Womanizer.

Thundercloud.

Most recent drawing, now that I have my Genius Tablet.

Venasque.

If there was ever a different tree that I climbed,
One without long, strong branches and a trunk like molasses, I don't know where my head would've been.
It's easy to understand with this mindset that the sand that cascaded the landscape,
Back when my soul was nothing more than an egg under the incubator,
Was not merely thrown there, but was heaved up by some underlying energy.
But it doesn't matter to me now, as I walk across the pure yellow grain,
And tilt my head backwards to catch a full breath of the liquefied air.
Then my gaze wanders until it's caught hook-line-and-sinker on the rocks and their monotonous crashing against the water.
We meet hardships, hardships don't meet us.
And as I walk the extreme landscape,
With colors so bright and bold,
It seems as if there would be a war, for there were too many intense differences.
I come upon my tree and climb it, in order to look down on everything.
I felt like God.
Looking down upon all of his creation with nothing more than love and awe in my heart.
And I still go there sometimes,
If I can find the time to want nothing and to love everything.

Unfinished 1984.

Quiet time.
Quiet time now, please.
It's that time when the cyrsanthimums shouldn't blossom.
I'm at that place in my life right now where I wish the moon wouldn't invade my thoughts.
I asked the waves to settle, but they only upset me with disobedience.
Quiet time, quiet time is an idea, a philosophy that I've developed over the course of years and months.
It's taken many journeys, many trials, love, and an avid hate for everything.
I'm loath about the turnout of this meeting, of the apparent apathy for the quiet.
When everything is still, everything is quiet, that's the new paradigm.
That's the only paradigm.
If only you would listen to the thoughts of nothing, you wouldn't need to tolerate.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow I will go elsewhere,
somewhere where I can't be found by the justice blanances the float around and dry the waters and boast the earth, the same eyes that dried the drips from the hearse, and the lips of the seal that flat-out blubbered its teal feelings of nothing,
the ones that found me and something else that was of importance to it,

for tomorrow is the day that loses its wits because there was never a day so mentally intact as to chose its humanity with the right track of decisions and careful incisions into the proper God mind that feels the terrible contracts that contract our kind, because tomorrow is a day that knows no harm, but by the law of humanity should be heavily alarmed to the status of the dawn no approaching, now rising, moving on like a clock that is nothing to the findings of trains and of leads and various coasts and reeds, because tomorrow is a day that knows no harm, with a infantile body and a cherub-like garm, head in the heavens with no sight and no arms, sitting beside nothing waiting to be spawned, which makes me feel the weight of drain-o and the lever cleaving leaves that insist on the sanity of the patriarchal community, for immunity in tomorrow is the penicillin it must borrow from perfection which is out of its reach, an inhabitant of a universe outside of our sheath in this closed universe of closed minds and still time, which is snynonomous with the name of my cellophane rhine, and breaks the seeds of this leading tall kneads, so I fall to my knees and love the only thing I see, for the mind is always searching for something out of me, something better than my condition with a falsely drawn premonition of a day when the mission is to simply be an addition to the world and the peace of it all, and that day is tomorrow when I go elsewhere and claw at the fabrics of civilization and the handholds of simulation which in turn upset this body, because there's nothing to pour but coffee that's poured at the same time everyday, never changing its sway, because of the peace that dies today that thoroughly shows me the words I say when I utter that tomorrow is innocent when it's already killed so many, tomorrow is not innocent because it's already taken so many, its already fed on lives to keep the constant cycle pretty for the eyes of some elated child-like giddy-grit, who decides to drive tomorrow with its horrible slave whip to do what today has not accomplish and to break open our whits, to take over tomorrow's mind and control it to the stitch, however I still love tomorrow, because it's basically not today, and it can hold something elsewhere that can be a shiny day, but as I lay my head tonight, I think of what follows; the thoughts that go through my head: hopefully I can sit still and say, tomorrow transcends today, and I will love tomorrow.

NOW and THEN.

I am Russia, in love with Big Brother.
I am the flat note, the one that a player mistakenly plays.
I am a short skirt, for no matter how much you pull me down, I still reveal too much.
I am a sacred fire, one of which is the severed part of a renowned civilization.
I am a disgraced dragon, one with a limp leg and a broken wing.
I am water, which transcends all cracks and ninnie's and covers all with its glittery apathy.
I am a cloudy shroud worn around the shoulders of a Chinese Communist, as if it were not enough that it was a Chinese Communist.
I am a the sporadic heart beat of a dying old man.
I am the reaches of humanity.
I am the drawing of a steering wheel; I can't drive without someone behind me.
I am the calm before the storm, the storm, the sunshine afterwards, also.
I am the fall, because everything dies, everything's remembered in the fall.
I am the gentle smash of the waves against the eroding rock, slowly and unknowingly weathering it away.
I am a cascade of images splattered across a wall, belonging to an artist who doesn't remember he drew them.
I am an artist displaying his images, without memory of drawing them.
I am the universe, and the universe is me; I am its infinite energy, the space, the time, the understanding, the misunderstanding, the reality, the matrix, the feigning, the realizing, the misjudgement, the beginning, the end, the struggle, the success, the want, the need, the satisfaction, the love.

I am manatee gray, with cuts along along my sides.
I am a psychologist, compensating my problems with the problems of others.
I am the glorious aftershave to a god's slashed beard, and the hairs the adorn the floor in the razor's wake.
I am the fiery upset of the world, confined into a container for compact transportation.
However, I am the face of the clock, not questioning its existence, but realizing its only purpose is to pass time, time, time.

Android conversation.

HA-HA.

1984 PLAY GUYS.

CLOONEY: (standing in the middle of a riot, shouting at a rioting brunette beside him) Lady, where has your love gone? Don’t you understand, can’t you see? This is no way to start a relationship! Are you even listening to me?

ROSETTA: (blonde beside him who stops rioting in order to shout at Clooney) Can’t you see that you’re… you’re just one in twenty-four? Have you ever thought, just for a moment, that we’re not doing this for you?

GEORGE: (a thin man standing to the right of Clooney) Yeah, I… I do believe… I do believe that your… yer selfish-osity is quite the… epitome… of…

CLOONEY: (interrupts George) Oh, hush! But sometimes, I do wonder, (turning back to ROSETTA­) are you putting us under? How many times have we had it at before? Have you even understood my inherent need? My incessant lust? Or do you just jump to tease me, and do you speak just to be abrasive?

MAUDE: (brunette beside Clooney) But they’ll make examples of you!

ROSETTA: (Jumps in before MAUDE can say anymore) No, I wanted him! (Bumps into MAUDE and falls into GEORGE’S arms)

CLOONEY: Say no more, say no more, because I see now… You were never here for me. Last night… what we talked about… It made so much sense. But the haze is descended… Now… it doesn’t make sense. But what does? Why are we even here? Where are the gas tanks and flooded pipes? Are we even here for a cause? I was here for a cause. But that cause flew out of my arms, because she didn’t know how to start a relationship.

GEORGE: (Looks at CLOONEY with upset eyes) But love! We did… speak of summat, but… it was too dark for… a full-throttle analysis. What do you think…? Betty? Have you…

ROSETTA: You might wear classic Reeboks, but you miss the point! We’re not here for you! We’re not here for you! There’s no romance around here! We have our minds made up, and look. Over there there’s broken bones… Well, if you would like (looks at GEORGE)

CLAUDE: (looks at GEORGE at the same time)

CLAUDE and ROSETTA: (speaking quizzically to George) We could tell them all tonight.

