Looks Pretty Good To Me...

Songs

2008-05-01T21:37:00.000-07:00

that make me look dumb when I am driving my car

1 heartbeats by the knife

2 the part of int'l players anthem when the late pimp c comes in and talks about his choosy sister

3 michael jackson's i want you back with jackson 5

4 anything by roxette (listen to your heart, fading like a rose)

5 anything by lil wayne but especially ask em hoes with window down

6 someone saved my life tonight

7 save a horse ride a cowboy by big and rich

8 mia paper planes

that make me look cool when I am driving in my car:

1 songs by can

2 songs by sly/family stone

3 donny hathaway any songs

4 neil young live stuff rust never sleeps or massey

5 david crosby off of if i could only remember my name

6 gram parson return of grievous angel

7 edith piaf

8 father figure by george michaels

9 songs for fucking by big black/steve albini

10 stuff that is experimental

11 disco music

2008-05-01T18:13:00.001-07:00

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
h h hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
!!!

i have to work now

Robots in Disguise

2008-04-27T14:07:00.001-07:00

Portion of Transformers Redux...

Powerful Man

I am the king of bombs. This is my plan. We bomb everything.

I will take my helicopter and bomb everything.

Scene: Two helicopters flying over the desert.

They are obviously laden with bombs. They are licking

their lips like wild Mexican Chihuahuas.

Scene: Back to Washington. Geriatrics receiving unsustainable

doses of Prozac. Square dancing. Irish drinking songs.

Powerful Man

Yes, cheer on the bombs. They will be coming for every

life form. Oh yes, and my wife left me. For another man.

Oh yes, where am I? Speak to me now you blond angel.

Tell me all about the voices you hear. I hear them too.

(gestures to screen. Once again, Yael

Naim sings gently over the cosmic footprints

of the human race.)

Blonde Angel

(thinking, not speaking)

Despair?

Powerful Man

I can drop bombs all day and all night on arms and

legs and baby ears and children’s stuffed animals. But

I cannot save my wife, and I cannot eliminate this song,

which radars across the sonic spacestations of our brains like

catatonic little mice feet. Chimney sweeps! Prepare!

(the faces of the mice children stare

unknowingly)

We are wandering through the thick vines of psychopathology.

Please. Tell my brain what to think.

Scene: Battle ships. Hundreds of them. O calamity!

I will give you twenty four hours, people. Tell me

what my brain thinks.

Scene: Billy Ray’s House. In a Rooms To Go showcase neighborhood.

Top 40 radio on every dial, chickens climbing out of pots,

chattering dentures warmed by the cathode rays of television.

A dog bakes in the window glare. Billy Ray signs on.

Scans ebay.

Billy Ray

(the Fonze)

Heeyyyyyy...

Billy Ray stands up. Billy Ray walks to mirror. Billy Ray

begins to talk to himself.

Billy Ray

Self. Gun-toting self. Isolation of self. I want to take

you out on a date, lovely pornstar self.

Billy Ray gussies himself up. Then he begins to talk to his

animal.

Billy Ray

Wait for me. I’ll keep feeding you as long

as you can eat.

Scene: Billy Ray’s front lawn is inhabited by mister and missus Ray.

They seem inordinately interested in the grass. They whisper domesticated

blandishments to the grass.

Mrs. Ray

(insistent)

Feng Shui...Feng Shui...Feng Shui...

Mr. Ray

I should have had a son like you, green green grass.

Spreading out over the earth so thick and warm and green.

Billy Ray comes huffing across the grass.

Billy Ray

Bye mom. Bye dad. Be driving now. You’ll see.

Mr. Ray

First the car, Billy Ray. Then the highways. Are you

always going to be leaving my life like this? Couldn’t you

just learn to stand still and attach your self to the topsoil and

absorb the sun for nutrients?

Billy Ray

Effervesce, family! Mom, that means you. Leave the

dog alone.

Billy Ray climbs into car.

Mr. Ray

I’m as empty as a shell now, Mrs. Ray.

Scene: Infidels crossing the desert. Children dressed as

contestants on America’s Most Wanted. Benny T and co.

cross a jagged rock. They represent the core American

values of leadership, persistence, and respect for others.

Scene: A woman stands listening to a radio. She is allowing the

television set to make a carbon copy of her brain. This brain

will be sold to J.C. Penney.

Scene: Washington. Holy fuck. A powerful man!

Powerful Man

We learn every day more things about ourselves that

are new and interesting and full of promise.

Baby starts to cry.

TAship

2008-04-24T06:39:00.001-07:00

So Temple gave me a TAship for (what will likely be) the next two years. Tuition remission and a 15k stipend. Now I won't be ass broke in Philly.

I'm going to have to work on a good reading list for students. I think you get all the books for free, if you put them on a reading list.

That would be wild.

Satan

2008-04-12T06:56:00.000-07:00

I think John Jacob Niles met the devil. Just like Jerry Lee Lewis. Only John Jacob Niles probably scared the shit out of the devil.

2008-04-06T19:12:00.000-07:00

In my continuing series on things that are good, i am watching the movie the new world on tv right now and damn is it good. terrence malick directed it, which explains why it is so good. at times it is pretty boretastic, and i tend to fall asleep for most of it, but the opening sequence is really good. i thought the soundtrack was like the greatest soundtrack ever. then i learned that it was wagner's the ring cycle, the opening section. which explains that.

i love how terrence malick's writing is pretty bad, but it still does the job.

i love that i am announcing that i am watching this movie right now. i am. that is weird.

ok.

2008-04-06T07:04:00.000-07:00

man o man Mama's Boy is a good restaurant. man o man. i am working on a series of poems about being shipwrecked.

and dealing with institutionalized christianity. i can't park downtown on sunday.

damn, kara walker is a good artist. the slideshow on this site is intense.

i can't park downtown on sunday.

Silvery Decline

2008-04-01T20:36:00.000-07:00

Silvery decline! We are one sweet thing together and we are lying awake

at night, us together down that silvery decline!

Steadier and steadier, our burning bobsled bodies, our grinning forest haircuts,

our Roman Empire fucking,

our arms locked, and our fists making tiny fetuses out of history,

together, and further down that silvery decline!

