Being Tiny in the Locks

.1.

Stocked up on Mountain Dew, t-shirts, a bad attitude,
and memories of better days,
I traveled on my way into the "Lock."
There must've been a thousand trees on the way,
crowned in bright green.
River to my left.
Mountains to my right.
There wasn't a cloud in the sky.
I was so infinitessimally small, cramped in that
backseat with suitcases and food.
I was so infinitessimally small looking at nature.
I was so inifinitessimally small,
being crushed by the mountain of my childhood.

.2.

We've had that trampoline since I was 6.
It stood in our side yard of the blue house.
Sometimes the automatic sprinklers would come on
while we were jumping, cooling us off from the
Arizona heat.
I was sitting on that trampoline 13 years later
reading poetry.
A ladybug landed on my finger.
It was a naked ladybug. No dots, not one black dot on its back.
It landed and stayed.
I looked, stared, and marveled at this wonder of nature
until it stayed on my finger for an unnaturally long time.
I tried to move my finger so it would fly away and live its
simple life again.
It wouldn't leave.
I felt small in that moment when that ladybug wouldn't leave.
I was smaller than that ladybug.

.3.

You should bathe every minute of your waking life.
But instead, you were both laying in the tent at 8pm,
masturbating.
I sit on a forest green fold-up chair,
musterbating,
wishing I had done this,
wishing I had done that.
That creeping bug crawsled up the fire pit
and I watched him die.
I didn't feel guilty watching him die.
I didn't feel happy watching him die.

I only felt guilty when I was walking that dirt road
back to the tent,
with that [dust filling my lungs],
thinking of that [disease filling your body.]
I only felt happy listening--
listening to the fire crackle,
listening to the chopping of wood,
listening to the chug-a-chug-chug of the train,
listening to the wind howl.
It all reminds me of your voice.

.4.

I am bad for the bugs.
It's not that she was a good woman,
It's that she kept saying those nice things.

I'm bad for the bugs
because I'm suicidal and homicidal.
Before I killed you, before I killed me,
I roasted some licorice and mike and ikes over a fire.
Then I killed you by my
laughter.
And I killed me by my
sorrow.

.5.

Are you listening to my silence?
Can you hear my quietness?
My silence is retreating.
My quietness is drowned out by the noise of
emotions inside of me, inside of you.
It's dark inside.
It's dark outside.
My eyes have adjusted to this darkness.
My body has too--it knows how to move in darkness.
My heart knows how to beat, accept defeat, bleed.

They have each other.
He has everyone.
The loneliest I ever felt was in a crowd.
The quietest I ever was was by myself.

Do you know how to see in darkness?
Do you know how to move in blackness?
feel feel
the movements in the darkness
listen listen
to my silence in loneliness.


.6.

I scattered the deck of cards
and drank all the alcohol.
I'm not a gambler.
And I'm not a drunk.
I'm paying my debts off with my life.
I'm purging earthly toxins from my body.

There's a song in my heart--
a song of joy and sadness.

Bom bom bom
Tee diddle doo yay!


.7.

I shivered at your arrival
But I kept my toes warm.
I protected my heart with walls of concrete and steel
but your love still
blew
right through that.
Your cool, refreshing love went right through
my guard--tore it right down.

But wind is only a passing presence.


.8.

Dee boddle da
la dee
Bee doddle ba
ta bee
Lee toddle doo
bee da
See poddle too
vee ta


.9.

I could walk in that darkness without a light.
I felt the path with my feet.

Do you know how the faithful walk?


.10.

Those mountains could reach up an arm
and touch that sky.
The mountains could hold up the sky
if it would just reach up that arm.

But the mountains know how things work.
The mountains know that their
majesty and power
comes from standing tall,
being autonomous,
not by being
servant
to the sky's demands.


.11.

Who keeps the mountain warm at night?
Is it the God of the heavens?
Is it the Devil of the air?
Is it the simple Man on earth?

It is God who is as the mountain,
who needs no care.
It is the Devil who would wish to be the mountain,
as God.
It is Man who destroys the mountain,
"takes dominion" over it, over nature,
placing himself higher than God.

Nature takes care of itself for it has no one else--
Not the Creator
Not the Rebel
Not the Created


.12.

I was not ready for the utter beauty in the Lock.
I was not prepared to be the key to that Lock.
I was not equipped to be the answer to the questions.