CLOONEY: (Looks terrified at an approaching police car) No time, no time! On rolls the riot van! We have to run, or we won’t be able to chill our bones correctly tonight. Enough with the romance on rolls the riot van!

CLAUDE and ROSETTA: Or we could tell them all tonight.

GEORGE: Tell them all tonight.

(Out of the police car comes one police man, though there’s another man sitting in the front seat)

POLICE MAN: Why don’t you run? Haven’t you heard? I’m here to kick you out.

GEORGE: But… we’re going to tell them all tonight.

CLOONEY: NO! We musn’t! (Pulls out a shotgun) Let me tell you a story.

(ROSETTA climbs down from GEORGE’S arms and hugs her knees on the floor. MAUDE sits on top of ROSETTA’S knees and eventually falls. George stands behind the two, leaning on the police officer. The police officer looks unsure, with his hand on his holster, but still stays to hear the story)

CLOONEY: (begins to pace, and then spits) You people are vampires! Do you not know why we’re here?

MAUDE, ROSETTA and GEORGE begin to improvise, each character saying nonsensical things)

CLOONEY: NO! No, you guys are wrong! If you wanted to truly become ignorant fucks, then you would go back to 505. Go back to 505! No only is it a 7 hour flight, but it’s also a forty-five minute drive. Now, I know what I’m here for. I’m here for your love, lady. I always imagined you lying in that room… with you hands between your thighs. But the dogs came, and we were cast out. You saw it, you smelled it! You smelled the castor oil and the piggish hands! You understood me when I told you that our bull meat was being eaten by those nasty, piggish hands. When we were sapped up by those disgusting pigs mouths, yet we just… stood there and caressed our minds with thoughts of love… of 505, of thinking she’s the one. Though you say that may’ve been me, you must wonder: just ‘cuz everybody’s doing it, does that mean that I can to? Ask yourself that question, and tell me, why do you give in to the hands of the pigs? Now, let me tell you a story about pigs. Though, I do realize that it won’t… change a thing… When I was a child, my friends, my family… we made chocolate cream. Indeed, we harvested our crop and we put chocolate to our cream. I was the pride of the family with my fast hands, and my bullish meat and mind. We supported each other, we supported our family and our neighbors. But the pig came! That terrible day, with that terrible pig. The pig wanted to show us the wonders of everything, and played to our desires. He gave us everything, nuzzling our spotted brown muzzles with the idea of rich and famous. But then, my friends, the pig took away our chocolate creaming ordeal and sent us to factories.

Button Speaking. 1984.

I stared at the button, it stared back at me. I asked it the time, and it said it did not matter. I asked it the news and it said it did not matter. I asked it the weather and it said it did not matter. I asked it its political viewpoints and it said it didn't matter. I asked it what did matter and it said to me this: Nothing matters but relationships, and being able to fasten things together. I asked it if it said this because it was a button and it replied to me no. I asked it why then? and it replied to me: Because how can you be kept warm without a fastened coat? How can you protect your neck from the cold without a fastened collar? Now, think of all the things that could be fixed with buttons. Think of all the things that have been fixed with buttons, only to be popped out by a piggish body. Think of all the times buttons have been taken out and mitchmatch buttons have been put in their place. Think of all the surgery done on coats, think of how many have been thrown away without their buttons. Do you understand now what I say? You can not have successful politics without a fastener, nor a oneness with weather, nor functional relationships, nor positive news. But you know the interesting thing, you need to be willing to find the fastener. Too many relationships don't recognize the button, because they're too concerned about the unfastened parts. However, it's funny, because most people I see do not try to look at the buttons, maybe because they're always buttoned? Or maybe just because they're always negative. So, my friend, I implore of you to return to your people. Tell them you spoke with a button. Tell them how important that is. Tell them to fasten their shirts, their collars, their coats. Tell them that a simple fasten can change the world.

Edward Albee

has won three Pulitzer prizes and an Emmy. He's done many plays, and believes in living a useful life.

ADJUDICATE.

Show Spelled Pronunciation [uh-joo-di-keyt] Show IPA Pronunciation verb, -cated, -cating.
–verb (used with object)
1.
to pronounce or decree by judicial sentence.
2.
to settle or determine (an issue or dispute) judicially.–verb (used without object)
3.
to sit in judgment (usually fol. by upon).

MADRIGAL.

–noun
1.
a secular part song without instrumental accompaniment, usually for four to six voices, making abundant use of contrapuntal imitation, popular esp. in the 16th and 17th centuries.
2.
a lyric poem suitable for being set to music, usually short and often of amatory character, esp. fashionable in the 16th century and later, in Italy, France, England, etc.
3.
any part song.
Origin: 1580–90; < It madrigale < ML mātricāle something simple, n. use of neut. of LL mātricālis lit., of the womb.

BATHOS.

–noun
1.
a ludicrous descent from the exalted or lofty to the commonplace; anticlimax.
2.
insincere pathos; sentimentality; mawkishness.
3.
triteness or triviality in style.
Origin: 1630–40; < Gk: depth

Ew. 1984.

Rome, with it's watches.
They gleam at me,
Catching my eye.
Now, says I, I would like to take them.
My brow furrowed.
And I began to sweat.

Bulgari-Assoma sweetened my lips,
As I rolled out my blue plans.
I sat there sweating,
Because I wanted those watches.

But I have to wait.
Because I'm only a child,
And besides.
Watches only do so much.

Coffee bean stare.

Last night, after I chopped myself to pieces

I got a coffee and it was good.

But the atmosphere still held the questioning affair,

Since I failed at drowning confusion in blood.

But sometimes, they say, ignorance is bliss,

Which is only true when the bass plays a different chord than you thought.

So I'm sitting below the ochestra crying,

With a vanity mirror sitting in front of me.

And how glass works is such a delightful metaphor,

Casting one shadow on one plain and another on another.

So blame me please, because it's all my fault.

I know, I drank the last of the bean.

I pilfered the essence of the dining room table,

And slash-and-burn planted my crops in your heart.

It was what I wanted all my life, and you could've just told me.

Next time you decide to feed the flames,

Feed them with our combined effort.

At least converse about the coffeehouse manner,

Before you intend to draw the conclusion.

And so I sit in chopped up pieces.

Feeling worse than before.

Truth.

If you could have smelled his breath,
Felt the beer coming off of him,
You would've done the same thing.
And tried to quiet him when he told you "the truth."

"The truth," he says, and I say, "my wife's pregnant,"
"Well, that's good," he says, and I say, "no, I can't talk to you right now. I broke my arm."
"Well, that's too bad, but the truth," he says, and I say, "I was in a driving accident,"
"Oh, that's bad! But the truth," he says, and I say, "I have a chronic speaking disorder, making me unable to speak rationally to you for more than two seconds."
"My poor man! but the truth," he says, and I say, "I'm deaf."
"How horrible! But the truth," he says, and I say, "Old man, don't tell me the truth is. I know all the truths, I know every single one. And there's no way in your inebriated state you could tell me the 'truth', and there is no way that you could possibly be anymore truthful than me. So sir, I ask you to leave me to tend to my many cats, and drink my 1775 sherry."
"Sir, I seem to think that you're not telling the truth. And in fact, I am not drunk. Indeed I can smell the liquor off of your breath, and feel your loss. I've watched you for days now, trying to approach you with the truth about your deceased wife, but each time, you feed me new lines that are incredibly obscene and belligerent. But this time, I think you should know the truth. Your wife wasn't killed in that house fire, she died trying to protect your daughter from a burglar. She died with a knife in her hand, wounding the assailant and allowing your daughter to flee." He says. And I say, "My wife died.... in a house fire..."

