bars keep out the in

and here was the moment that the opening of a window, ajar it was made, and here it was where when the things that are just mere things are shuffled and scattered and slipped out and away, they don't come back, and are gone, and holding them is memory, it is a wasted thought to bring them back, so they go, and the bars go on and everyone feels jailed for a minute but sleep comes easy because a house becomes a womb with faded bootprints and closer bodies

versus vs. versus

arrival of fantastical round
ball feats
phenomenal

the sport of leisure
a past time
and to hear it
audibly
via radio
and no way else
is
serene

A chink in plaid armor...

i forgot about you.
you where here
but i forgot.
I am coming back to you
again and again
but not as in a cycle,
more as in
reverence to
my fumbling.

the link broke and i fell off

friendly not is a loser site who steers oblong downward and takes you to a place of nowhere...fuckers!

post template syndrome

deceived are the looks that my eye has beholden
and here is some brown
for the back of my words

mushroom-like translucent cloudiness

Before my child was vaporized I had been mostly happy. I had some version of an American Dream, however force fed, and at the time I think I even liked it. Some form of the bliss of ignorance maybe, or perhaps it was just the gratification of having what I wanted, even if it wasn't always what I wanted. But at the time it was what I wanted so I reveled in it, my life that is, until my only child was vaporized.

This may seem vague, and for that I apologize, but my thought strings are disjointed now. I have a hard time...recounting?...or maybe relaying what I think about...things. Take for example this story that I am trying to tell. I know that it happened to me, my family, and so on, and I can see the events as they unfold in my head, but somewhere between memory and recounting it, it gets scrambled. I lose...focus.

Here it goes. As best as I can tell it.

The ranch was everything we had talked about, Maureen and I, we had spent long hours in our cramped studio apartment as broke college students posturing over how many horses we'd keep and painting elaborate word portraits to each other of the far flat landscape in whispered early morning voices. We used to sleep on an air mattress in front of the stove at night to keep warm because our heat was always being shut off. We used to be in love.

We both finished school and got our degrees and went off to be real people with real jobs and no more daydream morning whisper paint voices and no more of the ranch talk. That was when we were in our twenties. We still loved each other but we were young and interested in the world, and the scene. The Chicago scene was money and pomp and everything glitzed up and swingin. We were hungry kids with money now. Our bellies weren't hungry but our ego's were. We wanted recognition I guess. Recognition for dues paid being human. Now we were ambitious robots, programmed by markets, in search of economic booty and acceptance amongst the other machines.

Chicago is a machine. It is a artificial biosphere built of wires. The business, the politics, the social scene, all of it articulated by a master formula. We all just plugged in to it and soaked it all up like sin deprived demons. We had had our holy time and called it youth. Now we were grown and yearned for depravity. We found it just fine, but then couldn't lose it. Not for a while. And so it goes. I guess we all need our chance to swim in rivers of sin, maybe to give us the opportunity to repent, or just to see if we are waterproof. But water has a way of soaking in. And after all this I am still not the slightest religious.

So we had our marketing degrees and we had our cars and our friends and all our bullshit. We had all this crap and somhow didn't know each other anymore, yet somehow didn't realize it. When we had met it wasnt like this. Maybe we were innocent, or at least I'd like to remember it like that, and so when we saw each other over the crumbling mountain of naval oranges at the super market we couldn't help but smile. Innocence knows know future, and cares not to. It was natural for me to ask her out, natural for her to accept, and natural that things would progress quickly. We were open then and understood honesty as virtue.

We were naturally in love. I like to remember it like that anyway. So we supported each other through life for a time; through hard hurdles. Her mom died of cancer, and I stayed up with her each night while she cried in a pillow that still permeated the lavender smell of her mother's perfume. When I slipped on the sidewalk in front of our apartment on Western Ave. and broke my ankle she drew an intricate mural on my cast. The mural was a perfect illustration of me slipping on the sidewalk and breaking my ankle. She said it was so that anytime anyone asked me what happened, which would turn out to be several times a day, I could just point to the picture on my cast and it would explain it all. We laughed over that for weeks. We used to have a sense of humor. We used to be a "we".