I can't climb:
:that mountain
:swim that river
:sing that song
:chop down that tree
:strike that rock
:pick that flower

How can I be the answer to the question
I don't even know?
How can I open the Lock
I don't even know exists?


.13.

I wish I knew how to describe
the wind on that day.
That Sunday.
That Sunday with the bugs crawling all around me.
I had no fears.
That Sunday sitting by the river in solitude,
walking that dirt road.
River water crashed at my feet.
Oh the bugs!
I was beyond small.
The sky could have swallowed me up,
if the sky did eat dust.
I was dust on the river.
A mere speck of dust on that river of solitude.
Tiny.


.14.

I forgot the beauty of something I never knew.
Standing next to those mountains,
Being misted upon by the waterfalls, however huge,
however small,
Sitting by the wide river, growing wider every
minute by my imagination.

I missed the bridge on the way back over.
I'll be stuck in beauty forever.


.15.

With each rock that fell--splashed--in that river,
my freedom flew a little higher.
I threw a rock.
I grew a wing.
I threw yet another.
I gained a second wing.
I threw more rocks.
And soon, I took flight.
With each weighted rock that I dropped,
I flew higher and got lighter.

Freedom smells sweet:
It is purple wildflowers,
dirt roads,
innocence.
Freedom tastes sweet:
It is your skin.
It is love and lust.

With you I know my freedom.
I do not ask questions.


.16.

I knew before the wind came.
I could feel it rustle my heart.

I knew before the train came.
I could feel it rumble my soul.

Do the gods know I like them?

I saw those pillars of wood,
standing in a cluster.
Those bugs crawled around me but knew
to not climb on me.
The ladybug landed on my cowboy hat and sat.
We rested together.

I threw those rocks by the Bridge of the gods.
Their spirits rustled.
Their spirits rumbled.

Do I know the gods hate me?


.17.

I was on that road of solitude too, you know?
The only one under that sky.
The only one drowning in that river.
The only one hiking that mountain.

I wanted to lie down on the ties of the
railroad tracks.
Just lie there until I fell asleep.
I wanted a train to run over me
and for once I didn't want it to wake me up.

I dreamed the dream that was never ending.


.18.

Rocky road.
(ice cream)
No, that's a different thing.
I rested on a rocky road,
in between
a river

and railroad tracks.

Either way it's suicide.

Brambles! Oh the brambles!
I saw a bird in those brambles.
I am smaller than that bird.
The bird that sings of me.
The bird that sings to me.

I will spend the rest of my
tomorrows
trying to learn
what the bird
was trying to teach me
today.

"Scree! Scree!"
Was all it said.


.19.

I had become so small
that I thought I had died.
But I was writing about it.
No, I was not dead.
My death will come the day I have
no words to say.


.20.

I know you went over to his house tonight
and I wished that I were there
instead of here.
But it was just a dream.

Besides, I'm smaller here.

chirp chirp
grow grow
gurgle gurgle
chug-a-chug
crawl crawl
sing sing


.21.

It is not necessary for me
to write you every road I've taken
or
to photograph every sunset I've seen.

Some things I need for myself.
Some things I need only in my head.

I will not tell you of that building.

Being Small Under My Mountain: 1

Sunset.
As a child, I looked out the bedroom window across flat ground, 'til my eyes stopped at the mountains in the distance. There were five mountains all in line. At least, that's what I would like to think. And not a one of them belonged to me.
The orange-The pink-The purple-The yellow-The occasional green: Comprised my Five-Mountain-Arizona sunset.
Not only the sunsets, but also the crosses. On one of those five mountains, there stood three crosses. Wrapped around each cross were plain white Christmas lights that shone from far away in the Arizona darkness. It got very dark at night. When I would wake suddenly in the night, panicking in the utter darkness--darkness you can feel--I would look out at those crosses. It was the only thing I could see for miles.
It was beyond what 'beauty' can describe. Seeing those three crosses in front of that sunset was magnifiscent.
I was small. Looking at those mountains I was small. Standing on those mountains I was even smaller. And I loved it.
The sky. That vast expanse of bright blue, the kind of bright blue you only see in Arizona. In the morning, it was blue mixed with yellow. At noontide, it was at it brightest, purest blue. By sunset, those colors filled the sky again: orange, pink, purple, yellow, and green. By nightful, it was black, and only the purest of blacks.
The storms. The lightning. The thunder. Like no other. These storms convinced me that gods and spirits were real. The light was love and truth. The thunder was justice and rage. The lightning could illuminate the whole black Arizona sky. The thunder could rise a million dead ones from their graves. It was a beautiful fear that I had, sitting in my bedroom looking out that window. Feeling Black. Seeing Three crosses. Then holy light. Then hearing BOOM! CRASH! THUNDER!
I think I heard crickets every Arizona slumber I had. I never saw the crickets, not even in the daylight. I was too young to know that that sound was the crickets looking for love. I was too young to know that I, too, one day, would make that same sound, sing that same song, looking for love.