Travesty. 1984.

On your eyes was the happy candy-cane stare
That shouts, “I tie the ribbon in a foolish way.”
And the giggle of the scoff beneath the high top’s moustache;
To you its dissension doesn’t match the jolly red and white.
While feeding on the Elvin styles of that day,
Visible is the triumphant clause made with the star on pine,
Shedding bits of sprinkles and dust onto the Capitalist
Turning his head upward, with a glittery murmur,
He shouts “the delicious fragility of this travesty!"
And explodes into a community of feather-tipped confetti
Jingling the bells to a happy smile's note.
You recline and think your jellybean thoughts,
Feeling the calm rigidity and flowering of the air
Like a volcano your placid Christmas erupts, and you snooze to the place
Where we still laugh and wish.

PSYCHE.

Psychologist

Scarlet
The Psychologist brought home a picture he drew of his mom, his self and his dog. All the school had was red crayons. With a beaming smile, The Psychologist showed his mother the crude drawing. Her eyes dilated. Her smile turned into disgust and her eyebrows turned into hatred. She grabbed The Psychologist by his neck. Never again, she breathed, never again will you bring that, that, devil, into my house. His eyes were wide and filled with fear. She burned the picture, his mom and his dog going up in flames.

Prussian blue
The Psychologist looked outside. The sky was blue. His teacher told him to come back from time-out. He reluctantly pulled away from the window. What’s wrong with you? she silently muttered to herself.

Giving tree green
She was sitting outside in the grass, crying. The Psychologist didn’t understand why she was crying. He went over to inquire about her condition, and when he asked about it she smacked him. He didn’t understand. So he sat in the grass beside her and cried.

Timberwolf/Old man granite gray
He got into his father’s van. It was one of the few days that he got to see him, and they had arrived at Niagara Falls. He was excited. He opened the door and it hit the car beside him. The car now held a big gray streak. His father was infuriated. He punched The Psychologist in the face once, twice, three times, and screamed profanities at his innocent child. The Psychologist cried. He didn’t understand why his father was doing this, and so he cried.

Torch red
His house burned down. He stared at it with tears in his eyes. At his aunt's house he learned that neither his mom nor his dog survived.


Wild blue
The Psychologist looked outside. The sky was blue. He was muttering to himself. The principal called him into her office, What's wrong with you? She breathed.

Heavy black
He held the gun, shaking. The voices urged him on. Do it, they chanted. Do it, do it, do it. Another voice intruded his head. Don’t, please don’t kill me. The sleeping man was talking to him. Do it, No, don’t! Do it! No, don’t! Do it now! No! No please, have mercy! With a hideous scream he shot himself in the head.




Alizarin and electric indigo
He awoke in the hospital. You just barely missed, son. You’re lucky. But you’re brain is severely damaged, and unfortunately you’ll most likely be in a wheelchair the rest of your life.

Outer space and manatee
The Psychologist was comfortable in the patent leather burgundy chair. He looked around in amazement at all the certificates of completion, all the books and unnecessary curios. He looked at the psychologist’s face, at his warm smile, his round-rimmed wire framed glasses and his thinning hair and smiled. He felt warm. It felt like home. The psychologist told him they were going to play a game. He held up a picture with confused blots of black and white. Boy, he said, what do you see? The Psychologist answered, Love.

Corn
She was happy, sitting in the grass under the yellow leaves. He asked her why she was happy. She kissed him. He didn’t understand why she did, but now he was happy too.

Royal purple and canary, cloudy sky
He wheeled across the stage, beaming. He took his diploma and stood on the stage for a moment, holding up the stream of new graduates. His eyes glazed over as he began to remember all the things inhibiting him from this moment. Then he began to remember his constant question, “why?” The audience was confused when his face turned gloomy.

Black and white
He looked around pensively at all the certificates on the wall. His shelf had collected clutter, and he smiled at it. The Psychologist’s door opened, and in came a small youth. Good afternoon, boy said the psychologist. Have a seat. The boy sat in the burgundy chair and his face lit up. He looked at The Psychologist wearily, moving his eyes back and forth, blushing. The Psychologist smiles. It’s okay, son. I’m here for you. And it was like all the years of torment came back to him in the little boy’s grimace. And after the child was done, all he had to say was, “why?”

Heart red
At work, The Psychologist looked on his desk. There was a picture of him, with his wispy brown hair, his big wire-rimmed glasses and his wheelchair. One of his patients was next to him, a tiny stick figure. They were both smiling. They’re lips were red. So was the sun, so was the grass, so was he. And The Psychologist cried.

Somebody's waiting for me at home 1984.