Fetuses Fetuses Fetuses of our past! You can feel their fingers

itching at your back, you can hear their babytalk,

their wailing birthmoments, their recitations of love poems I am

writing to you, on our trip down that silvery decline!

I am in love with everything, it all gets buried together

And then all the burials are all sucked into the blackness of space like a woman giving

birth on the internet in reverse.

Everything is forgotten and I am with you right now in the heart of the universe.

The universe is a gigantic throbbing heart and all the pain throbs together.

I am with you in the black heart of space in the universe.

In the black space between the colors of your eyes and the other parts of

your eyes that have color but I can’t see them.

It is a giant heart, and it is an artery, and it is veins, and it carries oxygen,

and it flows through the belly, and into every deep hole, waiting and breathing.

And a belly full of ashes and a belly full of clay, and dirt filled, and filled with sand

is what you have to look forward to, and filled up with many other things and

burned out like stars eventually and then drained and always waiting.

And babies floating in bellies full of rotten teeth. And cancerous lumps of

memories that are chemotherapied to death. You are always waiting.

Wait for me in your gold slip from heaven that I saw you buried in. I love you.

That silvery decline, the raw puked-up smell of flowers blooming, the oceans

licking the dog puke off the sand, the crabs and gulls shitting and eating and making

tracks everywhere along the beach,

tonight and tonight and tonight when the ocean pulls forward and foams all over itself,

I will imagine you are the flavor of the sand and the flavor of the saltwater

mixed in the dog’s mouth, mixed in with the soaked wings of gulls.

And up into the fleshy vulnerable flank of the sky,

the moon, a navel, a lonely crab shell, twisted melon skin,

underdeveloped baby tongue, a segment of finger, a white nail in a tugboat

that hoots at the other boats because it is so small. I watch the planets readjust.

Every time I move my feet gravity changes, the world shifts, the universe alters.

Ahhh

2008-03-31T18:10:00.000-07:00

Achy muscles going on Lamination Colony. I am working on take home exams about Chaucer. Fuck. This sucks. And listening to lil wayne.

Fuck. Ahhh. I just don't want to do this bullshit.

I wish I had a lot of money. I would buy books. I hate libraries. I always get fines. I have a fucker of a fine right now. I lost a book. Apparently, it costs 60000000 dollars to replace the book. I didn't count how many zeros I pressed. Maybe I just tabulated the cost of a typical american invasion of another country. I don't know. The New York Times is writing about abstinent girls who want chivalrous guys. I see they haven't read any works of chivalry. Most chivalrous guys would rape them and then murder them. Unless they were already married. Then they would sing songs for them under their windows. I love people abstracting chivalry and hoping to find it in society. This is the way I think when I have to write a paper. Particularly one on Chaucer and Courtly Love. Ha.

In other news, I am considering moving to New York with Jess. She has a killer deal at Rockefeller, I have a not so killer deal at New School, and together we come out as comfortably mediocre. Or, I come out shitty and she comes out on top. Hmmm. I like New York ok. I think it has issues. The subway blows. Manhattan can be a bit of a frat party. But other than that, it has good restaurants and movies and music and a lot of activity and most writers seem to live there. So. Also, Rockefeller is a fucking upper east side womb.

This entry has a lot of curse words. A lot of meta-commentary as well.

Hmmm.

MFA blues

2008-03-29T19:57:00.000-07:00

So I got no funding from Temple. Nor, for that matter, an information packet. So I don't really know if I want to go to that school, mainly because they haven't really communicated much with me. I Don't even know how much tuition is for a year. So. Ok. That was kind of depressing, but I guess I am sort of getting over it. It's not that I am like expecting a free ride or anything, it's just that I have had a lot of success in one avenue (publishing) and not very much in another (graduate school). It's hard to really come to terms with that... I mean, obviously, it's awesome that I've done some publishing, but it's weird how sometimes success doesn't translate to success in other areas, and its especially weird to try to understand what that problem in translation actually means in terms of my writing.

So I am now deciding between Temple and New School. I got drunk at the last Vox poetry meeting and somehow started talking to Noah Eli Gordon about the schools, and he thinks Temple is definitely better, but, at the same time, a lot of people like New School. Yes, I got drunk at the last Vox reading. On PBR. There was a 15 minute period where bottles were 1$, so I had three. Then I talked to several important young poets. Wasted. I was embarrassed. Still kind of am. I was totally nervous about talking to those writers. Thats what did it.

Ha. That's a weird story.

Listening to Elton John now, it's 2 am. I'm kind of tired, but I slept some earlier, so I'll probably be up for a while. Now listening to the Rolling Stone's song Beast of Burden. Never cared too much for the rolling stones, but damn this is a good song. its funny, cause I just started liking this song, but I bet I'll like it for a long time now. that's a strangely comfortable feeling. probably like it for the rest of my life.

Publication

2008-03-21T07:19:00.000-07:00

One in Shampoo and like 5 or 6 in Fence. Well shit-fuck. I've been rejected from all sorts of MFA programs, but I got poems in Fence. Well I am stoked about that.

Listening to Sam Cooke at the moment. He is the soundtrack of a life lived in a motel along the interstate working construction jobs around town and drinking warm six-packs. He is 31 channels on cable music. He is male isolation music.

I saw the Bob Dylan movie the other night, which was really good. It was nice how much heavy symbolism was in the movie. It was definately interested in obliquity and connections rather than supplying a normal, biopic narrative. It wasn't exactly difficult, but I had fun thinking about the movie. The movie had some killer shots in it as well, and great performances by my man Heath and Cate Blanchette, who is probably my favorite actress out there right now.

Uh Oh...

2008-03-18T21:10:00.000-07:00

It has been months, then, since I wrote anything here. Ha. Well. What, then, should I say...

I am in the process of making the exeedingly difficult choice between two graduate schools...one that wants me, but can't seem to pay me, and one that doesn't seem interested, but might be able too. And, well, I need money, so the choice is fairly difficult. I also care about my life. So. Clouds and all.

Here is an Avey Tare song, while we're on that track. damn seeing this was a surprise.

Working on a story right now about hedge fund managers. One kidnaps the other and takes him to south padre island spring break 2008.