I Imagine

I imagine a world different from what it actually is.
It is my dream.
He was in my dream last night, just like he has
been every day and night for the past month.
It was so real
The way his hand lightly touched my back
to wake me up.
Oh, god, you mock me.
Am I real?

I am a jealous god.
You would know my rage if I could snap.
She moved her whole body when she snapped--
her head her arms her foot
Just embodying that feeling.

I'm sure she likes him
but she doens't know what I had.
After all, what is that quality that is
so arresting?
It's swiftness
It's the ordeal
It's high energy
It's your stubbled chin scratching the desk.

I wonder how long it will last.
Just 'til the rain comes I suspect.
Dot
Bum Bum Bum
Dee doddle doo
Tay

I wonder.
I wonder why the flowers still bloom
even in times of disappointment and sorrow.

I wanted to invite Richard to my party.
There was jazz music.
And not to mention that fuzzy toy,
'cause Sammy likes it soft.
At that party he plays the
[sex]aphone.

I imagine that the Terminator is Stout,
yelling
I WANT MY WITCH BACK!
I WANT MY GIANT BACK!
But I told him all along,
"Don't give up your own witch."
That's what I told him,

'Cause you gotta make connections:
that's my goal--is
to slow people down.
Scan and grab
Scan and grab.

The horse was pissing in the stable right next
to where I was sleeping.
That party of one took his hat off.

I covered my lips with my hands
so I wouldn't say those words
I wanted to say.
So I wouldn't act how
I really wanted to act.

I imagine me happy
I imagine you happy

Squat

Papers about
dreams and reality
christopher and janis
whistle and rock

We are the
Classroom Squatters
Starting in 320
Moving to 319

10 AM comes along
People are confused angry
Next thing you know
We've squatted 322

We have no place for our own
Maybe the OC
maybe FaG
perhaps Siletz and Salem
But we know we have the kitchen
for sure because we created it

Does any of this amaze you?

Laurel's Hurst

A leisurely walk in the park
and I ended up on a patch of grass
by a metal sculpture.

Grapes are purple.
Grass is green.
My blood is red.

Hullahoop loops around his waist
as he stands on that park table.
Round and round it goes.
It's just like making love.

"I'm from Maryland" the tree shouts.
"I'm from Tigard."
Oh.

"Hey Blanket girl!
climb up the tree."
I read on:
"The invisible floating universe of
kisses rising up in a sequined helix
of dust and cinnamon."

My non-answer wasn't enough.
He rode over on his bike.
"Climb the tree. Everyone else is."
I read on:
"There is a way if we want out of
drowning."

The tree shouts again:
"I love you, red-head blanket girl!
Come climb the tree!"
Smiling, I read on:
"Tonight the moths are beating the shit out
of themselves on the screen door."

My non-answer wasn't enough.
Another walks over on his feet.
"Sorry we were harrassing you from the tree.
It was too much. But if you want to come over,
please do."

Austin. That man's name.
Was leading the procession
of Laurel's Hurst.
Austin. That man's name.
Brought the End of the West.

"In the burning miracle
The trees aren't really trees,
the trees are really people
men women and children
we see that now."

the simple

I'm not even sure how old the piece of paper is.
At least a few years, I think.

It was inscribed with my hand-writing,
my name,
my drawings.

"HI"
"HI"

"A
AM
AMA
AMAN
AMAND
AMANDA"

I guess I was into all-caps then.

Even "Smile"in my fanciest of hand-writing.

Drawn on that simple simple piece of paper was
a minivan, 4-door
a silly looking small man
a crossed out car
grass
a fence
a boy playing basketball
a house which was quite exquisite
a tall, evil looking man with a stained shirt and
water leaking out of his stomach.

That simple simple paper lay on the desk.
I'm not sure how it got there.
I'm not sure where it came from.

It is the simple.
It is the simple days of my youth.
It is the simple days of my mind.
It is the simple nature of life.