1. On that fateful night, when the sky was dark and the mood ominous, where were you?
2. Why, being where you were, in the world did you decide to come home?
3. That feeling, the deep feeling of foreboding you say you had in your stomach, why did you follow it?
4. Don't you realize that that's how horror movies begin?
5. How wet was the steering wheel from your sweat on the way back home?
6. What thoughts were going through your head, that night when the sky fell on your car and seemed to trap the air inside of it?
7. Why were you so anxious?
8. Did you drive safely, or did you rush home?
9. You moved slowly, but with a trepidacious apprehension that made everything speed-up?
10. Were you pulled over by the police?
11. Why didn't you stop?
12. What was in the back of your car?
13. What was in your house?
14. Did the sirens blare so loud that you're sanity was dispersed; did you lose all sense of reality?
15. Did you hit a car during your chase?
16. Was the body in the back okay?
17. When did you find yourself crying?
18. How did you feel when you saw two more police cars?
19. How did you feel when you saw their sirens?
20. How did the barricade feel?
21. How did you manage to slip past it, and lose the police?
22. How cool was the river that you drove the car into?
23. How hard was it to heave the body from the sunken car, when the water was pressing down on your very conscience?
24. What did the body say to you?
25. Why did you pause before putting hatchet to the body?
26. Why did your hands tremble?
27. Why was your face twisted in agony, in utter pain with each short cut of the hatchet?
28. Why did you think the deed was finished?
29. Why did you leave the hatchet in the water, the consuming, cold water that held all of your secrets?
30. How long did it take you to walk home?
31. Was it cold outside?
32. Why was your mouth struggling with an emotion to portray?
33. What were you thinking?
34. Why were your thoughts cluttered with red?
35. Why did you remember home?
36. Why did it begin raining after you left the water?
37. Was it perhaps a metaphor?
38. Do you think about that sometimes?
39. Do you ever wonder if nature held your future, and that you merely cut the body in accordance to prophecy?
40. Why did your footsteps hasten?
41. Why did you put your hands deep into your coat?
42. Why were you murmuring to yourself?
43. What were you murmuring to yourself?
44. Why did you go to hail a cab, but withdraw your hand?
45. Why did you think about home?
46. What was waiting for you at home?
47. As you walked home, did you feel your heart beat?
48. Did your heart beat match your steps?
49. Why did your heart beat go so much faster than your steps?
50. Have you ever thought that perhaps, in some pre-destined way, your heart was trying to put up a shield?
51. What if your heart was telling you to stay away, what if it was trying as hard as it could to run away?
52. Why didn't you listen to your heart?
53. Were your steps that much more persuasive?
54. Or was it your psychic energy, warning you of an intrusion?
55. Maybe it was that they were found, that all your precious loves were found, on that dark, oppressing night.
56. What color was your hands?
57. Was it an exact shade of vermillion?
58. You sure it wasn't scarlet?
59. What was waiting for you at home?
60. Why won't you tell me?
61. Why are you afraid of authority?
62. What happened when you were a child?
63. What dark things could your father possibly have put you through in order to cast such a looming shadow on your future?
64. How many people did he kill?
65. How many were held in your room?
66. How did that make you feel?
67. Did he threaten to kill you?
68. That's how you lost your thumb and your middle finger?
69. Back to your story, why did you run toward when your heart was running away?
70. Weren't you suspicious?
71. What made you do it in the first place?
72. How did she upset you so?
73. Jealousy is a monster, have your parents ever taught you that?
74. And did the others do the same thing?
75. How did it feel to see their dying love; fear, as you call it?
76. Why is love fear?
77. Why did you keep them?
78. Where did you keep them?
79. Was this in part revenge for what your father did to you?
80. So now, what did you do when you approached your house?
81. Could you feel the presence of curious pigs, searching your house for rotten meat?
82. Did you gasp when you saw the cars out front?
83. Why did you continue to walk towards the house?
84. Why didn't your heart burst out of your chest?
85. When you saw the yellow tape, why didn't your brain read the implied meaning of "caution"?
86. Did it hurt when they handcuffed you?
87. How hard were you crying?
88. Who's voice did you call out?
89. Are those all-- 6 women you had in your fathers room?
90. Do you feel regret?
91. Do you love them?
92. Do you miss them?
93. Were they your only friends?
94. Did you... in any way perform necrophilia?
95. You do know that that's a whole nother charge?
96. How do you think their parents and families feel?
97. Why don't you care?
98. How can you possibly think you're their your own family?
99. Because you never had a real family?
100. Well, would you consider two men in a jail cell a family?

And he was sentenced with 40 years to life.

Megabytes 1984.

So plug your megabytes into the mainframe, and take this dose of whatever's in here.

It may hurt to not understand the issue that's at hand, but you won't think twice due to whatever's in here.

Oh, so your megabytes are in dissarray, you say? Were they ever in array? Don't think about it, just take whatever's in here.

I said for you to shush, let the mainframe work; bequiet and take whatever's in here.

So tell me about yourself, tell me about these various electrons and atoms, megabytes and terrabytes flowing through your "existence." Or are you nothing but an extension of the mainframe, tell me that? The mainframe that doesn't exist? But it matters not, since you're to take whatever's in here.

It's all we have left, I'm sorry. Just take whatever's in here and I assure you you will feel better.

Oh no, oh no. I did not expect this. Whatever's in here must be poisonous, or perhaps you haven't taken it right. Regardless, your electrons and megabytes have gone away, probably to heaven. You'll probably fall over in a minute. And I declare to you, for that predicament, you need to take whatever's in here...

Positively 1984.

Speaking metaphorically only, positively speaking, nothing is seen as so.
Speaking only metaphorically, nothing is seen as so, positively speaking.
Do you understand the play on words, by thinking of the different ways that it's good.
Speaking only metaphorically, why do you not log on to the world and search for the love, positively speaking.
Only positively speaking, a metaphor for everything that we lack is negative, and so I'm caught in my own fault.
Positively speaking, should I not be speaking in different words, words that don't hold negative connotations?
But nothing is seen as so, so why should it matter the outlook of this metaphor, speaking positively.
No one understands me, speaking positively, however metaphorically, if you decide to interpret it that way.
Though I doubt it, for nothing is seen as so.

Grain, 1984.

To sift, to sit, and to sift is like a bad story.
A bad time of famine throughout the east, and a bad taste of wealth against Siddartha's tongue.
The grain is like the touch of Moses, and the resolve of the least favored
In the storehouse is not only what's to be caught, but also what is to be given to the ones that have everything.
Only, that is how it happens in the illusion where work is worth.
How corrupt, how corrupt and cojoiling is this teeth of this beast, who snaps you up with the idea of making it for yourself in the belly.
The humor in it is that even in being snatched up by the evil of the self, you're much more content with the evil of self than with the good of others.
And some would ask, why is that?
But some will sit and laugh, and drink.
And fight.

1984.

1. And from the eyes of that golden chalice, I hear the word suspend.
It brings tears to my eyes, going back through my geneality, bringing lashes to mine older.
Crimes against the paid ones wash over the side of my body, and make me restless against the grain of a solid table.
Suspension isn't all that bad, they say, when you've got a tube in your head.

2. Suspend the number of tries for you to have me fall from here. And you try it again and again, because of the cruelty and judgement in your sleep.Fell from the time of suspend, karma enraged and wrapped around my finger.The ligaments in my back broke.

Communism.

From who's lips have you heard that communism is evil? Was it from the lips of your teachers? The mouths of your parents? The jowls of the movie screen? Have your teachers, parents, has the media ever explained to you what true communism is? Well, my friends, disliking without knowledge is simply ignorant, and as we can see, ignorance is something thoroughly promoted in this glorious country of ours.

Marxists, or communists, base their political views on their philosophical views. They practice dialectics, which is to say that they use contradictions to resolve a problem and that everything is made up of opposing forces. Dialectics also sees things at their essence, rather than simply looking at their appearance, to find that everything is relative. Change is also a big part of dialectics, and it stresses cause and effect.

To grasp dialectics might be confusing, but it can also be as easy as 1-2-3.
One - Everything is made of opposing forces.
Two- Gradual change leads to turning points where one force overcomes the other.
Three- Change moves in spirals.

http://home.igc.org/~venceremos/whatheck.htm

These laws hold true everywhere; science, the social theatre and psychological realm. And these true thoughts are the basis for communist philosophy.

To put Marxism-- often considered true communism-- into laymen terms is very difficult, and nearly impossible. But I will try to explain it. Marxism is a branch off of socialism, which is a very wide ideology and simply asks for the degradation of individual states and countries, and is called the intermediary between capitalism and communism. First of all, communism is a utopia. Every one's classless and equal. Marxism is the means to get to the end, as communists will say. Karl Marx believed that the proletariat must revolt, and only when the proletariat comes up against the bourgeoisie will communism start.

Now, due to American propaganda and the selfishness that goes along with capitalism, the ideals of a communist world have been trampled and tossed aside without a second look. Since the idea of collectivism threatens to take away a person's individual money, people get protective and ignorant. People also argue that communism has killed 20 million people, which is not completely true. Even though communists like Stalin and Lenin and Mao have tried to achieve communism, they haven't and ended up with totalitarian governments.

