/ new
/ old
/ book
/ email
/ aim
/ profile
/ host
/ poetry
/ zenbox
/ old drama
/ radiomigration

/ negating ouroboros

/ drivel .001

/ wasteland & further; waiting for a slaughter

/ november is a month of ghosts

a grey knive lurking on the corner of the bathroom counter, incongruously balanced on the edge - just about to fall - the light of day leaked into the room like dish detergent being squeezed gently out of a bottle, and over in the corner, rats rustled in a paper bag. he walked into the room to the sound of the ceiling fan slowly misunderstood. his left sneaker squeaked slightly. paper in his pocket crumpled up and a blue crayon behind one ear. a muddy cigarette in one hand and no lighter. his eyes are silently stained-glass windows inside a church with no congregation, waiting for the hollow bellpulls - the doorbell of the Almighty. he takes out a sharpie and marks an x on the wall. moments later a fly buzzes fatly in and lands on the ��������������������������������������������spot, preening and humming to itself. below, at the baseboard, an ant trundles in. he looks at the mirror. he looks away. outside, a bird hits the window, and all things still, in hushed������������������������������������������mourning. an ignorant cricket looses a selfish mating call and
2003-03-28, 10:10 p.m.

stop-stop-go (red lighted arrow turn left)

��������� �����save me from the nothing i've become / bring me to life says evanescence, from the daredevil soundtrack. particular.

two videos sit by my side, "scent of a woman" and "good will hunting" both from mark's hand. a hat propped somewhat awkwardly on the printer next to the phone, atop a copy of "dumb and dumber" and "justine" by lawrence durrell. kaylen would be proud. small red bow on the top of my monitor to commemorate yesterday.

driving today through portland in a mellow mood, radio turned down and the pleasant chatter of tara as we discussed Dreamcatcher, the movie. spent most of the early morning hours with rachel in the hallway. janitors coming and going as she ate her subway - olives sliding free of the sandwich and plopping onto the paper it was wrapped in. sunlight shafting down. (ironic, now, the song "my immortal" comes on there's just too much that time cannot erase / when you cry i wipe away all of your tears) i would like to be known as a provider. but i would like to be provided for. the window is half-open and spring seeps in like a crazy burglar, stealthily.

resonation the night before, in a ghetto handshake after 8 Mile at tara's room, in the middle of the road, the strange and strained resolution as rachel and jason mounted the hill back toward robie. "peace out, yo."

my skin feels particularly warm tonight. shipments in the mail, chicken parmesan cooked in the makeshift oven, wafting around and curling in the lobby. so many people i know around tonight. hearing something i don't want to hear, and hearing echoes of it. echoes. echoes.

the simplest word "stop" can quell any obsession. "stop" "stop" stop" red light. i tend to have a selective color-blindness when it comes to trafficlights.

"it's a lost relationship," she says, and sunlight again. her constant friend. i love seeing her in sunlight. if it was a material i wish she would wear a dress of it. gossamer is the word i'm looking for. radiance. it's beautiful when you can say what you feel and worry about repercussions or other meanings later. "the relationship that is commonly mistaken for homosexuality," she explains. unspoken from me.

"his face just lit right up," and so the evening is going onwards. and upwards.

stop. (like a telegram) i'll be home from the war soon

prev / next

�SEH