I am the simple.

Burn

Black slips through my hands
just like the rope that I once held
that was your heart.

Losing everything.
Losing white.
"They" say that white is everything.

Losing nothing.
Losing black.
"They" say that black is nothing.

Black is void and empty.
Black is nothing.

How can losing "nothing" hurt so bad?

I have heart-void.
I have rope-burn.

Toos.

My hands are sore from holding themselves
when no one else would.

I do the "Leaning Dance."
Lean to the left
Lean to the right
And do the Leaning
Leaning
Leaning
Dance!

I want to eat a pocket.
A pocket full of rye.

Lone[li]ness

Left vacant my soul is
On this road to
Nowhere, not another soul nearby.
Ever only in my dreams
Lay the answer:
Yonder is where they are.

the question

what is the price of paper?
the price of the tree.

what is the price?
have you ever been put to the question?

confess
what you know
confess
the price
before you are

put to the question.

occupation[s]

Nervous Joyousness.

What will it be like coming back?
How will others take it?
Will I remember everything?
Will I make a mistake?

Worry.
Happiness.
Nervousness.
Joyousness.

How does one deal
with a lump in their heart?

White as the Night Is Long

I saw a white butterfly today.
It landed on the grass
and looked this way and that.

What is the amazement with all white?
What is the excitement with all white?

Then it flew away.

Black as the Day Is Long

I saw a black butterfly today.
At least, I thought it was a butterfly.
Perhaps I just wanted it to be a butterfly,
and so it was.

What is the beauty in all black?
What is the purity in all black?

Then it flew away.

Cloud[s]

12:45. Walked outside.
Sights: Big puffy white clouds.
Sun shining.
Thoughts: It's gonna be
an okay day after all.

1:08. Drove away.
Sights: Gray storm clouds.No blue sky.
Rain.
Thoughts: Jumbled.

How quickly the storm clouds came!
How quickly they covered brightness,happiness,
excitement!

In just a few minutes, the clouds
brought disease.
In just a few minutes, the clouds
changed lives.

The clouds said
I'm sorry.
The clouds replied
It's okay.
The clouds said
It's not okay
but it will have to be.
The clouds
said nothing.

The clouds told us to be friends.
But I don't know how to be friends.
That's why I don't have any.

Worry--->About you.
Selfish thoughts--->About me.

I love you
and
I'm sorry.

I Wore It in My Pocket, I Wore It on My Face

Broken
Broken, yes.
But not to be confused with
a broken record.
No, that's a different thing.

Pills.
Pills I thought could heal my
brokenness.
Empty bottles.
The pill bottles are empty
and I'm still broken.

SCREAM.
SCREAM, I thought I could
SCREAM, but I couldn't.
The pills didn't fix that.

The napkin I use as a
pocket-square reminds me of you.
I wore it in my pocket today.
I don't think you noticed.

The fear and brokenness
I hid in my heart
is visible on my face.
I wear it on my face.
You noticed that.

Are you my doctor?

Industrial Bowl Alley

He throws his ball like the Flinstones
then runs away awkwardly.
His brother hums along with
songs I'm surprised he even knows.
The grandparents sit, eyeing their grandchildren, wandering
what went wrong.

My game didn't get better
even though I played again.
"Practice makes perfect"
is a downright myth.

Driving under the bridge
with its "pillars" by my side--
it's somewhat scary here--this Industrial Alley.

I read the Cow's menu
and wondered what to get.
It's sweets for me.

In the Industrial Bowl Alley
I lose a game or two.
In the Industrial Bowl Alley,
You are right on cue.
In the Indutrial Bowl Alley,
You read poems about this and that.
In the Industrial Bowl Alley,
I am cold and want to submerse in a hot water vat.

I enjoy my time in the
Industrial Bowl Alley,
although sometimes it's
not nice to me.

The time was too short
for you and me to be

Together, that is.