In truth, in a communist world there would be no alienation of labor, which can be translated into alienation from labor. Alienation of labor is most apparent in factory work, where you are not individually involved in your product, and can not feel pride for your work. In capitalism, labor has become a Means rather than an End. Means meaning it's become a way to get money rather than a way to live your life, or a tradition, or a cultural statement. In communism, labor is an End, meaning that you can do what ever you'd like and be able to take pride in it; labor would also be one of the main reason for you to live. Say I was a butcher today, I could be a blacksmith tomorrow. Since everyone is maintaining everyone, there's no limit to the dreams you can achieve.

Now, when it comes to brainwashing, doesn't capitalism brainwash you too? But capitalism does it for the worst, making you selfish under the guise of making it for yourself. Pulling yourSELF up by your boot straps. Capitalist governments change their information all the time, and thoroughly control their media and other forms of getting information out to the people. However, in capitalism, since there is no social class, there is no way to misinform a group of people on a widespread basis.

So, in a nutshell, communism is the equality of all people, and a higher level of consciousness. Many things can go wrong in getting to communism, but communism itself is a pure utopia.

Now think about it.

Soul jar killed in a pass dime whore, urn necessary debt, don't you know. Ale put to gather in a mad main's head ant put in do axe shun bye the hire up. Dyed they heffer sink a clout the camel knees in thoughs pour sit e's?

November TODAY. 1984.

Psychologist

Scarlet
The Psychologist brought home a picture he drew of his mom, his self and his dog. All the school had was red crayons. With a beaming smile, The Psychologist showed his mother the crude drawing. Her eyes dilated. Her smile turned into disgust and her eyebrows turned into hatred. She grabbed The Psychologist by his neck. Never again, she breathed, never again will you bring that, that, devil, into my house. His eyes were wide and filled with fear. She burned the picture, his mom and his dog going up in flames.

Prussian blue
The Psychologist looked outside. The sky was blue. His teacher told him to come back from time-out. He reluctantly pulled away from the window. What’s wrong with you? she silently muttered to herself.

Giving tree green
She was sitting outside in the grass, crying. The Psychologist didn’t understand why she was crying. He went over to inquire about her condition, and when he asked about it she smacked him. He didn’t understand. So he sat in the grass beside her and cried.

Timberwolf/Old man granite gray
He got into his father’s van. It was one of the few days that he got to see him, and they had arrived at Niagara Falls. He was excited. He opened the door and it hit the car beside him. The car now held a big gray streak. His father was infuriated. He punched The Psychologist in the face once, twice, three times, and screamed profanities at his innocent child. The Psychologist cried. He didn’t understand why his father was doing this, and so he cried.

Torch red
His house burned down. He stared at it with tears in his eyes. At his aunt's house he learned that neither his mom nor his dog survived.


Wild blue
The Psychologist looked outside. The sky was blue. He was muttering to himself. The principal called him into her office, What's wrong with you? She breathed.

Heavy black
He held the gun, shaking. The voices urged him on. Do it, they chanted. Do it, do it, do it. Another voice intruded his head. Don’t, please don’t kill me. The sleeping man was talking to him. Do it, No, don’t! Do it! No, don’t! Do it now! No! No please, have mercy! With a hideous scream he shot himself in the head.

Alizarin and electric indigo
He awoke in the hospital. You just barely missed, son. You’re lucky. But you’re brain is severely damaged, and unfortunately you’ll most likely be in a wheelchair the rest of your life.

Outer space and manatee
The Psychologist was comfortable in the patent leather burgundy chair. He looked around in amazement at all the certificates of completion, all the books and unnecessary curios. He looked at the psychologist’s face, at his warm smile, his round-rimmed wire framed glasses and his thinning hair and smiled. He felt warm. It felt like home. The psychologist told him they were going to play a game. He held up a picture with confused blots of black and white. Boy, he said, what do you see? The Psychologist answered, Love.

Corn
She was happy, sitting in the grass under the yellow leaves. He asked her why she was happy. She kissed him. He didn’t understand why she did, but now he was happy too.

October Today, 1984.

There are five doors in front of him.
One is an arbitrary silver-red and shines with the brightness of a dull September evening.
One is a luscious yellow-green, which stinks of a human cesspool.
One is the dream of a million kings, gilded in gold with precious jewels adorning the knob.
One is a plain brown, boasting nothing but Jesus himself.
One is a bright orange, emitting heat with it that was eternally and slowly melting the hinges, but not enough to allow a peek.
He was to chose, for beyond one of those doors, infinite knowledge and wealth lie.

But he decided his pacifier was more interesting than anything else.

How to break up with a girl.

How to break-up

Try #1.

Hey baby. I uh, I'm sorry to say, but I uh, I uh, I... I don't... I don't think we should like... date anymore. Especially since I fucked your best friend... So uh, yeah, bye.

FAIL.

Try #2.

Take her to dinner.
Haha, yeah. So are you enjoying yourself? Good, good. Well, I just want you to know that I'm leaving you. Oh, don't look at me like that. You knew it was coming. Ever since you started talking to that... that cock. That pompous dick. I've felt that you... you sort of liked him. And you know, I can't have my girlfriend liking some other dude, ya' know? And then you started spending more and more time with him. So guess what? I decided to have my own little fuck-buddy. Your best friend. So, I'd like you to know, I'm leaving. Have a happy forever, bitch.

Give her the bill and leave.

FAIL.

Try #3.

I love you but I have to go. My family's moving to Africa. (Lie). I wish we could, but that long-distance... I don't think so baby.

FAIL.

Try#4.

Kill her.

FAIL.

Try#5.

Pull a houdini.

FAIL.

Try #6.

Okay... listen. I'm sorry, but I feel like we've sort of... drifted away, ya' know? I mean, we have two choices. Try to make this thing work or... end it here... What do you think we should do? Mm, okay. I agree. But can we still be friends? Good. Kiss her goodbye. BTW BITCH I FUCKED YOUR BEST FRIEND. Bye!

SUCCESS!

November 5th

For twenty seven days
Slowly it became taut
The net beneath our feet
So the lesser one could drop

And now he has
From his acrobatic stand, fell
Unto the earthen ground
And dissolved to wet, hot sand

For weeks now they swung
Back and forth
And traded the baton with a
Condescending force

But now the rope has caught
And the giant cane him come to play
Pulling out the unable
From the taxing fray

And he's humiliated
Laying on the netting of the rope,
Make up smeared
His heart lacks hope

And comparing to a joust,
With two men with poles
Galloping toward eachother
Looking to make a hole
Each gathering friends, fans the like
Cheering for the one
Who they think might.
But when the lesser
Gets impaled by the stick
The fans cry out,
It's the end of his wick.

And so now the strong light is brandished anew
Atop of the thin, tight rope
The net is still taut, for they don't know what he'll do
He might jump off and diminish our hope.
Amen.

