat. A fat, blond-haired woman stood behind the counter and said, “What the hell are you guys doing out here?”

“Driving to Santa Cruz.”

“Not tonight ya ain’t. Route one’s closed at Big Sur ‘cause of rockslides. Ain’t nobody going up Route One.”

“How far back down do we have to go before we can get across to the 101?”

“About forty miles. That’s about two hours of driving on these roads and the northern winds are comin’ down, they’ll blow your car right off the cliffs. I can rent you a room for a hundred bucks, you’ll be better off tomorrow.”

We turned away from the woman to discuss amongst ourselves the hotel room. There was still a little bit of light out and we wanted to make it to Santa Cruz even if we had to drive all night, Nathalie had classes early the next day.

I set a bottle of water and a small bag of trail mix on the counter. “I think we’re going to go on to Santa Cruz tonight.”

“If I can make a suggestion,” she said while she rang up the food, “you better get some rocks and boulders and put ‘em in your car to weigh you down. That wind is serious stuff, it will blow you off the road. That’ll be nine-fifty.”

Nine-fifty! You really pay a premium out here on the cliffs for luxuries like peanuts and raisins, I thought. And this woman was talking this non-sense about putting rocks in your car. I’m a yokel of someplace too and I know when somebody’s giving you the out-of-towner run-around.

We drove on in the rain, sometimes through zero visibility. We got to Santa Cruz five hours later. It turned out that there weren’t as many places to sleep as promised so I slept in the van.

About two weeks later I was at a bar in Bolinas playing pool. Three salty old fishermen in overalls were sitting in a row, each cradling a beer. Local news was playing on the small TV above the bar and the main story was the mudslides down near Big Sur that had wiped out several houses and left a few people dead. On the screen a reporter stood in front of a huge chasm where part of Route One had disappeared into the ocean. He held an umbrella over his and a woman’s heads. The cameraman panned over to put the two of them in frame and the reporter asked her to describe what had happened.

I was stunned… it was that woman from two weeks ago!

“I lost everything,” she sobbed into the microphone, “my brother’s missing, we can’t find him anywhere. He was in the hotel when it washed into the ocean!” Tears ran down her cheeks. Her rain-soaked blond hair stuck to her face.

I heard the crack of two pool-balls slamming into each other. I turned, just in time to see the eight ball disappear down the side pocket. I owed James a beer.

to the evangelicals

2005-03-31T01:12:00.000-05:00

Please leave us alone. Let your children grow. Wake up and smell the beauty of life, not the life after death. Your devotion is tearing our country apart. Your ministers are lining their pockets. Your hypocracy is deafening to the everyday person. You are out of touch. Shut up. Praise God, Love God, but trust the humanity he created in his image. Black, white, red... and rapidly evolving.

My Exotic

2005-03-30T21:44:00.000-05:00

I tread
across
miles of pavement
Parched

I lap
on my hands and kness
like a dog
from the Poland Spring

America of Bank

2005-03-29T22:53:00.001-05:00

A couple of weeks ago I was able to achieve a great honor, though some may call it dubious. I made it to the Group Interview for a part-time teller position at the Bank of America.
First, a man wearing a short-sleeved button-down shirt and bland pink blue tie who appeared to have just emptied a bottle of Just For Men hair coloring on his head, quickly identified himself as the man who would run the interview and make hiring recommendations.
I looked at all the desperate people around the room. They were all people of color except this white girl sitting next to me. They spoke broken english and struggled to communicate throughout the four hour long interview. We were all asked idiotic questions and we all gave answers we really didn't want to give.
Why do you want to work for Bank of America?
How about to pay the bills, to feed my family-- I need money. I want to work. I felt like telling him I will work for food. Instead I made some bull-shit up. Everyone lied and over finesed the silly question. The man with poorly dyed hair of authority, smiled and nodded, as everyone gave their drawn-out reason.
If you could be any animal what would you be?
How about a monkey-- cause that is how you are making us feel. Instead I said a Giraffe. "'cause they're tall and can see everything. Also they can reach the leaves that no other animal can." My answer was a staeming pile of verbal giraffe dung.
We all had to intoduce ourselves-- and give a "fun fact" about each other. The plastic looking, fake hair guy said "I'll start." He gave his boring, square story, then he mentioned his 'fun fact.' I was on the edge of my seat... His 'fun fact' was that he liked to watch the 'West Wing' on television. He set a disturbing example.
This guy was a loser, but even worse a loser who had power over people. We needed jobs. This guy could prevent that. I was getting sick, sad, and fed up. I could not relate to this generic idiot. I threw my pen at him and left the room. As I was getting out of the elevator I saw building security walking fast behind me. I picked up my pace went through the revolving door and got lost once again in the crowd in the city outside.
Fuck this guy, fuck this bank. Give these people the stupid job, pay us for the time we spent in that conference room-- four hours we'll never get back.
I did not get the job. Good luck to the person who did.

What's so special up there?

2005-03-29T13:45:00.000-05:00

I came across this interesting chart showing population density by elevation.

(high pitched diiiing) "Welcome."

2005-03-28T23:34:00.000-05:00

voice continues: " You are now entering the Blogosphere. The level of the atmosphere that admittedly has an ozone hole."

Stimuli

2005-03-28T13:00:00.000-05:00

I was in a pharmacy getting a prescription filled and there was a problem with my insurance. The woman who was working the register called my insurance to see what the problem was. She then proceded to yell into the phone, "IT'S NOT FAIR THAT HARD-WORKING PEOPLE CAN'T GET THEIR MEDICATION, WHEN ALL THESE FOREIGNERS ARE GETTING FREE MEDICAID!!!" Standing behind this woman was an indian pharmacist, working hard and apparently trying to ignore his co-worker making a scene at the register.

I was riding NJTransit. There was an advertisment in the Train for job listings on nytimes.com. Someone had scrawled across the poster in black marker, "DON'T BOTHER, ALL THE IMMIGRANNTS TOOK 'EM ALL."

I was in a chain grocery store at 7AM. A man was inquiring as to whether the photo-processing window was open. When an employee yelled to him that it didn't open until 9AM, he yelled back, "I WOULD GO TO THE PLACE ACROSS THE STREET, BUT IT'S OWNED BY NASTY IMMIGRANTS!"