Believe me, it's not even worth explaining. My life is static, changing in fact never in function. My life has family-channel problems: no sex or drugs or women or thugs just money and boredom and tears. My life is the commercials of a really great show; my audience is watching on mute, throwing back popcorn and vodka
Fuel cells. Cars that run off hydrogen batteries, with only water as a byproduct. It's been done; it's just not quite practical yet. Let's get there, and fast.
People are like planets, swallowing circumstance in an immensity of inertia, hurtling through darkness with no guide but habit. With my heart, with my thoughts, with my life, I would move you; but how does one move a planet? How could I correct your course? Our orbits meet only for a moment-- to be together have we any
Thank goodness the line in the sand has been obscured by footprints, the conflict forgotten thank heaven the wall has crumbled into piles of precious stones scatters like beads of a necklace thank God mistakes have faded like the impression on your side of the bed (my heart burns
basically I am just your average superhero when the stars align and the aces come and the bob-tailed nag takes first I have had my square-inches of spot-light and I have had my telephone booth moments so when fate sees fit on occasion to tear my wings in mid-flight I hold the scowl drink the whiskey raw
Distraction at the rate of twenty-four frames per second of sleeping-limb numbness of pureed passion screen-bleeding into hollow heads or hollow hearts like a tire-plug, just enough to last until that heart or head can be replaced entirely. Of all the things I own, I love my television the best. <!-- Ju-Anchor-Footer-Start
I still like Bush. Mostly because I give him the benefit of the doubt. From what I know of him, he generally makes decisions as I would, though he is perhaps a bit more conservative. I allow that he is privy to much more information--accurate information, which is certainly something none of us have access to--and assume that his choices aren't as backward as they seem at the time. I wouldn't stake my life on it, but I wouldn't be surprised
I've read this a dozen times and I keep coming back to it. I love it.
It's all I'm good at these days-- the systematic input of calories. A screen and a spoon and I forget what I cannot input: the smell of your hair after a shower, the playful battle for the top lip. You'd be suprised at how much I like eating, and how little I enjoy it. <!-- Ju-Anchor-Footer-End
She was my fountain, my muse; I was full of her lips grazing across mine, brimming with hips consciously restrained. She was not a deep well of joy, but a wild ocean of an angel-- and I was special too, because I knew. I drank deep of happiness, for the keeper of the source never thirsts. I continued long after she le
By this law I have lived: one cannot be happy with another if one is not happy with oneself. But what self-improvement have I pursued that was not to make myself desirable? Do I wear chapstick for health, or on the off chance that I meet someone tonight? I wonder: could I be happy alone on a desert island? Even if<B
I have ridden my memories like a bicycle one time too many, and now they are paint-faded rust-laden lackluster rubish no longer solid colors except for the brick red of iron oxide.
I like it. I don't mind that they keep releasing new versions or that you need new hardware every year to keep up. I like it. I may be alone, but I like it.
We last spoke the eleventh of may. (Lovers never know the last kiss is the last.) To us it was just one more day discussing the drifting vectors of our lives, comtemplating impending demise. Loving you made me wish I'd never loved before; made me want to diminish everything that came before you. But "her" was not always yo
Thank you both; much appreciated.
Bad news. 1GB for $40, and great ratings too. http://www.newegg.com/Product/Product.aspx?Item=N82E16855102020
I miss melancholy, her tender advances tingling like fingers drawn across my cheek. I miss the pang of desire, her hand circumnavigating the perimeter of my thigh; I miss pretending I am out of control, my stash hidden just beneath my brain stem. I miss misery; what a shame that lost loves do not remai
We were just kids in prison, groping bars of angry certainty: I am right; we are right. Just kids in prison, alone to face the stares of the innocent. In prison, and just enough sustenance for ninety days in hell. Hell, we both said, and consumed each other lavishly, pleasure marked in paths like cookie crumb trails. Hell for
To learn to live knowing we err-- the one meaningful apology.
This should be your anthem. "but don’t show me because I hate poetry and the pedigreed gatekeepers standing at the door keeping all of us on the outside looking in for the Poets who hide behind technique to remain invisible and untouched" I know I don't comment often, but I check here frequently for new material. Peace.
High praise! That means a great deal to me.
Love was a cup of coffee, hot and bitter and pungent; it was excitement and relief; it was our tour guide, our savior. And we subsisted on it, happily succumbing to addiction, laughing when they called us addicts. Caffeine is but chemical; coffee is more. Then one day you set it atop the car and drove off withou
Good luck. Some (well-meant) advice: think of a reason to do this that can be envisioned. Something simple, like a person or a goal or even an image of yourself, happy and healthy. Something to hold in your mind when the initial enthusiasm wanes so that you have some focus. I wish you the best.
Buddah, Your comments and encouragement are, as always, very much appreciated. It's good to have someone consistantly reading my material. I don't know that I'm confident enough in the marketability of my work to publish, nor do I know much about the prospect. But perhaps I'll do a little research on the subject. Thanks.
--double post--
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