Khari Johnson Brownie October 23, 2008

In this memory you’re on my back, but now you’re swathed in black and white. Your tiny legs obscure my view, and alter the gelled up image. However, I’m remembering your smile; a flash of awkward, yet sure and confident white that shows that the world indeed has a leash, and that humanity isn’t all that human. What I would do to break that smile out of the glass, to save the small soul from its encasement behind a lifeless and apathetic screen. Into my arms. But I’d have to delve beneath the hospital gown to find the root of your grounding, a fantastic voyage that only a knife could take. I wish I could see you, see you outside of my expectations and false memories. I wish I could see you cuddle your Kayla, who’s just about as big as you.
Sentence 10: Write a sentence in which three or more words alliterate; that is, they begin with the same initial consonant: she has be left, lately, with less and less time to think . . .
Sentence 11: Write a sentence with two commas.
Sentence 12: Write a sentence with a smell and a color in it.
Sentence 13: Write a sentence with a simile (a comparison using like or as).
Sentence 14: Write a sentence that could carry an exclamation point (but do not use the exclamation point).
Sentence 15: Write a sentence to end this portrait that uses the word or words you chose for a title.
Next, read the portrait. Underline sentences in which you discovered new things about this individual or your feelings and attitudes toward him or her.
Now, use this portrait as a starting point for a poem or prose portrait or simply revise what you have. (Be sure to keep a copy of the original, so that you can examine the changes between original and revised piece.) Do anything you need to make this a piece of writing that you like. Choose a new title, use the person’s real name, and so on.

gjhgjhghggg,,/.

MANY MEN EAT FOR A LIVING I DON’ T EVEN UNDERSTAND HOW MANY PEOPLE KILL EACH PERSON IN THE WORLD SO I ONLY KILL PEOPLE FOR THEIR WARMTH AND SANITY SO DON’T EVEN TALK TO YOU SOFTLY IN MY EAR SO DON’T EVEN UNDERSTAND THE BEGINNING OF WHAT I’M DOING, SO WHY DO YOU EVEN UNDERSTAND THE PEOPLE KILL EIGHTEEN FOR THE ONLY SEVEN PEOPLE AND THEN SOMETIMES GORGE OF EYES AND GOUGE OF HUMAN PHENOM’S AND REGULARS. GO TO THE FIRE OF MY INTERCHANGEABLE MINDSETS BECAUSE SHALLOW ALARMS SET OF THORNS IN THE SIDE. FOR THIS WE CRY, FOR THIS WE DON’T.

Alphabet poem.

Amen, amen, as I shout from the walls of an ever-changing brain lining, and I shout it with the innermost disbelief. By the way, I see it; I only have three years to find out what’s right about me, and what has yet to be corrected. Chamomile lotion coaxes my arms into relaxation when I cry out loud to whatever is in the sky, or sitting on the ground. Dare I say that I felt the weight of everything upon my soul, yet when I looked inside, I only found the burden of a system of thoughts. Effigies broke off from the sides of my inner turmoil and attempted to run, however their feet were adorned with oil, and my soul decorated with fire. Furthermore, the idea of the spiritual feels as though it can’t be embodied, but I can feel the staircase leading to it. Granted it steps away from me with each step I gain, sending me up two and back three… Homely styles of fighting minds is the was for you to understand that people could not be so easily swayed by force, but only by constant ingemination and fervent conviction could you know… If only I had the ability to play the unknown; to control lives would be the ultimate for my self-esteem, and would in turn, give me the strength to control my own. Just as I feel as I’m getting somewhere, the means of getting there breaks my legs, and each time something burns, each time I doubt a little more. Killed though, because I don’t want to die without knowing that thing… that thing that so lovingly isn’t here… but that thing I revere and fear and love so deeply that I’d have the most trouble terminating myself. Logistics are too much on the soul. Modes and means are the mechanics of the heart, a contradiction in itself. Nothing is the same, now that it is November, she said. Opposite day is the day I actually find out who I am, and so I’m excited for it, though it may bring the end of the world. Potluck dinners were never my facet, and whole body determination was never my strong suit. Questioning authority is what I long to do, however the brain is set in such a way that to question authority is to question my core. Remember it doesn’t work. Stuck now in this void of devoid and null thoughts and feelings, inching my way through syntax and tone and hiding my blemishes in the spaces of these words… Trotsky type execution is what I feel is next for the world, and it shall be done under my hand. Universal love and death are interchangeable. Veneration lacks the soul, but guess what? everything’s a construct of the human mind, and from there spawns our Matrix, our never ending low consciousness minefield that constantly blows the head off of its constituents. Women are men, the Bible says so. Xylophone. You. Zap.

Omnibus.

October 10th

"A single death is a tragedy; a milllion deaths is a statisitc." - Joseph "Stalin"
"The means is justified by the end." - Karl Marx

October 11th
Kharistitution:
For ever man, there should be freedom. I Believe in a gross freedom under a powerful government. However, each separate state would have their SPM, or "society perfection machine." What it would be is the large arm the protects the "stations" from being too oppressed. The SPM would be headed by whomever saw a problem with how the government ruled and wanted to change something. However, in order to change something, it would have to go through moral scrutiny by the people of the state, and also be approved by those on a larger scale, it would eventually have to be voted upon by all the states.

October 12th
SPM.com:
SPM.com would be a social and political networking website geared toward putting democracy back into the hands of the people. The SPM would be the intermediary force between the people and the government. The people would access this website and vote on different legislation, and whether or not they believe it should be passed. It would also be a website for people to bring up their governmental complaints, and their complaints about life in general. However, it will be prohibited to post complaints if the American people ado not find solutions to the problems. After they find solutions, they'd vote on them. If enough people voted a certain way on an issue, it would put stress on the government to act on the ideas, and psass the legislation that the people want.

October 13th

Since there always needs to be a lower class, we could easily appropriate a place for them to stay. We could give them whatever they needed and provide them needed, including education and the chance to obtain promotions. Appropriating them a place to stay wouldn't separate from their family. However, maybe instead of giving them a set place to live, we could track them down and set them up with a job, and adequate housing. Since the lower class sort of runs the world, supporting them and the middle class would be more of a trickle up economic system that would actually work.

October 15th

Crush the feelings inside.
First thing on the to-do list.
Second thing I'm going to do is leave the investigators clueless.
Far too far long have I dealt with retrospect rudeness.
The things I'm going to do today are going tie up all the loose ends.
In other words, the inner I is finally gonna’ to shut up and tell me "you win."
I write in my agenda filled to the brim with a devilish grin.

I plan on giving way to a much, much shallower side.
I plan on feeling dead, dead until I die.
Later on in the evening I think I'll plan to go to dinner.
I'll dine with my soul and later on, I think I’ll win her.
I'll domesticate and duplicate and then I think I'll tie her down.
But you could say I'm going too far as to take away her crown.
And then, the next day, I'm going to go to the coroner.
Get an autopsy done and check out who did the murder.
But it's not for me.I already know who did it, obviously.
It's more to get the emotional police off of my back, I must be free.
Then the next day I'll start anew full of holes and cracks.
Then later that day I'll get some soul and mortar to fix what lacks.
Although when you’re dead and gone you usually don’t grow back.
I'll patch up some of the holes, and clean out what’s left and black.
Follow the recommended procedure and begin to thoroughly pack.
Then the next day I'll walk like nothings wrong.
High strutting with chin up like I got a whole lot going on...

Inside, but the truth is, I died.
A natural death of natural causes, so I feel no need to cry.
It's doublethink at its greatest,
I know I killed myself but lately that's been the vaguest.
And the next day I'll begin to turn up to work again.
I may start to court my blind-eyed, fat friend.
And the next day, when I talk to her once more, I'll feel nothing but lust, as our bodies hit the floor.

Simply because I'm dead, of natural, natural causes.
I consider death by suicide the best of all the losses.
Just don't miss me, my soul's already long gone.
Tomorrow you can mourn.
But it's an empty casket, the body's nowhere to be found.