Maybe it was when I got hired at Brown and Stratton that things began to sour. Maybe it was before that and I just didn't notice, but whatever. Brown and Stratton is the biggest marketing firm in Chicago. I got a job there through the recomendation of one of my professors at UIC. The suit I wore for the interview was a hand me down from my Uncle Randolph who used to own a diner on the west side. It was his only suit and at the time of the interview became my only suit as well.
I was promoted fast and had plenty of suits after a while. I used to wear a different color each day.

It was the hours that killed us. I was never home, and when i was Maureen wasn't. She was working for a bakery. This wasn't like your local bakery though, it was actually a corporation who manufactured snack cakes and distributed them worldwide. She designed their packaging. Well her and her team of equally machinated marketing graduates. We were all just machines then.

After a while we forged a life that mirrored our environment. Our lives became the same as the people we knew, which were the people we worked with, and so that was our scene. It was all pomp, and glitz, and fancy spending on the things we thought we wanted because we had the means to have whatever our whim decided. But we forgot how to communicate and so we died. We died in our twenties long before the "we" officially died.

Then all that stopped. Maureen had gone to the doctor during a two hour window between business meetings. The doctor was candid. "You're Pregnant."
She didn't tell me for two weeks. When she did I cried. I think I was afraid of becoming human again.

After the initial shock wore off we talked for the first time in years. It was then that I realized we hadn't cared about each other since college. We had been lost from each other, yet lost together. I swam through her eyes and found myself soaked again in the simplicity of who she was. I saw the woman I had fallen in love with through her modern costume. She saw me though mine just the same and we made love on the floor in front of the stove of our half a million dollar condo.

Through the birth of our son, Emery Vincent Owens, our "we" was reborn.

Before he was born we decided to leave the city behind and buy the ranch we used to whisper paint for each other on the air matress. We found it in Utah. When we moved there Emery was nine months old. So were we.

Time is like aspirin. We healed together for those first few years on the ranch. It was beautiful, slow, and quiet. It was natural and at times the land felt...human. Everything we needed was there. The oxygen was like glue piecing us back together.

Emery was the catalyst for all that I knew of life. When he was born I thought I could never be lost again. Looking at him made me feel human.

Watching him live and grow; becoming inquisitive and trusting and assertive and proud and empathetic, and realizing how perfectly imperfect he was, our child, our creation, humbled me miles beyond my former capacity. This was life and how it was lived then, on the ranch, we were simple again. We were happy, at least that's how I like to remember it.

Emery spent his first nineteen years surrounded by the vast openness of the ranch. He learned to ride a horse there and how to know when a storm was coming from over the distant hills. He wasn't the class validictorian of his school, but he knew things. He knew how to read people. And he was infinitely sympathetic through his rough exterior. Living on a ranch hardens the look of a boy and turns him into a man leaving the rest of him to catch up.

He was a boy, only nineteen, but he was man enough to decide for himself. When Emery was nineteen he decided to join the army. He spent his last two years surrounded by the vast openness of a middle eastern desert. He learned to drive a tank there and to know when a sandstorm was coming from across the desert. He learned how to kill. He never made general, but he knew things. He knew how to help people. He was infinitely sympathic to the innocent people he was told he was protecting from their rough regime. Living in the desert hardens people, makes them resilient even in the face of destruction.

We got a letter first, then the visit from the officers. The letter was candid, "Emery Vincent Owens died performing his duty on July 27th 2005 after his transport hit a road side bomb on the outskirts of Basra. He was killed instantly." When I read it I recalled a scene from some sixties movie about nuclear war. I pictured Emery's body being enveloped by white glow and then disappearing into nothingness. Vaporized.