Fiasco

2007-12-10T17:10:00.000-08:00

Prose Poems a la Ryan Downy

2007-10-26T16:22:00.001-07:00

Doctor’s Orders

An instrument for scraping bones, this surgical gumminess we obliterate with a series of x’s. The printed maps of skin. Sometimes colored by collecting, clever as cancellation, a writ ordering the act of, or combination, bound to live a life or service fervently without. To suffix. To ease a common fund. To cherish in various denominations the smoothness or shininess or singleness of compounds combining. To mark condition, to aid, to out-order, under-possess, to or toward a having, a Polaris-sense, a scrupled correctness, an under-going, an over-outing, mutations by time. And by time, matriculation, in a lone garden.

Forecast

Dot-com the absolute! Vagaries of information, please! Lacking exotica, she, queen for a day, behests! Formal and quotidian. Interface me, why don’t you? To, with pleasure, clean flamed, with manufacture of spirit, anthem yourself. In nectars, antimony. Her necklace, a caped clock-piece, corralled conjugation. Everyone! This annulment. Annotated noblesse oblige. Another vein forward. A greeting-card toothy-ness. The angel ascends, a table of weeds, a greeting. Tear-jerker, fending his hostess clear.

Deep Rising

Apodal, our biblical book. Mineral re-central. An organism is a result. Irregularity reducing or tending to reduce. So old as no longer. Agro-anthro-aut. Bathy. Bronch-demo-com. Itsier and itsier. Bit by bit. Sharing a commonness, the mad race. A nearly rounded Roman-ness. The blipping beings, built up and believing. Backwards farther please. Backwards, before. Sealing in maximum value. From the true east to the temperate west, our eyes sun-sinking. The brine of our birth. The twin brother of our conquering. The derma-hydration of our wandering. Honk! Jack is over the hill.

Meditation

The furriness of sleep, the trajectory of waylay, the open-sightedness of engine, or odd numbered parts of self-preservation, earmarked absence of art intended, to gnaw off, to insta-drift, to oil-slip, too capable often, too, mislead, the ocal language, the opal tendon, autumnal misbehaving, within, the weight of, the aural sameness of unlearned phonemes, the textual reproduction of erudition, equal to the power of significance as, or thing equipped, of parts, a brilliant, the oval, we are thin-shelled eggs, we impudent, small, unusually furnished within, disparate elevations, effrontery, the soft boldness, belly-tension.

Publication

2007-10-22T20:28:00.000-07:00

word for/word I got two poems in it Fall 2008

the ultimate surrealist act

2007-10-12T10:26:00.000-07:00

killing black people on videotape is easy.

Apocalypse Visions

2007-08-04T22:54:00.000-07:00

I rolled around with you kissing at the base of a green landfill.

Your pearl white skirt like a lamb’s neck in my hands being strangled.

A hot beam of sun pointing directly at my eyes made me squint.

Turned you into a thousand octagons of primary colors between patches of sky.

Slowly I turned my neck away from you, impersonating my last breath.

A dreary pond of chlorine water somewhere burbles like an upset stomach.

I take my hand and pull my fingers through your hair, which smells like flowers

bottled in a factory and kept alive forever in a plastic bottle in your bathroom.

I have apocalypse visions while I am kissing you and they are of canned fruits

and vegetables filling up all the junkyards of the world, the ones not opened.

And I am waiting for the interstates to crack open because of the roots of trees.

But long before the interstates are cracked open the trees will be gone.

The apocalypse of the world will not be an empty thing.

It will come like a tourist walking through Manhattan, between blocks full of traffic.

It will look forwards and backwards and left and right and not see anything different.

At some point it will be incapable of walking forward any longer.

Script

2007-07-13T08:44:00.000-07:00

I am working on a movie script about an island where the servants kill the masters. It is called murder death island. at least, that is the working title. It includes a character named mike who is a paparrazi photographer and his "girlfriend" samantha who is very strange.

in other news, I saw the harry potter premier, and I have done other things too.

my movie's soudtrack is comprised of laugh tracks from the cosby show.

woo hoo. ok/

2007-06-29T22:02:00.000-07:00

Saw the Sicko movie. Hope I never get sick in the U.S. it is too much of a liability.

I am reading the book The Remains of the Day.

Noah Cicero's book is written with a sort of intensity I am not accostomed to. It is philosophical, but in a very essential way, like the philosophy is more of the essence of him than something that has been intellectually cultivated. Lines in the book remind me of an amateur gunslinger taking aim at your heart and preparing to fire.

The book is what happens in the gunslinger's mind as he lines his sights.

Calm, kind of.

And if you breathe the wrong way, or if you breathe at all, you miss.

I hope this chinatown bus is straight tomorrow morning, that nothing gets fucked up.

Poetry reading

2007-06-28T19:19:00.000-07:00

I saw Noah Cicero and Tao Lin read tonight, along with many others from the 3:Am poetry magazine. They were all interesting and different. I bought Noah's book and I am going to read it tonight. Ok.

I am going to Boston this weekend--to drink a lot of beer and walk up Beacon Hill. I am reading the Harvard Design School's Guide to Shopping, which is edited by a guy named Rem Koolhaas who designs stores for Prada. The book is about how the modern urban experience is indistinguishable from the experience of shopping, and how in the near future there will be few public activities for people to perform besides shopping.

New York is like this. You walk through Soho, and I don't care how many small cafe's and galleries there are, it is basically a shopping conglomeration comprised of like 4 different corporations vying for customer appeal with their various brand names (Gap, Club Monaco, whatever). Walking around Soho, or up fifth avenue, or even through neighborhoods like Chelsea and the Meatpacking District, all one is capable of doing, really, is shopping. The non-retail buildings are all severly off-limits--accounting firms for the super-consumers or legal offices--and the fundamental properties of the shopping zones, which fluctuate based on customer needs, are impermanent and volatile. Stores close, stores change, stores maintain brand homogenaity while shifting product lines, but at the end of the day the modern urban experience is really based on the transitive yet singular properties of modern-day marketing.