October 16th

Starshine, so bright, so vivid in my eyes.
From the screen showing lives, bearing no fine line.
There comes a bright light from right beside mine.
It shines forever, dying only when it's my time.
I've forgotten how to bottle it and hold it in my hand.
And I've mistaken its vast star space to be solely my land.
Control is something it slips and sifts through like sand,
And it makes my light rebel from my desperate, confused commands.
My light pulse is set to high now and rising.
The starshine's so beautiful, radiantly enticing.
It's opened my eyes to the art of realizing.
My light is a fire and its slowly sizing.
But still it only flickers, for the starshine is frightening.
Surprising like lightening, like a million moons falling from the sky.
It raises my alarms and makes it hurt to try.
Like four hundred suns blazing in the air.
Just her single starshine wouldn't fail to compare.
Shining strong and high above my pitiful flickering flame.
It sets everything ablaze around my tawny bronze frame.
To touch it, to touch it would surely burn me off.
But I love it so much I wouldn't mind the loss.

Finally.
My light built up the courage to reach out and touch.
Once out of comfort it flared toward her lust.
The starshine, it was waiting for me patiently.
The guards were down around her and the phoenix rode free.
From the sun to the stars in that room full of night,
It came back and kissed my shy, small light.

Then it left.

-------------------------

Boiling rages of fourteen hundred suns.
An uncontrollable ambivalence, a tranquil sort of hostile take over.
Churning, churning, uncharismatic.
Totally spewing.
Crazy, conscious flailing.
The need to break something.
The need to break someone.And then the source comes.
The source makes the river, clashing and eroding.
Rock slide.
Avalanche from the silent voices of innocent looking facades.
Wondering if the pilot should give a FUCK at all.

----------------------------

Trigonometry states that all life is fake.
Now, I didn't think that was right so I went back again.
I checked my textbooks and even asked a friend.
But all the answers around me all bared the same news.
Life is a fallacy forced, not a realistic view.

SHORTSTORYTHATIDON'TWANTTOWRITE.

Her eyes were closed, but her fair face hinted at nothing. Her small, full lips were curled up at the sides, sending the ripple of a smile all the way up to her soft cheekbones. They were high and regal, but didn't stick out that far. The bridge of her nose was the only thing she disliked about her appearance, all the many of her suitors would tell her in different melodramatic, overly-romantic, pathetic-but-cute ways that the small knot in her nose was all but ugly. It's okay to lie, they would think, for I need this conquest. However, that was her only flaw. Her hair was a soft blonde, with the curls of California and shoulder length locks. Her eyes were emerald, with a hint of a soul-stealing gray most days, but when she was especially excited, her eyes would be alight with a subtle blue, but enough to make any man want to kill himself for her. She was petite, with a perfect bust. Her stomach was flat enough, every man said, but to her, the little bit of hanging skin she had was disgusting. Her legs were blemish less and soft, her thighs tight. Her feet were always in a perfect arc, and were in perfect proportion to the rest of her 5'8" frame. Her backside wasn't expansive, but it was enough to make the boys stare from miles away. But even in all of this, on many days she humbly wore the clothes of a pauper. Today she was wearing a light brown sundress, which fit the occasion. She was sitting on a bench in front of the white sands of Virginia beach. Her soft hands were grasping the opposite elbow, and her legs were crossed at the ankles. Her small shoulders were scrunched up to her pierced ears, making her blond hair gently brush her silver studs.

They always told him he looked ridiculous. Constantly, the other kids would tell him that he was the strangest child that would ever live, and that he would get no where in life. They would tell him that only thing he could probably be successful at, given the way he looked, was killing himself. Generally, if any other kid heard this, they would become very sad, might turn to self-destruction, attempt suicide, fail, drink his liver away, and maybe, eventually, succeed at overdosing. But this boy couldn't hear. Along with talk, and his eyesight wasn't up to par, either. But he could still think. In fact, the child was brilliant. But it was his looks, and his disabilities that hindered him constantly.

October 8th

Amen, amen, as I shout from the walls of an ever-changing brain lining, and I shout it with the innermost disbelief. By the way, I see it; I only have three years to find out what’s right about me, and what has yet to be corrected. Chamomile lotion coaxes my arms into relaxation when I cry out loud to whatever is in the sky, or sitting on the ground. Dare I say that I felt the weight of everything upon my soul, yet when I looked inside, I only found the burden of a system of thoughts. Possibly lies. But to question existence is to question energy, which can not be done, simply because energy is the question. So thereforoe I shall simply sit, and I shall wait, and I shall listen. I will flex accorodingly, and withdraw to the beat of whatever rhythm constantly repeats. Boom boom.

October 9th

Today, I have nothing to write.

I'm going to a meeting soon in order to be enlightened about green energy, which is very important because I'm going to be orienteering and energy project I like to call "Energize." Energize is going to be aimed at separate, but similar goals. The Energize project is going to try and educate people about ways to make sure their houses are energy efficient, and it's also going to try to reform Rochester's definition of "energy efficiency"by implenting small projects devised by the teen participants of the program into different pockets of changeable energy scources.

October 6th

Cellar door is no more an affect to this human chore.
The upper door is closed to the real area of know.
Simply sits it on the ledge of the now, and sees it only the palpable lore.
Rather it boxes in and structures and sows, what is seen as society: epitome of broken dreams, built from the meager who sit on the feet of the eager cleaver that mows them like meat.
As to compensate a lack of knowledge, the upper door cries.
Its tears drop and on flow the lies, ride the metal beams of institution that plunge themselves in houses, and businesses and honest men, and the smallest of the cities.
And erect themselves strong based on their promise of right.
Convincing themselves even that they have a way of control.
But the cellar door is closed, and no affect will it have.
The key is inside a Loch ness mouth.
Obviously the human is not in touch with the reality.
Else it would thoroughly understand that knowledge is key, and knowledge is not real.
Metaphysical objects fly through the upper door, and close the cellar door in their wake.
So to control the masses by way of mass murder of mass brains is a sure downfall to the epitome of broken dreams.
They will come back, through the cellar door, and take you.

October 4th & 5th.

If only I were the center of me.
So I fell short; an approximate six feet from heaven.
And her eyes, like an idea to the most troubled student.
Fight fire with fire; souls light up eyes.
And it shot through me like water, leaving my heart over-saturated and frail.
But her legs were set to talk, and so her mouth fit to fasten.
And the heart of her made me want to freeze.

Or was it that if you swam, you'd get eaten?
And when you run out of bait?

And from then on I didn't feel it anymore, the entangled staircase from my head to my soul.

--Various quotes by me.

__________________________________________________________________

I am

Life, Writing, Emotions

Breaking down the elements of life into something palpable and understandable by the common person, and from rendering it possible for the regular man to understand it, sending the message to the constituents of the world.

Awareness is important to me

Humor is important to me

Care is important to me.

Faith is a good thing.

Melancholy is looked down upon, but it's healthy to have melancholy; to be happy all the time surely could be hazardous for your health.

Us humans, we're zombies walking in a nightmare, under the influence of the media.

Time is too short.

Pisces are too common.

I am.