No amount of therapy could save us. We could not be reborn again. Through our son we had tasted life and death, and now our buds were spent. Maureen and I tried to support each other, but I think in the end we could only blame ourselves and blame each other. We were tired and so we cumbled. The once rekindled communication was gone and with it our desire to care about anything anymore. "We" died.

When I think of Emery I start to smile, but it never fully develops because I can't shake the image of him being reduced to nothingness. It's always the same. It chokes out all the other memories. It stifles and scrambles them. And I am left choked up and stuttering.

I had a son once. I had a love once. There used to be a we. If I could I would sew together the good memories like a quilt and drape them over the past. It would be Emery, Maureen, and me, happily smiling, arms wrapped around each other, the ranch in the background; innocent and knowing no future. At least that's how I'd like to remember it...but I can't

ritualistic tendencies and their dance partners

affliction of pattern ails this
me
and yet
enjoyable to some parts
but not so holy and utterly un-notable
in that
i only have an iconic view of the relationship
of one personae to another

they interact like starlings and whooping cranes
and dance about in show
like peacock
but more aerodynamic

and here is i
so facinated and sterile
voodoo swirly eyed in my bliss
but all for show
and greenbacks and boredom
they can never better top themselves
but the pattern therein is addiction
and i am swallowed by its swirl
for facination of interaction and repetition
a steroid play
an excercise in aerobic exacerbation
only too predictable
and comforting
somehow

they repeat
and i fall in line

morphed metal ringtone recital

virtuous in a pile of salt
underground they burrow
like tiny
in a darkened page of
scripted dialog
eight of them meet
and one refuses

structural security in a time of lightness 

a hot drip on melting vinyl

It wasn't waking up in the bathtub that instigated the trauma the doctors would later tell me was considered "going into shock", or more technically that my blood pressure had suddenly plummeted like an oversized watermelon being launched out of a speeding vehicle rambling along a mountain highway at the precise moment it rounded the bend so that the trajectory of the melon would send it perfectly careening into the adjacent canyon to its tragic death. Liquified rind, seed, and splatter. A watermelon smoothie, action star style. No, it wasn't even the mound of ice that had melted just enough to lock me into the yellowing ceramic tub like Han Solo in carbonate that sent me to the state of paralyzed histeria. It wasn't even....wait I am completely rambling, let me back up.

It had been a relatively standard day in the urban metropolitan traffic capitol of the country. Okay fine its actually second, but sit on I-90 in mid July with five lanes of horn happy maniacs stretching East and West as far as the exhaust will allow you to see, and I guarantee you will swear that whomever the omnipotent "They" is that decided Chicago was second on the list of congestion culprits was huffing glue the day they performed that so-called study. So, to avoid the inherant frustration associated with the modern marvel of human transport that is the automobile, I had recently taken to riding my bike while reveling in the friendly confines of city life. Cars, my friends, are for the country and suburbs.

While pedaling down North Avenue admiring the way extremely large people liked to walk their extremely tiny dogs along the sidewalk, I suddenly found myself sailing face first over my handle bars into the driver side window of a 2005 black Jaguar XJ. The model of the vehicle I actually determined while peeling my now scraped and bleeding torso out from underneath the driver side door where I had sort of half rolled and half spilled under after my skull had reduced the window to miniscule shards just sharp enough to find themselves lodged all around my cranium. (The doctors were still pulling pieces out three months later, after the bathtub incident).

Surprisingly the crash didn't scramble all of the synapses bouncing about my brain, so I was at least able to stand and survey the damage I had just incurred, not only on myself, but on the poor unsuspecting Jaguar. Though I could already tell my body was going to have some significant black and blue marks, my head was obviously the greater of my concern. What started as a thin line of blood gave way to somewhat of a trickle running down my forehead, splitting into tributaries that banked around my eyes off my brow. Somehow my bleeding face didn't seem to strike the driver as anything less ordinary than a sneeze. She was just staring at me, a look of pure disgust adorning her smug features. The tightness of her chartruse painted lips and the blackness of her big bug-eyed sunglasses gave her the air of a pissed off wax replica of an even more pissed off top level executive who just had some dumbass kid smash into her brand new Jaguar head first. Or that just could have been the look she gave people when they had in fact sneezed on her. Well, I was definately guilty of the first offense.