Architecture and retail are basically opposites. Architecture is firm, atemporal, permanent, fixed, while retail demands constant and vigilant modifications. It exists to give the person a singular experience, and yet different architecture yields different experience. Stores incorporate various design elements, and even the occasional set-piece, stores ultimately present themselves as white spaces capable of being shifted at a moments notice. They are always changing. However, despite the plasticity of the store, all stores yield the same experience. Walking through a store is, in a way, comparable to walking through an art gallery. Most art galleries are made to show of the paintings in as invisible a manner as possible.

But retail is hardly in the business of engaging its customers intellectually with its products. I do not mean that clothing design lacks expression; I mean that the ideal manner of manipulating a consumer in a retail environment is to get the person to forget who he is, forget the outside world, forget what he is looking at, and ultimately to forget and ignore his conscious rational thought process as he purchases the product based on the subconscious scripts of how one acts in a store. Every retail experience is the same experience, despite the malleability of the medium. Architecture, the ultimate static art-object--it can't be moved or taken out of its context-- derives its potency by ensuring each architectural experience is different.

Walking into any store, from Armani to J.C. Penny, a person experiences essentially the same phenomenon. Basically, one is coerced, through a lack of stimulus, to make the purchase. Think about it: the background music is made not to be listened to, the air temperature is calibrated to make a person forget that the store is, shockingly, located somewhere on earth that has weather, the various passages through the store are easily traversed and fairly seamless, and the final act of purchasing, ideally with a credit card, should have as few hitches as possible. The ultimate non-experience.

This is why malls, and ultimately urban retail centers, die; retail works wonders so long as people are drawn to the location; as soon as boredom sets is, there goes the neighborhood. Furthermore, any modifications on the part of the stores are geared towards engaging a person only in a manner which is condusive to mindless purchasing.

Which is why New York, a city replete with stores and little else, kind of loses its allure for me. Unlike western European cities, which limit retail space and hours within a city, New York, and most American cities are idealized versions of the free market--that is, they are basically one giant marketplace. Which is a big fucking bore.

This will hurt American cities. New York's biggest tourist attraction is Times Square. Apart from the Broadway shows, most of the things people want to do on Times Square relate to shopping. Let's go to the M&M factory. Let's go to Toy's R Us. Let's go to that store with the gigantic stuffed bears. These are not experiences, however, in the vein of the Eiffel Tower, or the Empire State Building, or the Tower of London. These are carefully calibrated consumer non-experiences; they function to create that sense of wonder, sure, but at the end of the day, stores are itching for a sale. Therefore, they must continuously modify themselves to achieve their capitalist imperative of generating profit. In a city built from the connectivity of retail outlets, one essentially experiences the detritus of urbanity, the aspects of city life (short blocks, wide sidewalks, the sensation of being surrounded by buildings) that lend themselves to a more effective shopping experience.

These stores are not New York experiences, they are simply the best of the best retail experiences. Most people probably get all this. But considering that one of the principle manners of urban renewal is to bring a lot of retail into a city to bring the rich folks back to the streets, I am worried that America is setting itself up for more problems. Urbanity now equals shopping. And what does shopping equal? The quote I took from Koolhaas's guide and put in the heading of my last poem is the best summary: when you walk around a place of absolute vernacular integrity, where people are also shopping, you think of Disney World.

Ok. More Songs about Buildings and Food.

Publication

2007-06-26T21:43:00.001-07:00

Got some stuff on Opium. Don't know when. Hmmm.

2007-06-26T21:39:00.000-07:00

"when we come upon a place of absolute vernacular integrity, where people are also buying things...we are reminded of Disneyland"

the quilts of Gee's Bend, the afternoon sunbeamed fork of your country tits,
the natural miles of dirt roads, the windows opened by pipe bombs, cows lowing
“good afternoon Charlie Pride, pork on buttered toasted white bread,
hello highway 85, venture capital on Dawes Road, a house expanded 185 times itself.”

the intensity of Martha Stewart, walking like a velociraptor across the dome
of a Hudson River penthouse—“please let me carry your triple tiered platters
of venison steaks and soybeans and sushi rolls, and please, let me feed you
your sushi—your pressed orange juice sloshes out of their goblets, but I am dashing.”

across the terrazzo, looking down onto the black streets and thinking
of the wings of a black swan, the lights of the cars and the gentle hum
of the air-conditioning units hang along the sides of buildings like Cleveland
mayflies, in powder grain and the barrels of husks we carried. the aristocratic swatting off

of our bodies, flowers of cabbage in a low field, we dance on a coffee table
in our cowboy boots, drifting magnolia fruits in a desperation blue willow bowl.
dear wallowing bird-flute, brute quilts hung in the windows of Alabama,
the cozy white feel of a cup filled to the edge with spice smells,

the mutability of the senses, the cloying choke of apple butter, the various truths
of what you are missing or forget having, I’ve seen it happen in other people’s lives.
I learned I never wanted to use my hands across the skeleton waistline of Canada,
or the tethered buck-wild flesh of a bullcock, I have cut everything out,

and remember, though the smell of the evening faintly like pancakes or bacon simmers,
the night like the savage Martha Stewart’s wild smile remembers,
and it is waiting, on all fours, houndishly, its breath is your corpse unwinding itself,
it is a bloodfreak, it is peeling itself open, it is unleashing itself, it is against you.

Publication

2007-05-29T15:38:00.000-07:00

I am in the forthcoming Denver Quarterly.
Ok.
Maybe I should tell Liz Woodward I wrote a 28 part poem about her.
Or would that freak her out? (I barely know her)
Ok.

Passages 7

2007-05-13T23:00:00.000-07:00

The lower dunes
rounded. Oceans
long, narrow
been buried
grew, slid across
hills of sand, our shadows
in the sea, salt
skins. Wasps settled,
fish unchained,
networks of fingers
they struck. Hands

in darkness,
town lights.
Groups of musicians
were strangers.
They went.
Men. Women.
In cemeteries,
dust on their robes
talked of the
countries they
see. They spoke at times.
We were misinterpreted.
Money, clothes, cigarettes
has now understood we
hotel to taxi, from taxi

blinds half way.
Of water along
shadow. Winds condensed
mountains. The sea cut
valleys grown wider, deeper
their position. Bases of the hills bent back towards the course
of the river. Lights,
only from maps.

2007-04-25T16:33:00.000-07:00

http://dansagarin.com/strome/

some good stuff on there.