October 3

Those political hounds really having nothing better to do, do they? They take apart things, and since they hold the title of "political analyst," they practically push it down your throat. The attempt to ingeminate you. Me myself and my father, watching the debates and whatnot, could see a million more important flukes than they did. And who really gives a damn what political analysts think the candidates should do in order to win? What the analysts think they should do is not particularly what we should do. For instance, they kept going on about how the believed Palin should simply be herself, and connect with the country on a personal level. Personally, getting to know our VP comes with them actually having some knowledge about what's going on in our country. I'd rather her come out strong and talk about the issues, and assert her political power rather than try to sweep politics aside. The Vice Presidency isn't just some careless job that DOESN'T involve politics. War can not be done WITHOUT politics, unless you simply leave it to general to slug it out. Joe Biden and Obama will show their personal sides, but after impressing the fact that they ARE leader material. Not just leaders of Alaska, leaders of our country. She keeps returning to her family and her personal life; Obama and Biden have had equally as humbling, equally as touching stories as her. But as I started this on political analysts, I'll have to end it with a pertaining closing remark, also. The political hounders should not be allowed to predict debates or speeches, and should not be able to argue things that are supposed to sway the American public this way or that. Maybe they know a little more about our government history, but quite honestly, I can tell for myself the highs and lows. To me, they're just there to control ignorance, and to stress certain political points. To me, they're there to rot us in hell.

October 1st & 2nd

The men in the toy solider army
Little pawns under the big mans hand
Let me play, cries little boy
Sending the to war for no reason but leisure
Handling them with sheer disrespect
The candycane shaded toy soldiers
One gets up and he shouts and he cries
For the rest of the toy souldiers he's not ready to die
But the little boy squints and picks up his hand
He bites of the toy soldiers head

The men in the toy soldier army
Don't have a choice
Because they're movable
And fully operatable
They're dead.
_______________

You have the scissors in your hand.
And why you don't do it is beyond me
Just cut the rope, my lady bland
And make it clear that you don't want me

It's hung too long, it's come too strong
It's strangled to many people honey, come on now
The rope is dangerous and shouldn't be there
I would cut it myself but I'm too scared

You're the judge and you're the jury
I can tell by the sweat and faces that I'm guilty
So just cut
The
Rope

I don't believe that you know what power you have, the power of the knife and the power to stab.
We both know of your history as an escaped prison convict, jail for seven years for killing and parting.
So love me please
And kill me today

Pictures

September 28th & 29th

September 28th:
There's a white seed
Planted in this tall black weed

I've been sown up for so long
A black man born and a white man wronged

Is it true that I'm supposed to grow?
I feed my eyes with what the white plants sow.

It's who I am beneath these layers of bark
A clear white rose with a pure white heart

This thought the black man
Before he killed himself.

September 29th

Meanie for the way I walk, walk is what the druids do, do is what my mom said don't, don't is what I spit in my shoe. Shoe walks inside of my laugh, laugh is gone thanks to the draft, draft is something come to pass, pass is all I say to tasks. Tasks is found when people die, die is how my mind shall lie, lie is how many things to buy, buy is how the priest found pie. Pie is something for us to shed, shed is light that found us dead, dead is our condition under lead, lead is how our leaders lead, fear is how our teachers teach.

September 27

Monkey feel me sit

Monkey see me lie

Monkey love me skit

Monkey love me cry

But monkey don't feel human

'Cause monkey don't be human

Monkey see me loomin'.

Monkey sits, him prunin'

____________________

Carry me Carolina on the back of your shoulders

Tell me a liter child, and feel the weight of my rain

Don't tell me their fire has come on

The door, it feels, the door

I can't believe you dropped

me off

Write/right beneath the keys

Put up on a hightop felt pen

I can't reach--

We're friends

We're friends, oh no

Carry me Carolina on back of your shoulders

Cream and sugar will follow me all the days of my life

With the smell of rusted stones

And falling livers

And failing livers

And drowned out heart

The drums still beat with intense cradled charisma

Feet pile up on the highway sending millions to their deaths.

__________________________

For lack of a better term, I will cry

__________________________

Mention my name on the top of your eyes

And find the life that refuses to die

But the journey won't be made too easy

The monkey wrench grease has left the road queasy

It's not like I've been there four times before

To change up the directions and mop up the floor

It's not like I've smote you on site

I've simply shaded the path with a slight hue of night.

_______________________________

We're watching you

Don't worry

You're lucrative ego has been boosted

Even though it's not like we need you

Our parents, pastors, loved one's can tell us lies

And better one's, at that

You're not here for me

You're here for them and they will die.

What do you do then?

______________________

I'm coming from a father

Who filled my pockmarks with fists

And a village of vandetta's

Leaving nothing to the risk

And I was fine

But momma', why'd you send me

To stay and study at the semminary?

September 26

Assignment: Spoken Word Poetry

Does the poet speak with a certain rhythm?: Yes, she accentuates certain words, and puts different stresses on different words

Does the poet speak loudly or softly?: Softly.

Does the poet speak fast or slow?: The poet speaks slow.

Does the poet pause a lot, or a little?: A lot.

Does the poet read with a lot of energy?: No.

How does the poet's performance help you understand the poem?: It doesn't really.

How does the poet's performance improve the experience of the poem for you as a listener?: It doesn't. It makes the experience less interesting for me.

September 25

It's extremely important

Sit down and listen

My head has exploded with pictures

Of myself

Of you

Dead

_____

Americans will accept it if it holds a Fox seal.

Don't act like you don't realize your Soviet Man appeal.

He came out and did it straight, while you sit back and feed us bait.

It's better to feel helpless, then to have power that only you feel.

September 24

Poetry Possibility:

Song for the Forgotten:

My tongue is down
Love the words that I mean
Stuck in my wooden house
Underneath a stream

House underneath a stream
Throwing away luck and gambling dreams
Wait for the the crane
To come and pick you up
Wait for it to gather steam

Steam from the clouds
But the sun shines no more
We're covered in darkness
It shines no more

You forgot
About little wooden house
Floating underneath
I'm gullible mouse
Thought I was protected
But the cracks became infected
Accident or not
My foundation's going to rot

Get on your dancing shoes
I'm ready to die

I thought I could rely

On the protector of life to provide

But since I'm floating underneath

I guess I can not

Because I'm sitting under

I give out a hurricane sigh

As my foundation rots

You forgot

About little wooden house

Floating underneath

I'm gullible mouse

Thought I was protected

But the cracks became infected

Accident or not

My foundation's gong to rot

So put on your dancing shoes

I'm going to die

Wait a sec before you come for

Me 

Waiting, wading inside the 

Streets

Build me on stilts to keep me

Clean

But your sordid record

And broken promises and severed sectors

Makes we want to cry

Put on your dancing shoes, I am to die

So when ever if you ever think of

Little house floating underneath,

I won't expect you to save me from this grief

Mexican waters slowly lap at my feet

Wear your nicest suit and report the feat

You forgot 

About little wooden house

Floating underneath

I'm gullible mouth

Thought I was protected

But the cracks became infected

Accident or not

My foundation's going to rot

So shine up your dancing shoes

I'm going to die.

September 23

Lines in the face of The Dracula keep people out of recognition. The Dracula has gained new strengths, has become everyone and no one. The Dracula has felt everything, while lying in his dead state. Are we The Dracula?

September 22

Society is a disease that has just kept... adapting and adapting... until it swallowed every antibiotic made and in the works...