While she stared at me through the glasses I tried to shake the cobwebs from my head and come to grips with the situation at hand. My first move was the wipe the blood out of my eyes, but as I did this I ended up splattering some into her freshly straightened, trimmed, and highlighted, blond hair. Now she looked like a pissed off wax replica of a pissed off lioness with chicken pocks ready to promptly tear me to pieces. As her internal rage finally bubbled over she shoved open the door. Unfortuantely my bike was still half lodged underneath the car, so the door flying open only further entagled my now mangled bike and her scratched and dented driver side door.

Psycho Bitch: "What the fuck is wrong with you? Couldn't you see me? I was already in the middle of the fucking road waiting to make a left, and you just run right the fuck into my car? Are you fucking retarded?"

Me: "Don't worry about me. I'm okay. I think my brain is bleeding, but I'll be just fine."

Psycho Bitch: "You're obviously not hurt enough to NOT be a smart-ass."

Me: "Look lady, I don't know what the fuck just happened. I was riding...and then I was under your car."

Psycho Bitch: "I'm calling the fuckin' cops."

Just then a cop sauntered up. Apparently in all the commotion a passer by had called.

Cop: "Calm down ma'am I am a police officer. Unit 20 to dispatch, we need an ambulance down at North and Clybourn. Son I need you to please sit down on the sidewalk over here while I ask you some questions."

...And so it went on like that for several hours. Cops asked each of us what happened, we gave our sides of the story, and then I was carted off in an ambulance to Children's Memorial Hospital where they treated me for a concussion and multiple lacerations from the window glass.

That, my friends, was how I was first introduced to Dr. Angeline Lazar...or as you know her ...Psycho Bitch.

wallet lojacks and older brothers with two-way television

read this and you might cry...but tis important nonetheless

we are but data

as seen by the pupils of the powerful

and though they "represent" us

they don't know us

and this is how they try to..........................................I See You!!!!!!!!

keyless cuffs and a loosened shackle

one less thought pile for stepping in. one less obligation. am obliged for the time though. and so it goes....

what it wasn't

it wasn't the sound of garlic breath, or even the whisper of a mosquito mumbling its last rites before being splattered on the skin of its victim (the agressor then become the agressed upon). it wasn't the sound of pregnant air or of overstuffed molecules. it wasn't even the sound of sound necessarily, but rather closer to maybe the sound of a well oiled bicycle pedal rotating under the pressure of synthetic rubber soles (could they also be rubber souls?). I don't really even think that that that that that is the elusive sound either. maybe it was actually closer to a wet sigh adhering itself to fly paper, or possibly the soundwaves elicited by the swallowing of underwater sea water at extreme depths (what would the wave then be in China?). but none of this is right...maybe it...maybe I just can't descibe it.

apartment search nightmare

...and when I came up the stairs there they were at the top, all piles of flesh and tattered clothing and decomposition and stench. Who were these poor twenty-somethings? Why was it that all I wanted to do was check out my new room and was now suddenly faced with this horrid, and frankly inconvenient, scene of Jenga-stacked death?
Stepping over the mass of flesh, I entered what was to be my new abode. It was rather small, but suitable for my meager task of writing stories and excercising my ambitions at being a bedroom rock star. The two, LP sized, windows directly across from the door were adequete for at least affording some of the grey light that so often served my sight in this post Re-Evaluation town.
Immediately I set out at visualizing where all my furniture would be arranged. This visualization method I had used in the past and it had served me quite well in efficiently setting up my workspace. Efficiency is my mantra, without it I am merely another person wasting time. If you waste too much time you end up like those shitheads piled up outside my door; dead, gone, and forgotten , with nothing left to show but the tired tattered threads you decompose in while awaiting the garbage man. Unfortunately for the poor inhabitants of this stack of flats on Royalty Ave. here in the heart of lecher-land, the waste management facilty went up in riotous flames after the landmark Virginia case ruling.
After those judges decided that the affirmation of class distinction would be predetermined at birth, after which no amount of cajoling could break one from their caste, the natural response of the nutritionally weakened, but angrily strengthened majority class of peasants, paupers and general poor, was to smash and set flame to anything within arms length. The irony was that it was the few services still left that actually positively served the populace that were hardest hit. And so not only had any semblance of ambition been legally stripped from the people, but also many of the services providing the basic necessities for survival. And this, my friends, was the place I called home for what turned out to be a hell of a lot longer than I had originally intended.