Atlas

2007-04-22T11:36:00.000-07:00

all these poems I have been posting recently I am going to compile into a collection and call it Atlas. the poems are about travelling through different places and seeing weird shit. most of the poems are erasure poems, meaning I grab another source and erase words from the source to create my own thing.

here is a short one. you can highlight it to see what it says underneath.

"Dive"

Yet the implicit danger of the sign seems to get washed away by the pristine, vivid-blue lake below, which from the vantage point of the rim 1,000 feet up, looks like a massive, rock-lined bathtub.

Researchers here are going deep into the giant volcanic hole with aquatic robots and highly sensitive sonar. The lake, formed by a massive eruption 7,700 years ago, is one of the world's purest bodies of fresh water and, at 1,932 feet, one of its deepest. Most interesting to scientists, it's had little mixing with the outside world--no feeder creeks, no rivers, just snowmelt and rainwater.

ok. there you go.

Berryman

2007-04-14T16:42:00.000-07:00

Songs may speak clear

t, almost John’s whole truth

into

and

and their become more and

tender and absurd that would

enough, he to hand

and that

"He lay in the

ally, anything can be

of pause.

pried open." There are several possible for

he has been, and still is, on

display, his "pride" in his "long wonder"

scrutiny. The world, however, no longer a single lover,

has been taken from him), of a woolen lover, of a prying open, a sycamore

four and five. "Do it" means do to: it is all things done to

-like, but in tone, calm. search for such such for much

My Big Night Out

2007-04-10T15:55:00.000-07:00

I am going on a big night out on the town

I am going to wear my favorite shirt and a nice pair of jeans

I am going to put some pomade in my hear and shave my face

I am going to put on a pair of comfortable shoes

I go to a restaurant and I choose several things to eat

I am watching the faces of the people around me as they look at the menu

Sometimes I worry that they will not like the food or think it is too expensive

Sometimes I feel compelled to contribute more money to the bill

The other thing I might think about is whether everyone is talking

Sometimes one person stays quiet the whole night and this makes me nervous

I have a big bottle of melon flavored vodka at my house

I have two sofas and a rocking chair and two IKEA chairs and a rug

Everyone gathers around the living room and has different things to say

Through the windows I can hear other people walking either out or back home

From Hunters in the Snow

2007-04-03T20:20:00.000-07:00

He picked up his sandwiches and his cookies and slung the rifle

He looked like a cartoon of a person laughing

He just wanted to get out of the goddamned truck

He spread his feet and closed his eyes and leaned his head way back and breathed deeply

He wore a heavy wedding band and on his right pinky another gold ring with a flat face

He heard his heart and felt the flush on his face but he never once stopped

He sat down on a stump and wiped his face

He folded his hands across his stomach

Then he stopped and lay there

He looked into his empty cup

He turned and let the air play over his back

He said. "Frank. Frank."

The clouds were low and heavy-looking and the wind blew in shrill gusts

It sounded like a dry branch cracking. The post splintered along its right side

Maiden Voyage

2007-04-02T12:52:00.000-07:00

The New York Times is running another story on the plight of the wealthy in getting into college.

Things that NYTimes does:

1. Focus on the troubling nature of girls needing to look "effortlessly hot" while focusing on what are probably the four "hottest" girls at the school.

2. Taking pictures of "hot" girls multiple times.

3. Illustrate that one of the girls has made the "sacrifice" not to take an SAT prep course because of the correlation between income and SAT scores.

4. Reveal that it's ok for girls not to have boyfriends.

5. Reveal that one of the girl's favorite shows is Grey's Anatomy.

Statements like "The amazing boys say they admire girls like Esther and Colby" occur as well.

Something about true religion jeans.

And cute lingerie.

Most institutions in society are designed to self-perpetuate.

I don't think any of these girls will have a problem getting into a "name" college.

Kick out the jams motherfucker
from merryswankster

The Hardest Thing of All

2007-03-31T12:39:00.000-07:00

My uncle hasn't sold a painting in
what seems like 20 years--and still they say
the hardest thing of all is to begin.

To wake, each morning's pounding like a drum,
and feel the way collision, between the mind and skin,
like light like from a bottle quickly runs.

Like women who, starting hard, begin to turn
their eyes, their concentration. Gone, like a gun
we drift through bars--the way our bodies learn.

I confess this to you. The anguish of witnessing
the careful ways our eyes collect, discerns
the fragility of our eyes, rain water in a spring.

But the time it takes to learn a language over
a period of your life equates almost exactly with
the words you haven't yet spoken to your lover.

I was young, and I learned that both feet
matter when you take a step, and my mother
matter of factly said to me

"All that holds you now is what you knew then.
The hardest thing of all is to begin."

2007-03-30T07:21:00.000-07:00

Some John Cale. Paris 1919. Child's Christmas in Wales.
thanks obscuresounds

Here is a poem

Double Texas

& time with a deployed marine at lynn::yes

& pressure is the disarmed addressing piece but is capable now is it much too late

& meant sexiness delay torture pornography email & I meant double Texas

& down purchasing history or distinct methods & for Jesus I vote holy

& date dialectal modal distinct double bombing & took & whole & one more

& overtime the choreography of double tiny boots & I want your baby back

& Dutch but quickly-reversed course from the flame-shy curious

& dog hustle & given & greatly lowdown as performed by

& dare when you can get arrested for distancing the internet /could be my face the old orb

& Cheeseburger their own measure broad resort delay in the flames & was complete

& the relief disorientation & the parents strike & can

& the pleasure the primary the perfect pace power not hearing any audio

& duty diversity open space mega metropolis the traitors knew that after

& check & care & comfort & & someone symbols of the dominance

& team retribution terror contrition they are threatening an else

& body & tacit alley & viable disconnect of late

& entendre undervalued skewer oil ratio of the market moves

& apologies part of the wildly successful from fighting terror to

& or nothing smarter the nature of delivery but do we have enough

****imagine a space in the middle****

formatting on blogs blows.

Inland Empire is coming to Athens, downtown at Cine no less.

I have been reading Peter Markus's good brother, which is not as good as The Singing Fish.
But Calimari kicks ass.

