a tablecloth

if you continue to go on about anything and more-
blink as if the world already had a soda-
spill pure intelligence and chuckle as it falls to the floor-
be my lost and found for the second first time-
it will still end up on the floor-
this is a tendency of very heavy things-
for once, we are not to blame

off to class!

at coffee with a friend yesterday the question of work experience came up. i told her about the jobs i have hated and why i decided to attend college. this reminded me of something incredibly important.
i complain a great deal. i'm a nerd, and i whine about many things that are likely entirely irrelevant to the general population of the world. i even complain about school: wishing i had a day off in the week to relax, coveting the day i can make money instead of borrow it, and carrying on about visions of nights without homework. it's quite romantic.
as often as i may complain about college, i love it. i have the opportunity to learn something new every single day of my life! at this point in my academic career i even have the chance to create and convey my own thoughts. most importantly, i have a soul. i can feel things dans mon coeur. i can appreciate people and the world around me. i could not do any of these things to any noticeable level when i was working the jobs i have hated. many of my friends who work full time can not say the same about themselves. the irrationality of rationality, or what ever it can be called, i am going to stay in college until i find an occupation which is sufficient to allow me to learn every day as i am now. this idle mind crap is for suckers. i've already been a sucker once in this lifetime, and will not be enlisted for a second tour. i'm going to class now!

some western style haiku

you forgot
flames look
like flowers

earth is changing
and you
are at a traffic-light

give color
in place of second
chance endeavor.

In her mother
she spoke softly
all of the sea.

It’s not a mellon
but a captured place
we sleep now.

Why are there
now no longer
footed pajamas?

Cryptic sleep
talking of antique
typewriter key stroked.

L'chaim and every last rail spike (plus du poetry)

what a fortnight could devour if we let it
how you divulge the things I masticate in fear
every wrinkle your face takes pride in gives glee for

Astrid with your steady eyes inside my still shaking child’s hand
you ate the wall I masquerade my life behind and shit a pillar for too many a goddess to count

had it right, the baby, my lover, the rest to come
had your accuracy smashed the teeth of this city
endless effort left for picking up the pieces and continuing the track

Say Astrid, was that a focused action
or did you accidently predict the point I would bolster and come clean

another abstraction I know I should recall
your entrails polished publically for proof and reconciliation
it took a nation in the past

it took Astrid less than sixteen hours

morning's slow roast (yet another poem)

He knows nothing of her lovers from abroad, and she’s not at liberty to disclose-
just a fresh copy of the “Times” is happiness in his wilted hands-
her cell phone has worn a grove in her left earlobe that well resembles Lake Michigan-
its won one could say-
a technological struggle for sentience, long overlooked-
she’s originally from a petit mountain town in the icy northern reaches of Manitoba-
in a near-by city a “famous person” who goes by the name Timothy once said,
“turn on, tune in, drop out”
neither of them subscribe to that idealism-
nor any tame rendition thereof-
on the contrary, both toiled long to reach their coveted strata-
neither can hear the rushing life of spring-
the pair together have more capital than the U.S. state of Mississippi-
they may have lost the smile for looking at other people-
each other included-
but they’re very sorry for that-
what they have now is to combine and hold still-
breath in and feel it for the first time in years-
she remembers his mother’s maiden name
the two are on their way to the beach

cochlea follicles

a good number of my close male friends are loosing their hair at a lightning pace. there are three fellows in particular who have obtained either the triple-V forehead pattern or the halo of skin on the rear head deal. i have not yet come to this physical change in any way, nor am i likely to ever experience the growing of skin on my head.
in trade i have developed some fairly serious hearing loss issues which are slowly beginning to have a negative affect on my life. recently, i have been working with a group of students on a content analysis research project. We are analyzing mainstream and alternative written media biases in portland. this process has given me the opportunity to get to know some new people in my social research course. i have also had the pleasure of realize that i can not hear what people are saying to me as well as other people seem to hear the same conversation. this learning process does not play out so well when you are trying to get to know folks. most people tend to have it in their hearts to repeat themselves once, and may smile with a second repetition. after the second try, people often become annoyed, and reevaluate the relevance of their statement or inquiry. following this is likely the reevaluation of their relationship with me. this situation has lead me to the ever pathetic act of pretending I hear what someone has said to me. in order to skip the trouble of repetition i simply nod my my head and hope for he best. not a great plan, but it's all i'v got for right now. some day a hearing apparatus will be necessary...if ever i have health insurance.
the ultimate reason behind all of this hearing impairment has been entirely worth the recent consequences. the first loud music concert i attended was Varuca Salt and PJ. Harvey at age thirteen at the gorge @ gorge, washington. i was with my best friends (love you both!) in the warm northwest summer's sun, had a bit of the drink, and began my lifelong legacy with loud music. a couple of years later i joined a band, and have been crammed in small rooms playing music as loud as possible ever since. it is those twelve years or more, three bands, cramped poorly ventilated practice spaces, and a genuine belief that earplugs make me sing poorly that lead me to murder a god portion of the army of follicles in my cochlea. i'm quite confident that i would be less pleased with the hair loss my male friends are experiencing than my condition. at least i get to tell a fun story about my hair loss. all they have is genetics.