Blown Away

Back when I was a balloon, joy was an emaciated concept. We had crossed paths a handful of times, but for only an instant. Like when crumpled in an alley with no distinguishable difference between my forest green latex inner and outer shell, piled in amongst a variety of leftover birthday party favors and melted ice cream cake, a cat, possibly a tabby though most alley cats have that dirty orange and white-turned-grey-coat-look happening, came skulking up to my would be dessert style grave and began veraciously licking me.

There is something about sandpaper on deflated latex, it makes this strange dragging sound, sort of rake-like I guess, but like a rake gliding through Jello. It felt amazing! The minute her tongue began caressing me the stuck together folds of my normally smooth sides slowly started separating until I could distinguish between my inside and outside, and there was a sudden rush of air that cascaded into me, further amplifying my lust, born from being tongue-bathed by the feline street walker. It was a dirty baptism.

Utterly determined to get every inch of me she got so carried away she lapped me up into the moist hot between her upper and lower rows of jagged and occasionally missing teeth and there I basked in the tropical climate; wriggling in the plethora of tastes; soaking them into my rubber skin until I couldn’t distinguish one from the other. The only way I can think to describe it is the flavor of dying in your sleep. It was soothing; peaceful. I can only imagine what all she had been into that day. I mean she lives on trash and rodents so you would think that to even catch a whiff of those fermented vapors would have melted me into nothing more than a green molten blob, but the combination made for some sort of filthy aphrodisiac.

With me dangling from her lower jaw she ambled down alley ways; deftly over fences and between motionless cars; through the park at the center of the city; and into a small patch of discreet trees over the hill the kids drag their saucer sleds to at the first sign of a few inches. There she curled into a ball at the base of a massive rhododendron where she proceeded to drop me and lick her tattered fur. Now I have to say that I was completely startled at her sudden abrasiveness, I mean I felt like we had something going what with her licking me in my unspeakable regions and all, so when I hit the various sticks and leaves that lined her little garden sanctuary I was startled, and frankly a bit hurt. It seemed she had suddenly forgotten about me. I mean imagine going from the height of sensual bliss, to being literally spat out onto the dirty cold ground. It took me a moment to come to this realization. My first instinct was actually to check for tears in my skin, after all being a balloon you get put through abuse pretty regularly so it just sort of becomes second nature. One small tear will assuredly crush your hopes of ever inflating again. Luckily, other than my ego, I was unmarred.

So there I sat, a wet ball of latex covered in flecks of dead leaves and decomposed tree bark while this tease of a being loomed over me pleasuring herself with the same sandpaper tongue that had just moments before been lapping me up like a bowl of freshly finished cereal milk while secretly telling me everything was going to be okay; that there was nothing to worry about anymore. Then I saw it. Right there on her ratty-ass fur soaked in like it had been there for days; and her just tonguing away at it like it were cat nip or something. It was the neon blue swirl that gave it away. Then it all became as clear as helium. That bitch just wanted the ice cream all along!

Needless to say she finished pleasuring herself and ran off completely forgetting all about me. Meanwhile I was stuck in the woods, cold and now totally plastered together in a wad of spit, ice cream and decomposed forest shit. I can say for sure that it was not one of my best moments. Worse yet I had no idea how I was gonna get out of it.