I wonder what Peter Markus will do next? Hopefully a series of love sonnets in formal meter.

Or captions to manga comics.

Or something else fucked up.

More paper

2007-03-28T17:11:00.000-07:00

For some reason, I have had a bad time writing research papers lately. I get very paranoid at about 50% in. From there, I usually doublethink all of my assertions, repackage, get scared, doublethink, try to return to the original ideas but with slight modifications, hate those modifications, leave for three hours....

It doesnt help when the topic is a page long, either, because then I forget whether or not I have answered the question by the end.

Which is not very good.

This is all I have to say.

Chile Com

2007-03-27T19:14:00.000-07:00

Don't worry, if there's a hell below, we're all gonna go.
thanks palmsout

ok

so back to amiri baracka and the poetry of silence

And the windows of 5th street
scream

I am working on a poem called esperanto mountaintops right now.

Here is a section

Which was builded oflime and sand;/until he came to

247A.6 4 /

That was well biggit withlime and stane. 303A.1 2 bower,/Well

built wilime and stane,/And came 247A.9 2 /That was well

biggit wilime and stane,/Nor has he stoln 305A.2 1 a castell biggit

withlime and stane,/O gin it stands not 305A.71 2 is my awin,/ I

builded withlime and stone. 305A.30 1 a prittie castell oflime

and stone,/O gif it stands not 108.15 2 /Which was made both

and stone,/shee tooke him by 175A.33 2

castle then was made

oflime and stone the uttermost near by well built and

stone;/There is a lady 178F.18 2 built with stone andlime!/But far

Panda Bear

2007-03-26T14:46:00.000-07:00

His new album came out sometime recently.

I am looking for a place to stay in NYC. Somewhere near the village. It is one hard place to get into. NYU is completely booked. Columbia is in Harlem.

It's weird trying to write about ones self. Der. I am going to get buy one get one free pasta at Bischero tonight. More revelations sure to follow.

Here is a song I like. It is by Sam Cooke. Honestly, could be off the best album ever. Live at Harlem Square. I am trying to incorporate more elements into my blog. I got this song off moist works.

I could make this an MP3/Poetry blog interspersed with my thoughts.

I am not good at writing about songs though. If you want my feelings on it, just pop in a video of James Brown dancing in the mid sixties--one of those famous tapes where he is surrounded by a bunch of white people who look completely confused and overstimulated--and turn down the James Brown music and turn up this song, or the whole album, in the background.

James Brown is such a space alien. There is a photograph I am going to buy of him. He is in a field in Augusta. He is standing by an old tree. He jumps. The tree starts to look less natural than he does. And his legs look like pistons moving in an old Pontiac. He and Gene Kelly knew how to dance. And Bojangles.

Ok.

starting to write

2007-03-25T20:15:00.000-07:00

It sucks when people don't give a shit about you.

I decided to start writing down some things that I am thinking about, because I think beyond poetry that it might be nice to be able to cycle through some actual thoughts on this blog and not just old poems that I have saved on word anyways in huge folders. Lately I have been reading people's blogs all the way from beginning to end, and that is fun fun fun.

But, about people not giving a shit about you.

So I went down to Agnes Scott college the other day--Thursday--to check out the writing contest in which I was a finalist. I had been looking forward to it since January, when I heard I was a finalist, and was hoping, more than anything else, to get some good feedback from the superstar judge Yusef Komunyakaa who had been hired to read finalists' poems.

Needless to say, such was not the case at The Agnes Scott Writer's Festival 2007.

For one, Yusef barely even acknowledged the finalists, some of whom were MFA and PhD students from around Georgia. We were all lumped into a room with everyone else and forced to stand in line like everyone else to get our books signed. And its not like I am always looking for special treatment from Pulitzer prize winners, but, come on. I didn't drive all the way from Athens for a damn reading.

Second, I didn't win.

Not that I was expecting to win, or anything. There were some Pushcart nominees in the fold, as well as tons of MFA students, so, I mean, I was happy just to be in the running. But the head of the department spent approximately 17 seconds announcing the winners, and then went right back to introducing the next reader.

I mean, why don't you just post the names of the winners on the door to the bathroom. Then I can find out who won after taking a big shit in the rarely-used men's room.

It was like the contest was a total side-note. And, I mean, the winners must have felt like shit too. It was almost as if the announcement was interrupting the regularly scheduled program.

Finally, Yusef didn't workshop our poems. They called Friday a workshop day. But, unfortunately, no workshop. I have no idea what he thought of the poems. For all I know, he didn't even read them...maybe Ages Scott just sent a few undergrad minions off to the library to randomly pick the winners (including two Agnes Scott girls), and tacked Yusef's name onto the lot of them. The finalists did get an hour QandA with Komunyakaa, but, really, how much good does it do to hear for the bobillionth time what a poet's process is when writing a poem. Yusef also tried to push his theory on the relationship between the hand and the brain, which is either totally basic, or totally bullshit. But whatever.

The winners pool also looked a bit rigged as well. Only three writers from UGA--including Kristen Iskandrian, who is really great, but didn't win. A high proportion of the poets and writers were from Agnes Scott. Also, there were a lot of bullshit freshman comp-y essays from Agnes Scott in the nonfiction pool, which I am sure were outperformed by authors from, say, the Emory PhD program. But, whatever.

More than anything else, I wanted to start writing down some of my thoughts (starting of course with the crazy bitter ones), because the feeling I had right after leaving the contest was one of not necessarily anger, but one desiring a change.

If I am ever in a position to judge a bunch of up and coming poets in a contest, I will certainly take the time to critique their work and offer them at least minor opinions on how I think their stuff is good or bad. I don't care how sick of the scene Yusef Komunyakaa must have become after two days of fielding the same questions over and over again by Agnes Scott faculty. He probably got 10,000 dollars and swank lodging downtown. And, honestly, it is good to help out other people who have travelled a long way to get your opinions.

Moreover (what the hell type of entry is this, anyways), I think the attitude have toward a lot of these poets (raifying them like demigods) is totally counterproductive as well. Yusef Komunyakaa is good, but he isn't T.S. Eliot, or Frank O'Hara, or Bob Dylan. While I would be happy if guys like those deigned even to wipe their asses with my poems, Yusef Komunyakaa is not an unassailable poetic force. A lot of his stuff doesn't even do that much for me.

