The Signal



and

Pi (a personal favorite)

I saw her on the balcony;
she paced through silhouettes like my private ghost.
Marilyn Monroe undressed me.
Sipped a fantasy, called a taxi, then made a toast.

Earl Grey for the evening, my taste of the season;
winter is licking my old scars again.
I saw her in heat like she melted my reason,
exploding my heart, restarting my pen.

Pace, pace, pace, and never set footing. Eggshells
mix with coffee stains on your feet.
William Hearst did a line outside our hotel,
She ate my published work while I went out to eat.

Reverie enters the bedroom politely,
a rip at his shoulder straps, ventricles on his sleeve.
The abyss never misses a gaze that's this lively.
My reflection's so ugly it's hard to believe.

"Primer"!



A movie so awesome it requires its own chart just to understand it!

*snicker*

Hi, there!

Dante Alighieri smoked Newports.

I remembered how crazy I sounded,
near that platform at the train station,
on a sunny day in northern Chicago,
the sun weeping light
and the stiff smell of Listerine
circling out of your lips.

"The whole world is crazy."
Only the oceans can expand
like a memory, retract like
a science - inexplicable and tangible,
but barely.

The first of November, on a park
bench by the pier, next to
sidewalk chalk people and discarded
Halloween decorations.
You held my hand. We strolled the platform.
Waiting for a train.

Sunny as ever is, overbearing, bold.
I must sound crazy, remembering.
There was the cry of waves.
You told me, "Don't forget this."

Like those twisted silhouettes of families
framed into the sides of destroyed buildings
where atomic bombs plastered their
eternal frown into view,
like a blurry picture of a stranger,
or like your lover
shaking your hand
Goodbye.

I remember,
I remember how crazy I sounded.
Standing near a platform,
some sunny day,
swimming in a thought.
Picturesque. Portraitless. Perfect,
perfectly forgettable.
I must sound so crazy,
remembering.

(17's the best number ever)

George Puttenham in 1589 (yes, I looked it up).

Are you ever tempted to steal those pens at the bank that are attached to the desk, just as a challenge?

The great Hotcake drought of 1936. Pretty remarkable stuff.

What's your favorite prime number?

~~~~ Nietzsche.

i sorta miss having a phone.

This is unspeakably beautiful. I took my time and read everything you wrote so far. I hope you keep writing. Just... wow. So uniquely brilliant.

Dig your mind explosions. This last line is especially beautiful.

I feel like... feeling more.
The floor is lined with
living bodies,
like they've outwitted the morgue.
Nights like evaporated whiskey,
wild whispers on not-so-young tongues,
seep out of my age group.
A very generally dull generation
of beat up nickel spinning
tricksters with hip retro glasses
custom fit,
all cracked from their awkward angles as they lay perched
across the ground.

This used to be some sort of purgative passageway.
But it is a basement,
in the suburbs, and the stains on the floor
are more apparent to me now.

Can't get the taste of wanting what I've wasted out of my distended, longing throat.

Years lurk in the shadows while morning
drips through thick glass curtains
and the ghosts of angels,
passed out,
play their slumber to the theme of a
hissing humidifier - too necessary to be discarded and too broken down
to be of any use.

Any use at all for these days.
Sitting and wondering.
Constant despair spelled out in
philosophical tongues,
reading poetry against the cat-call
of a dead "meow" that crawls up on my lap
and scratches at my ribs.

The ache of this scene no longer reminds me of some existential freedom.
Where feet danced the live sleep - so still.
Possible OD's, even.
The sound of breath moving across
a stained basement.
Unfortunate victims of my free-verse mind.

i'm doing nanowrimo this year.

happy birthday, man.

of believing that those on dating sites try hard enough in 'real life' to score a soul-mate over the the internet.

grief counselor.

sunrise.

it holds more opportunity than the the sunset

to me,

purely mentally.