Mid[day] Terms

I'm riding on a spiritual vehicle
holding a green bag.
My crossed legs fall asleep,
so I play footsies with Rita.
It's all a unique and wonderful puzzle:
that of creating less connections
so I can see more reality.
-
I am a water-saving hero.
I have basic thingness.
It's in the folds, you know?
Do you know?
"I know. I know. Shut up."
-
We've got to get him to church on time.
He's a case:
a briefcase.
a nutcase.
a basketcase.
a bookcase.
-
Cat pee.
Did I step on your foot?
Orange pee.
One suck. Two suck.
I've just gotta cough my way through your paper.
But you have a right to change your party
by using submission wrestling.
-
I got so disoriented by this class,
but she's got a pretty good beat on her students.
-
Two fish are one.
They're different from Johnny Bravo though,
without a prominent chin: no, it's a recessed one.
Maybe it's me,
but maybe it's August 3, 2009.
What does that mean to you?
-
I'm a strawberry girl:
:granola.
:yogurt.
:fields.
The golf pencils are far
from the backrow of hostility.
The golf pencils are closer
to the west side of hostility.
It really exists.
-
I have errors in my thinking:
Inuit-->Intuit.
It's magical,all these trinkets and toys.
I'm 3 1/2 pages, single-spaced.
I hope the spirit world smiles on my endeavors.

the Poor Class

She shouldn't wear that black dress.
The way it wraps around her
plumb, round body is wrong.
And those two snobs sit across
the classroom, one stuffing her face
with goldfish, the other
eyeing everybody judgmentally.

I wonder why those gloves were in the street.
Blue medical gloves, lying in a pile,
a few scattered here and there.
Someone's hands aren't protected.

The baby spoon, chewed up,laid in the parking lot.
I wonder how long it had been there.
I wonder how long that baby had gone without food.

Poor baby. Poor gloves. Poor people.

Listening to Injustice

They're beautiful people, they really are.
I love to hear them talking.
I could listen to them all day and night.
Their jumbled words:
Their slurred words:
Their repeated words:
It's what makes their story.


I listened to their story tonight.
I watched their faces.
I saw them go from place to place with nobody but themselves
and the voices in their heads.
Society does them an injustice.
Does no one care?
They have no family
no job
no money
no means to support themselves
no means to get what they need.

How can we go about our lives
watching our big screened televisions
while these people cannot buy their meds?
How can we drive around in our cars
while these people don't even have a place to go?
Injustice.

Does no one love these people?
Love them enough to care for them?
Give them a place to stay
Give them their medicine
Give them sanity
Give them freedom.
Injustice.

I have no money to give them.
I have no place for their tired heads.
But I listen.
At least I listen to their story
of hardship
of loneliness
of pain
of despair
of slavery
of injustice.

The least we can do is listen
to their beautiful voices,
and look in their vulnerable eyes,
and see in them the love and compassion
we wished we had ourselves.

Does no one care?
Does no one love?
Injustice.

Just listen.

Luck Enough

I'm getting married on Sunday,
the little boy said to me.
Her name's Sammy,
and she's as pretty as can be.

There's an ampersan on my knee
thanks to you.
There's a cut on your lip
thanks to me.
"I hope I have a bruise by the end of the week," said he.

How did we get so lucky?
Guess we've all had to endure"bad stuffs".
But, at least the officer said
"Sorry."

Because of the Sun

The sun rose.
The sun set.
Another day has passed.

She lay in bed,
writing a simple poem,
about the sunrise
about the sunset.

She wrote that she loved it
She wrote that she liked it
She wrote that all down.

The bed knows her body
day in and day out.
She never leaves the bed
day or night.

She lays in her bed
watching out the window,
wondering at the faithfulness of the sun.

She never knew anything more faithful
than the sun:
not her mother,
not her father,
not her brother,
nor her lover.

She wakes because of the sun.
She sleeps because of the sun.

Only thing: She's dreaming.

Close the Shutters

It's not a secret
if it's only meant for you and me.

Shudders behind
open shutters.
Hint: they're all white.

The waltz:
your fingers dancing
on my skin.

Your back:
there I go again:
peering in the open shu[dd]ers.

Just one more
minute
hour
day
week.

Sitting by an open window
I close the shu[dd]ers.

I Hate You

So I was walkin' around the town,
feeling sorry for myself, feeling down.
Then bad went to worse when I saw you,
Because I can't forget the things you do.

On Matters

Stuck in between
a 32 and a 30.
He's a 31;
I can see his "Fruit of the Loom."

Stuck in between
the new and the old.
Glasses, that is.
Will he like them? Will he not?
I just like his eyes.

On the brink
he stands,
soon leaving his familiar age bracket.
On the brink
of maybe dying.
But now he's living and excited.
I'm just glad I met him.

Stuck in between and
on the brink.
What will push him forward?
What will hold him back?
God, I just hope it's me.