Some days passed, but to tell the truth I’m not very good at telling time so it could have been a month for all I know. Anyway the leaves had pretty much all fallen off the trees, leaving me sort of buried, but the rains had at least washed away my stickiness so now I was just dirty. Luckily the onset of autumn brought on some serious winds and soon I was gliding along the breeze at a healthy clip. I miss that. Gliding along free and full of air, not caring what direction you go or where you land. But this time wasn’t like the others. There was air in me but I wasn’t inflated. It’s different. Inflation makes you light and floaty. Sort of wisp-like. I was never in a hurry when I was inflated. But now I was deflated and blowing along and it just seemed different. I mean I was glad to be out from the woods and on the way to somewhere, but I guess I just didn’t feel the confidence. I was all nervous about where I might land; what would happen to me next. I guess I was just trying to protect myself. And this is the messed up part; I actually was thinking of how I was glad that I wasn’t inflated because if I were then there was this chance that I would burst. And at that point, that thought just devastated me.

When I landed in between the Velcro straps of her size six bubblegum pink tennis shoes I knew I was home. Maybe it was just the exhaustion of my travels, or the delirium of days riding the wind. Whatever it was it felt right. As if stray weather-beaten deflated balloons landing at her feet were an everyday occurrence she scooped me up. Nestled in her palms I reveled in the smoothness of her skin. It was like neoprene, all soft but firm at the same time. And she had her hair all tied up and twisting around itself in different spots so that she had all these little cornsilk loops sticking out like randomly planted stalks. She looked young but felt old. She was wise without words.

Without breaking stride she leaned in toward her palm and whispered to me, “You are mine and I am yours and together we will create the magic of a moment.” Pressing those bubblegum lips to the rolled emerald entryway that leads to the center of me, she exhaled a stream of fervent breath steadily expanding my body until I grew exponentially. With every inch I felt my inhibitions dwindle until my expansion breached any of my prior sizes. This was virgin territory, euphoric and excited, a frenzied state of sensation, and I was totally scared shitless.

She continued to blow, pumping the brilliance of her life into me. I could see her memories and feel her experiences; the long drive from the west coast all the way cross country with the window down screaming Rolling Stones and Pixies songs at the top of her lungs; the tattered purple arm of the dragon her dad won her at the state fair that she still keeps in her backpack at all times; the dried up plant on the windowsill she still waters despite its months of brown because she wants to believe it will live again. Within this brief instance I knew her and knew that she knew me. And as I inflated beyond the threshold of ever returning, I knew whatever happened next didn’t matter. I trusted this moment. I trusted her to take me to a place worth changing for.

The sound of my explosion reverberated off the brick facade, bouncing its way back and forth across and down the street like the twenty-five cent super bouncing balls those same saucer sled kids threw as hard as they could just to see how far down the block they would land before getting lost in the sea of cityscape. But destruction didn’t hurt. It was liberation. The caterpillar turned butterfly, only I was just pieces. As physically broken as my body was I felt whole for the first time.

Gathering my fragmented pieces she fit me easily into the breast pocket of her baby-eye blue wind breaker, and gliding down the sidewalk I was swallowed by the vibrations of her humming You Can't Always Get What You Want like the world might very well have been created just for her. And I wouldn't doubt if it had. I know mine was.

sabotaged synapses

the onset of the spring to summer has brought with it aches of the brain; pinched throat singing wordless words; disorientation; and a pile of stress like golfballs at a driving range. i am a target. for what i do not know. i am a target for my self to strike out against in defiance of me. i am a delusion of my ego. i am a wilting pedal of flower in a sickly dry vase. i am melodrama incarnate. oh poor me. this tea in this cup that you can not see i will describe for you: it is supposed to ease tension (according to the box) and just that thought makes me tense...the tea is of a rusty brown nature...the cup is of a wooden brown nature...i am of a brown nature. maybe my eyes will cross soon. i do not know for sure...

when my bicycles engine sputtered out...