I don't know, I think poetry is just a hard thing to work at. It's a solitary sort of an enterprise, and not to many people can tell you that much about what it takes to write a good poem, or how to improve work you have already created. I don't even know if Yusef would have been that much of a help with my huge experimental poem.

I think what matters most is reading a lot. And writing. Even writing like this. Though I am sure few people are going to enjoy my writing I think it helps me focus in a lot of different directions at once.

Plus, I am feeling extra under-achieving because Jessica just got the Goldwater scholarship. Which is awesome. But after my little poetry debacle, it just makes me feel more and more like an amateur.

Ha.

esperanto mountaintops

2007-03-25T18:48:00.000-07:00

when suddenly she reached up to the clouds and began to pour

a huddled mound that had been growing

these things, the new things, let them utterly alone and see

a thing of meshes; he had simply gone to sleep

but never afterwards recovered an image of embracing arms

what was really in their eyes

the surface of still water and the white note

the shadows fell further and the sky glowed deeper; but nothing

changed--nothing could

Oh the deep deep bath, the soft cool splash in the stillness!

the vast neighbourhood, under the trumpet-blare of the sky

unquenched, some happy thought of an individual breast

this time, with his lightened hand, the whole of the long line

a distance the sound of slow sweet bells

the summer sprinkles that bring out sweet smells

Fed

2007-03-18T20:16:00.000-07:00

like an engine stirring its cold gears,
fingers
into your mouth.
The light fractures bones
in an xray, taps its tassel-toe shoes
across the dancehall
of your body, and my eyes
both open and close
to you

who, to me
stares back obligingly like a kite
in my fingers. Who, when the line slacks
like something that should not be held,
or cannot, smiling soars skyward,
isolato strange
and, like a good trumpeter can, dips
and scratches the ocean-lips of my mind

(this ain't done yet)

Wild and Local Love Poem

2007-03-13T20:37:00.000-07:00

the way
I am imagining
cheerios on a spoon
honeyed and natural
to be your face

the way
I am fishing
one by one
each brown flower
from the milk-edged river

under a smokey blanket
we watch James Brown
hung in a frame
bending like a lariat
around the neck of the sun

our feet dozing in the water
curving like a forest
curves around the bank
animal curves
the ears of the rain

your curves
a bottle of beer
imported
the gentle condensation
of the sky

Pilgrim

2007-02-23T13:28:00.000-08:00

Waking up in the morning, the first noise I hear
is the triple dripping of the faucet, telling me
it has been going like that all night.

And I am waking up for the first time,
which doesn't matter much anyway. I suppose
dead pan humor works in the same startlingly

still way. The stillness is alive in the small toe
I swear must be broken, it is still so stiff
and pink and round. The books edging around

the lamp by my bed conquer some aspect of
myself I probably wasn't even aware existed
until I looked straight at the pages and disengaged.

Who is that trumpeter? Who plays the wooden fish?
The water gathers like archapelagaic land shapes
around the faucet bowl, and maybe the world

we have been living in for 60,000 years is really
in our Jazz Club bunkers, sanbagged like soldiers
with drumsticks for limbs.

This is where I feed

my cat in the afternoon, and this is where she shits.
This is the mantra of my inarticulation, and this
is the heavy sound of a rhythm, where it fits, like the

capicitance of my fingers on a television screen,
or the feeling of holding my knees by my chin
long enough until I feel absolutely nothing.

2007-02-13T10:59:00.001-08:00

traveler who loves big skies, lonely roads, and infinite spaces will find all this and more on the Dry Cimarron Scenic Byway. Early travelers on the Cimarron Cutoff of the Santa Fe Trail must have felt a sense of awe these limitless prairies. The byway spreads across northeastern New Mexico like a web, starting east of Raton on NM 72 and crossing into Colorado and Oklahoma. At 215 miles in New Mexico alone, this is one of the longer scenic byways in the state and takes several days to explore completely.

Three and a half miles east of Raton, NM 526 travels north from NM 72 through Sugarite Canyon State Park (Visitors' Center, 505-445-5607). Old buildings and foundations near the entrance to the park are the remains of Sugarite Coal Camp,countryation between 1910 and 1941. Camping, fishing, and boating are available at two small lakes Alice and Lake Maloya. The best time to make this drive is in the fall, when the leaves of the Gambel's oak are turning every color of the fall spectrum - green to yellow to orange to flame. The leaves shivering in the wind make the hillsides vibrate with warm color.

Driving east on NM 72 across Johnson Mesa, some of the most beautiful views in New Mexico unfold before you. To the north of the mesa loom the Colorado Rockies. The shadows cast by clouds drifting across the limitless sky darken the grasslands.

The Ess-Dog

2007-02-04T23:53:00.000-08:00

Jess Bryant has been asleep nearly four hours
on a couch I borrowed from my parents, from a storage unit in Newnan

her body has the quiet curb appeal
of a low lined ranch modern house in a neighborhood

full of rich heart-red brick
she is making the noises a forest makes

when I am awake in a bedroom with windows
and still listening

to the quiet earthy shifts of grounded leaves
and piles of moss and dirt

in the reproductive night
Jess Bryant breathes like a racehorse sometimes

sometimes with her double long arms she motions
like a wild engine spilling its own fluid on itself

sometimes she can even talk to me while she is asleep
and still make sense, or maybe

I am still connecting dots
like a busy astronomer

on the floor of the ocean

2007-01-28T14:44:00.000-08:00

We went down to
the Roman station, down
Fibonacci code streets which were tiny
and drawing from a three horn band
transformed life, with sax central riffs

this is the time I spend making my subway dialogue
with Mahla, who was brown Italian
beautifully vamped
the crowds join in
and the mellow bolts sing hurtful songs

green gringo booksellers make double profit
off of Alfred Lord Tennyson and Wayne Rooney
soccer jerseys which like window
hung around the fountains
around the doughy bowls of gelatina, garden fresh

who could have been doubleafraid of
summertime escaping from the loud
a bull in the sewers, a moth in the opaque air
“Somebody have mercy”
his own bridged gaps between blackness

wake in insistent doleful pouting hums of quiet.