Ab(original) People

Mushrooms grow.
"That hamburger is so big,"
but only because of the spiritual influence of mushrooms.
He'd only be normal if he were on shrooms.

Sorry. I got so absorbed
in the [time capsule],
which I'll open three years hence."
Is that my pill? It must have fallen out of my pocket."

I can't speak louder.
No joke.
Who does he think he is?
The "slow" musician with nasty hair.

The industrial spilt drink,
he's not ready to throw up.
But he'll tell us when he is.
We'll hear him...if he speaks louder.

The buzz and the fuzz.
The fuzz on face.
The buzz on back.
He's Harry Potter and Jonathan Taylor Thomas.

Eyes that see if you look, but he doesn't.
He looks away, averts his eyes
from the running man and the tent.
Then he left.

I am not the one on shrooms.
I am not the teacher.
I am not the slow lyricist.
I am not the spilt drink.
I am not Harry Potter and Jonathan Taylor Thomas.

No, I am his elf.

Posterity's Sake

To whom are we related?
Our totem animals.
"Don't eat me!" they cry.

The orca, the bear, the Eskimo:
invited to our family reunion.

The fish, the kangaroo:
Understanble hunting.

The cow, all these things:
sacredness to shiva.

Relation. Connection. Continuum.
Lost. In. Translation.

To whom are we related?
Our ancestors.
"Don't forget me!" they cry.

She Wears It

Hotel Oregon is in McMinnville;
but it's also on her shirt.

"Reclaim the Streets!" is on a sign, which protesters cry;
but it's also on her jacket.


Who is she?
The genesis.

Into the War-ram's Mind

I think that like the brain is like made up of like brain cells, and those brain cells like form these like neuronets and like these neuronets determine what you perceive. And like your consciousness is made up of like little consciousnesses which build upon each other to form the big consciousness. And like when your perception is wrong, like, it's just because you don't have the little consciousness to like understand it.

I would like to be under the spiritual influence of mushrooms. I mean, what kind of things should you do on shrooms?

Jump off a bridge into a pile of mushrooms and only break an ankle.

Christmas Lights. Drive around and look at Christmas lights. It's exciting.

Yeah, like, my friend was on a trip with mushrooms and we pulled up to a McDonald's truck and he's like "Dang, that hamburger is huge!"

But our mind can like only see like a pea-sized amount of like what's there and not like the infinite stuff in like the world.

He was on fire tonight.

On the Flip [Side]

Ok, but you have to call it.
Heads.
Come take a look.
It's heads.

I like watching you drive.
I like watching you ride.

Agenda(s)

Fix feet: because they're broken.
Feet that illegally wade.
And you know, I got that eerie feeling, something
or other welling up on the insides.
And that bathroom didn't have toilet paper:
So what am I gonna use?
You.

The smiles.
The laughter.
The time whizzing by
While looking in a lover's eyes.

You know? Because
you're
so
worth
it.

Real Wor[l]ds

I have a new form of consciousness, like, I think, like, I think that like, my mind is separate from me, like. My body can do, like, whatever, without my mind, like. You know, I just like wanna use my mind as a tool, like. My mind like isn't me....like.

Because you don't know what it's going to do, sometimes it does nothing, sometimes it's just fine. But a toilet, you know?

This is creepy.

Climbing climbing climbing up stairs in the darkness, to a seemingly unoccupied building. We've reached the top. Incognito, we listen and rather intently observe the couple below us. They never noticed us.

M-M-F. It all makes sense now. I stick it in there.

Whoever it was took the top off of the Orb of Ultimate Wisdom. Oh, look, there's footprints over here, let's follow them. Maybe he's killing one of his victims right now and then is going to bury the weapon by a tree. Wait, what's this? Our freedom. So, that's what it is...All we have to do is go through this jungle, this war...Freedom looks different from below--with the smoky moist air and the wind, awesome. I love how it's contracting and then expanding and blowing up...Laughter.

Of course, laughter, there was ALWAYS laughter.

Oh my gosh! The San's Cave Drawings! This is the ram, the sacrifice, this was the war...War-ram...War-ram...War-ram....WARREN! It's Warren!

It's just running through me! I don't know....

You can't nap on the grassy areas because it doesn't look good to the other clientelle.

Ok.

Conversations galour:
Childhood memories.
Religion.
Relationships.
Life.
Lack thereof.
Warren.
Sammy.
Sammy and Warren.
Rita drunk.

You don't mind?

First: waltz.
Truth: made up.