...i rode at fever pace, fast like a virus, "quick like a bunny", peddling my words like wares, fast, through weaved wet noodle electric brain, remnants of deep-like discussions of the accuracy of captured instances in haiku, or the quality of fictious people at toll-booths, and it dawned on me, while awaiting the signal overlooking the intersection, that for a moment i thought my bicycle was vibrating as if it had an engine, and that it had just sputtered its last breath, but then i realized bicycles have no engines per se' (mechanical ones anyway, or at least this particular model does not). Then i thought of the chance that maybe it was telling me i had sputtered, like me being the force which enacted the propelling of its gears and such was maybe not sufficent enough for it and it required more gusto, or perhaps it wanted an owner with more automatically mechanical qualities. This I can not so sufficiently provide, however i did also realize my predictability in that instance because i was on my way home directly after school.

extended tangerine guilt trip

the class was a dreary beige painted cinder block brick-walled boredom sanctuary populated by fast fixed eyed strangers. i sat with my pencil in hand awaiting direction with a panging nervousness creeping through my chest, like it was the first day of kindergarten all over again and i was abandoned to try and find my way alone, but this time was different. i knew i was in poetry class despite its disguise of strange scenery. i knew that the source of my nervousness was my lack of preparation. i had no poem to share so i bore my burden of shame quietly behind the rows of anxious students until someone passed me a squeegee. yes a squeegee, like the ones at the gas station where you pull in after hours of insect splatter has baptised your windsheild to the point of vainly looking through the fog of death you bestowed upon the bug brethren only to find the road ahead a hazy visage of what it was before you departed. yes a squeegee, only this one had a razorblade edge in place of its normally rubber counterpart. so i was twirling my new-found toy about in the air, spinning it propellar-like in my hands; jabbing and poking at invisible foes, when my eyes caught the neon tangerine orange extensions of the young ebony sister sitting in the desk directly in front of me. her hair was amazing; wound in and out and around; swirling and spiraling; weaving ropelike through itself like wellcrafted boy scout knots in the throws of orgy. i became infatuated with her hair. i wanted to touch it but somehow couldn't bring myself to, like by reaching out to it i would somehow spoil it, rotting it like the beautiful fruit it borrowed it's color from. suddenly the razor squeegee began gliding toward the hair, my arm attached to its handle, me an innocent bystander to its intentions. as the thin edge of the blade combed through the twines of orange they began to fall lightly to the floor. the entire motion of the blade was effortless, so much so that the young sister felt none of its misplaced wrath. i sat in glassy eyed awe of the scene. it was like watching beautiful and horrible wrapped in a blanket writhing in and out of one another in the throes of lust. one after another the tangerine strings floated to the floor until the back of her head was covered in her natural kinky black curls sparsely populated by the fragmented remnants of neon. looking at the back of her head i felt the instant guilt indicative of the aftermath of climax. as if she could smell this she slowly turned around and faced me. in her eyes was a look of pure violation. voluptuous tears inched down her round face. "you cut off all my hair" she said through her mask of wetness. "i know. i'm sorry. i didn't..." i knew it was hopeless to try and explain, or even attempt to apologize. there was a dark black bowling ball nestled in the pit of my stomach, pinning me to my seat behind the aftermath of my actions. steeping in guilt i looked up to the blackboard and saw a man, middle-aged with gold rimmed glasses ; a chalk-stained white-with-blue-pinstripes dress shirt and navy blue slacks. he was scrawling on the board something, at first blurred, but then mildly perceptible through the glaring fluorescent lights. they were math equations. quantum physics more precisely; and i could not understand what any of them meant, nor why this was no longer my poetry class.

who i am not

in searching for my identity on the internet i stumbled across some people who i am not:

these are their stories:

The Life and Work of Erik M. P. Widmark.
American Journal of Forensic Medicine & Pathology. 17(3):177-190, September 1996.
Andreasson, Rune B.Sc, M.D.hc; Jones, A. Wayne Ph.D., D.Sc.