Waltzing Matilda

yes, this song has such a degree of folklore buildup that it was awarded its own museum, Waltzing Matilda Centre in Winton, Queensland. this is not the point.
it's been south pole cold in portland the last few days, which has made it difficult to take penelope beatrice out into the world to learn. she is a sponge for the observational knowledge of our world, and can't be hampered by the frigid winds. maybe the mail person was in fact the late Ernest H. Shakelton , returning only to sire a daughter with his curiosity of a puffin. or is this just how children are?
people don't include stories or even a folklore legend for that matter. it's all untraveled trial by crying. or is it fire?
alas, we have been riding the max downtown to the end of fairless square, only to walk across the red bricks and ride back to where we came from. along the way we are privy to some unintentional easy dropping and the occasional conversation. the ease dropped info can truly span the gambit: work relations, drug relations, breakfast plans, sex plans, and even conversations with no apparent listener present.
as for the conversation part, it all generally revolves around penelope beatrice and what she looks like. as i understand it, once you become a parent your brains and heart turn to shit and no one wants to talk to or about you any longer.
the best part of all of this is watching folks search for signs of penelope beatrice's gender or sex. most people don't know what to call her, and i love watching their discomfort in trying to get around the gendered portion of their comments. it has given me conviction to help her remain as androgynous as possible. i think the key is to teach her the joy of observing the reactions of others as they try to find a culturally appropriate way to approach her in conversation.
if nothing else, this experiment will give her something to talk to a therapist about in the future, and we all know therapists are experiencing a shortage of childhood scars to mend.

!does bird a as

.whistler a not if nothing am i
.thing a have each we said is it
!thing my is this

C'est tres bien!

"so like i met her right, and she was like totally normal and really nice", said the clown. it has always seemed odd to me that so many people i talk with have this notion about celebrities being different than anyone else just because folks know their names. we attach nearly the same level of importance to "famous people" as we do to female breasts in western culture. also, both are equally used to fuel consumerism. the bubble bursting truth is that breasts are just tissue that some people have and celebrities are just people who were in the right place at the right time. get over it already.
so that is my take on that. given my ideals regarding "the popular ones" i typically take the liberty to talk with them like any other person. in this i have found a flaw in my thinking. if the particular celebrity is a songwriter or creator of something personal there may be a different connection between myself and the person. not to say that celebrities are different people at that point, rather that there is a different relationship dynamic. i recently met jeremy enigk of sunny day real-estate at a show. i intended to talk with him after the show and tell him how i greatly enjoy the music he makes. the issue is that, having listened to his music since puberty, i feel a personal connection with him as a person. this connection has never actually been made. it was the first time i met the fellow and i found myself telling him very personal things related to his song writing. in this way i was not at all treating him like any other cat on the prowl. sorry jeremy. i will now not be blaming the many gin & tonics i gulped, as they had no say in the whole mess. i recently made the switch from cerveza to booze, and have yet to understand the quantity coefficient.

diagram sequential (a prose poem of sorts)

she spoke ever so eloquently-
a story of babysitting little brothers in her older sister's hand-me-down dress-
drink the water that's run through some seven seas, millions of generations, and a field-
studying francais to know the tongue of ancestors she wishes she was-
history as a second acquisition with the legs of a whale-
but legs would sooner ascend Everest than atop the threshold of her swimming pool-
"this whale will not", she proclaimed, "return to the salty waters have grown fallow"-
it's truly intellect and the discovery and creation of new knowledge that keep legs a walking-
the story she told was of a stick in the spokes-
broke the lynch-pin and sent life a nice letter-
it may be the best drink she has ever drank, but she knows where that water has been-
where the water is headed is of great importance-
a vow to never return is intended to stand firm-
a sunset never photographed lit a fire pink puddle in the drive

genesis or "the deflowering"

alas, i have given in to the urge to write it all down. as this is my first blog is feel compelled to divulge something about me. i'm not going to follow that impulse just yet. i can not see how it would make anything i have to type any more plausible or clear. i'd rather recall how much i love to write, read and most of all observe.
it snowed this morning whilst i was on a bike ride in NE portland, and i do believe i fell in love with every last flake as they attached themselves to my jacket and tyres. the delicate sort of snow that only falls when it is incredibly too cold. the cars stop carrying, street lights extinguish, elderly folks take the day off, addicts take a ciesta, professors phone it in. i was reminded of a time in my childhood when i shoveled my grandparents carport roof once weekly. four feet of frozen goodness at eight clams an hour is a swell time. pining for a break from the city, as i was, this was the perfect memory to revive my frozen bones.
likely i should end this thing before it turns into stream of consciousness hocus-pocus. i've already deleted enough of that.
L'Chaim!