Un-needed nervousness. It's all ok. I'm not offended.

Love and justice.

Writing. Poems. Parks. Plants.

FaG Liquor Store, Pot.I don't know what type of beer I like to drink....cuz I never had any!

Ticklish. Much.

Brids chirping already?
Go to bed late.
Get up late.
Southeast.

Weekend. Over.

The 17th

Whatever comes into your head,
Must be pushed out before bed.
Sunrise flowers and lollipops,
Midnight mushrooms or dandy fops.

Worries about toilets,
Fears the bus,
But she shudders so lovely.


[The End]

An awesome poem by:manda and Jacob

Documentations of my Trip

I've seen a kid fall. The child was unsure of his steps and fell, face forward, but avoided hitting his head on the ground by putting his hands out in front of him.
The result: maybe a skinned knee, scratched hands, and a hurt heart.
But the kid gets back up again.
-----
While I would like to say that it happened while I was doing something heroic, or because I was the victim of some malicious person, this is not true.
-----
I hate the feeling of falling: the vulnerability of the act, the scars, the hurt ego, the crushed heart.
-----
Monday morning and I was early...for once. For once I wouldn't have to run up three flights of stairs to class. It was quite surprising that I was early because I thought I had taken up a considerable amount getting ready that morning--well, namely just finding an outfit to wear. My choice clothes: black and white striped collared shirt, black vest, tie, belt, jeans, and flats. I'm not one to usually wear belts but these particular jeans called for it. These jeans were loose and long. I had a thought or two or three about rolling them up, but I never did.
Not rolling up the pant legs of my jeans was a grave mistake. It had rained earlier that morning and the ground was wet. The stairs leading up to the building were wet and almost covered in mud chunks. Because my pant legs so long and were dragging on the ground, I decided to tip-toe up the stairs to avoid excess draggage. This process worked for the first 6 stairs. This process worked for the second set of 6 stairs. The third set of 6 stairs were particalarly muddy and somewhat slippery. But I went ahead and used my tip-toeing process.
Tip-toe first stair.
Tip-toe second stair.
Tip-toe third stair.
-----
You know the feeling. The feeling of vulnerability. The feeling of stupidness. The feeling of cihldlikeness. You know what I'm talking about....right?
-----
Tip-t-TRIP!! I missed the fourth stair and my foot went down to the third stair, my knee hitting the fourth muddied fourth stair. I put my hands out in front of me to balance my fall, which caused my book-filled bag to fall on the muddy stairs also.
-----
I'm not really a swearer. Only in occasions of necessity do I use expletives.
-----
This was such a case. I muttered a choice word and stood upright. I looked at my stinging hands. They were wet and muddy from breaking my fall. I saw scratches from the concrete. I looked at my knee: dirty.
-----
I hurt....physically. My heart hurt. My ego hurt. I'm thankful no one was there to witness my childlikeness and my vulnerability in those immediate moments following my fall.
-----
I picked up my bag and walked to the bathroom where I immediately washed my hands off which hurt like heck. I tried to clean my jeans off to no avail. I gathered myself and fixed my hair; but before exiting the bathroom, I sat down on the provided couch to roll up my pant legs, which should have been done much earlier.
-----
My hands still ache. My knee is still bruised. I'm still embarrassed to tell the story.
I've fallen.

Lyrics: Butterfingers

A song that I wrote on a whim. I'm working on the music now sort of a jazzy feel.

[1] What did I do
to lose your love
on that cold and rainy morning?
What did you do
to escape the grasp
of my butterfingers
That let you go.

[C] So I got butterfingers
On the end of my hands
And you slipped away
From my grasp
I had a hold on you
And on your heart
But my butterfingers buttfingers
Let you go

[2] What can I do
to win you back?
What can I do
to bring you back?
To my butterfingers
That let you go.

[C]

[3] My butterfingers butterfingers
touch your face
My butterfingers butterfingers
touch your chest
My butterfingers butterfingers
move on down
And you slip away
From my grasp

[C]

[4] My butterfingers butterfingers
held your heart
As we danced into
The pale moonlight
But as the sun arose
You slipped away
From my butterfingers
That let you go.

[C]
My butterfingers butterfingerslet you go

Cold-hearted Worm Killer

I hate feet. Well, rather, toes to be exact.No, indeed I love feet. The heel in all its power. The delicate arch so graceful and defined.
Then there are the toes. The disgusting, miniature fingers. Some with toe cheese squezzed in between, others smelling of Fritos and Pork Rhines or whatever.Yes, I hate those appendages.