Abstract:
Erik M. P. Widmark (1889-1945) was among the first researchers to study in a systematic way the absorption, distribution, and elimination of ethanol in the body; in addition, he formulated his results in mathematical terms. Widmark's research during the first decades of this century paved the way for innovative traffic safety legislation that stipulated punishable limits of alcohol in the blood of a person driving a car. The 50th anniversary of Widmark's death was commemorated in 1995. His contributions have gained enormous respect and are still widely cited in forensic science, especially in connection with the crime of driving under the influence of alcohol. The Widmark equations and the factors [beta] and r are now part of the vocabulary of all those trained in forensic alcohol analysis and toxicology.

(C) Lippincott-Raven Publishers

Erik M.P. Widmark

Check out this guy: http://www.gcsg.org/aboutus/staff.html

i do not partake in extreme sports either: http://www.recordonline.com/archive/2003/07/20/esgcolum.htm

i am related to this guy, though i don't know exactly how, i will look into it, more to follow: richard widmark

this shit is just scary (go to this link and do an Adobe search on erik widmark:
http://www.stategames.org/site/newsroom/pdf/vol_10_num_3_nl.pdf

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analog dreams

last night i dreamt i was in the backroom of a small private web hosting business. it was a barren walled, concrete floored room with a plaid type lime green garage sale couch and shitty wooden coffe table setup. there was an end table too. and a friend had died, but i don't know who, and she was laid out across my lap, all long blonde hair and naked body. rigomortis had already set in. she was stiff like a manican, and her head had removable sections like a science class dummy. somehow i knew she had already undergone an autopsy. calmly at first, i was trying to splice back together her insides, but they weren't the standard guts of human, but rather guts of analog tape. fumbling around with countless feet of magnetic strip i began to get frustrated, further negating my efforts at successfully piecing her back together until my hands were hopelessly intertwined in her magnetic insides. all the while my computer genius friend, this one living, was diligently trying to fix this business' poor internet connection. and a bowl of pot was being passed around by some other people in the room, but they weren't there before, until it came round to me. but there was no more drug to be had and as i cashed it out in the ashtray the cherry bounced to the floor. swiftly my girlfriend snatched it up and deftly placed in the ashen recepticle. and as i watched it fizzle out my eyes burst open to the sun filtered through emerald curtains.

gun shy

i heard this song and it maybe remember that i don't think guns are necessary. we don't need to shoot things anymore. no guns/bombs/weapons of mass distinction no war no war no unnecessary dead, save random accident. if we's a gonna war lets stab each other. it's much more personal. dirty hands. people don't need to hunt neither. hunting is not supposed to be fun. hunting was necessary when there were only a few people on earth. we are past a few now. eaters go to the store. its all there for you. the murder done been done. all collected and happy wrapped blood and all. guns are an artery blockage in in clogged society. its a diluted notion believing guns protect. they endanger. violence is so vile it should only be engaged eye to eye. not eye for eye. then we would see what damage is really done.

a thought

sometimes when i'm sleeping these dreams come that seem random but then they all start to make sense and when i piece it all together i realize that they are the most miniscule elements of maybe a series of days that i had and they just manifest themselves into this sort of milkshake of memory loosely built around some foggy fantasy. the wierd thing is that i used to be able to control this. i had completely lucid dreams. i was the master of my subconscous realm, but then that power was lost. i can't pinpoint where why or when but i just sort of stopped remembering my dreams for a bit and then it was just like loose flashback stuff. i at least now can often remember them but i still long for that control. i miss flying.

no this is my face 

this is a blog

hello my blog how are you? today is a day in chcago where i am setting up this here blog in order to see if it is a place to dump my seeping brain onto. this will be a post and as such should contain some sort of useful knowledge therefore here is a factoid:
when volcanoes erupt the ash cast into the air is comprised of minute flecks of rock which when inhaled collect in the lungs and combine with the bodies water which then creates cement
this is how people suffocate from ash infhalation around volcanoes:
it is sad