Until today.

I drew a foot today. In fact it was my foot. Complete with powerful heel, delicate arch, and of course, the well-balanced big toe with the four others right beside. With drawing my foot, I discovered the beauty in the weird curl of my pinky toe. I discovered the necessity of the utter bigness of the big toe. I discovered the appeal of the lanky, finger-like middle toes. (What a weird word: toes).
Ever since I discovered that toes are indeed beautiful, I have worn flip-flops. These have been appropriate since the spring weather has taken residence in our unstable climate.I would have run to class tonight...but I was wearing flip-flops. Not a very good idea to run in those less than protective and very flimsy shoes.
I looked down at my toes: marvelous, I thought. And what a wonderful way to show them off to the class--walk in late, out of breath, make lotsa noise, try to find a seat, meanwhile making the noise "flip flop flip flop". That sound naturally attracts poeple's eyes to one's feet, which then will inevitably bring them to my pretty toes. How swell!
How quickly 3 hours and 50 minutes passes when one is admiring toes. And just like that, class was over.
I walked out of the classroom and realized the shaky climate had taken over. Spring was no longer present in the air. The ground was wet and sticky. Sprinkles fell from the dark sky. I looked down at my toes. I cannot let my toes be subject to such inclement weather! But events such as this are quite unavoidable.
I walked very quickly, figuring that the less time it took for me to walk to my car, the better it was for my toes. But, this made things worse. The faster I walked, the more the wetness splashed on my feet, my toes, my heels, my pants. I slowed the pace of my walking.
Upon doing so, I noticed an abundance of worms lying on the open sidewalk. Big ones. Fat ones. Small ones. Pink ones. Gray ones. Purple ones. (I must say, I am utterly intrigued by worms and their simple yet complex existence). It was probably at this point that I realized how cold my feet and especially my toes were. I thought, "How many worms have I stepped on while I was walking briskly? Why had I no thought for the feelings of the worms?" I was striken with guilt. My beautiful feet, my toes, had cold-heartedly killed maybe countless worms!!
I now made each step with caution, trying to avoid stepping on the worms. I eventually made it to my car and immediately turned on the heat. When I was about half way home, the heat was actually hot. I turned it up a notch. Now it was blowing at precisely the "3" level. I soon noticed that my cold-hearted toes became quite toasty warm. I turned the heat down a notch but noticed that my toes became cold again. My thoughts went back to my cold-hearted killing of worms. I turned the heat back up, my toes soon toasty warm again.
As long as the heat was on, I had no guilt of killing the worms. I thought, "I must keep my toes warm forever."That is easier said than done. As soon as I exited my car, cold temperatures overwhelmed my toes. I ran inside(possibly killing more worms....but I'd rather not think about that) and went back into my room. I practically tore my room apart, throwing clothes out of drawers, dumping clothes out of the laundry basket, rustling my blankets, trying to find my wool socks. I figured that the wool socks would be the best thing to keep my toes warm and my conscience clean. But I have realized now, sitting in a comfy chair wearing woolen socks, still thinking about worms, that I cannot go on like this forever. At some point, my toes will have to be cold. I will have to take off my wool socks at one point. My toes cannot be toasty forever. What can I do to rid my conscience of this guilty feeling that my toes are cold hearted worm killers?

In memorium, I have decided to erect a worm farm to foster life for many generations of worms. In addition to that, I have decided to say a little prayer every time I walk past or see a worm. This will indeed give me peace of mind and heart. And one day, I hope to see my toasty toes as beautiful again, and not just as a cold hearted worm killer.

tshirt and ripped jeans

I'm just a plain writer.
Yes, I'm a writer....or at least I think.

there have always been those people who encourage me to write. there have been those people who say otherwise.

the most recent example of the latter was possibly the worst writing teacher ever.

"It's not sophisticated enough. It needs work."

It's not sophisticated?
Since when did writing have to be sophisticated?
I love my writing style. It's personal, conversational, relatable. Why do I need my writing to be sophisticated?

I never have been one to want to dress up, even for play.
I'm a tshirt and ripped jeans kinda person.
And I think that comes across in my writing with a certain type of character that no one else can imitate.

I've tried to be sophisticated in my writing and it changed into something I didn't quite like.
Hence, tshirt and jeans.
Hence, my writing style.
Don't try to change that.