2007-01-27T17:57:00.001-08:00

Triptych—Hank Williams

When [g] I get to glory, Im gonna sing, sing, sing
Im gonna let the [a7] hallelujahs [d7] ring

[g] Im gonna praise my blessed saviours name
When I get to glory, Im [d7] gonna sing, sing, [g] sing.

[g] in this world of sorrow, Ive seen trouble and woe
When I get to glory [a7] Ill see no [d7] more
For [g] I know my prayers have not been in vain
When I get to glory, Im gonna [d7] sing, sing, [g] sing.

Sometimes I get so weary inside
Then I recall how my jesus died
Up there I know, therell be no pain
When I get to glory, Im gonna sing, sing, sing.

Chorus

Up there no tears will blind my eyes
And Ill walk along by my jesus side
Ill meet my loved ones all once again
When I get to glory, Im gonna sing, sing, sing.

II.

In the [d] great book of john – youre [g] warned of the [d] day
When youll be laid - beneath the cold [a7] clay
The [g] angel of [d] death - will [g] come from the [d] sky
And claim your poor soul - when the [a7] time comes to [d] die.

Chorus
When the angel of death - comes [g] down after [d] you
Can you smile and say - that you have been [a7] true
Can you [g] truthfully [d] say - with [g] your dying [d] breath
That youre ready to meet - the [a7] angel of [d] death.

When the [d] lights all grow dim - and the [g] dark shadows [d] creep
And then your loved ones - are gathered to [a7] weep
Can you [g] face them and [d] say - with [g] your dying [d] breath
That youre ready to meet - the [a7] angel of [d] death

III.

[g] a prodigal son once [c] strayed from his [g] father
To travel a land of [a] hunger and [d] pain
And [g] now I can see the [c] end of my [g] journey
Im going to [d] heaven a-[g] gain.

I leave you the day, to help all your neighbors
I leave you the night, to solemnly pray
So try to repent and ask for forgiveness
Well meet up in heaven, someday.

Goodbye to this world, with all its sorrows
Goodbye to the fields, that I used to roam
Im going away where, life is eternal
My shepherd is callin me home.

From out of the sky, hes coming to meet me
To wash all my sins and call me his own
His servants will bring, a ring for my finger
And never no more will I roam.

What if one foggy night?

2007-01-22T19:34:00.000-08:00

the changes that will come will always haunt you and

the problems of continuity will beg for you like a dry kiln

when you are unable to see ahead

rain-silt staying power bogging, draining out the air of light.

2007-01-22T14:16:00.000-08:00

uh oh here comes everyone a poem taken from Kevin McConnell

Not Quite Done

2007-01-20T10:24:00.000-08:00

Triple Dream

Ian Davisson

(obdurate, spreading out, the day leaks onto the field)

the sun so without a thought without a care approached

& while we settled our legs in the water by the hoopnecked reeds

& it seemed to her the rain would not be coming would pass

(so we can cancel it from each side & we’re told

this is the reverse order of a bridge or there no bridge)

so beckoned & together [we] wandered doubleeyeing the grey moat

counterweighted by the double strength of our hands so i say

last night when the moon wandered into the common space (i want to tell you)

i dreamed i was wearing a woman’s silk bodice peony-patterned

& rocks from her garden greyshaped began falling and

in my rarest voice i called smokesignal words in your direction

clouded by the smokestacks clouded by the industrial arches

& wire-white hands whip up strangle my voice in a strange dark horizon

II.

i go to walk my ,& my while later say to her .

i take my time to ,& to of what laid out here &.

of what laid out here ,being felt called for more

in the meantime ,some time binding & will apply

to me i think ,& think wait thinking

something ,improvised awakened last night

like throwing himself upon a grenade upon titanic grass fields

III.

in the ways

Her mouth opens “A pause, a rose,

“A pause, a rose,

the sum of us

repetition

dreaming of nature

filming themselves beta

2006-11-25T21:22:00.000-08:00

Hard to believe - this was - but I am on a world,

staggering, he created, jetted into,

vocoder fused.

The boundaries of, the walls, nature considered,

the place carried out, uncertainties mysteries doubts.

When someone set the mind adrift in abundance,

blurs the music, in which clouds, sudden and poorly shaped

advance, an approach, where lines fall, heaps of

scaffold, outside the settled area, in foreign ways,

which, so distinguished, are resonating strange music,

the conversations we have with ourselves, speeches and songs,

radical revalue. Even the chairs talk, surfaces linger, planes

of space revaluate, create joyous, work extensively,

intervene, swoop selfward, escoffery most, but how

so much,

and still climbing, turns, goes slowly in the dark.

About your daily intake

2006-11-24T22:22:00.000-08:00

Eventually we will reach ourselves.

Hog tied in space.

Bound with brown tarp rope

in the two faced sky.

Where birds are swimming like fish.

Reversed logic. Hog tied in space.

I am a beautiful woman, really, somewhere inside.

Beautiful language is like walking down Park Avenue

and realizing there is nothing to buy.

Without arms to hold our bags of books, all written

and long past sarcasm.

In the two faced, directionless

depthless, moribund sky, things conflict.

Arranged to replace the fog, the emba nkment

full of stock character like the hours between their arrival

and doubtless departing slightly stirs,

the palette-smooth sunrays beam surprise smiles of sun.

2006-11-24T21:13:00.000-08:00

Roxette - Listen to youre heart

19/U.S.41/S.R. 3. this song is wkd. 85 mph.

Stewart Ave. Xiang Long technology. whitehall. no service. Hollywood. Cabbagetown. It is true that this site uses google adsense in an attempt to glean some small revenue to offset my costs, and to support the site itself. ...

McFarland R

Hog tied in Space

2006-11-22T14:00:00.000-08:00

here it is

Where is your tattoo, badgirl?

2006-11-22T13:55:00.000-08:00

Alejandro Maria Alvarez had been to heaven once in his life.

He was nineteen years old, a prizefighter, and in the ring with Pedro Ruiz,

“El Asesino,” who was both feared and respected by the aficionados.

Many members of the crowd recall with great expression the sprays

of sweat and blood, the arcing flight of Alejandro’s teeth, cricket-soaring

across the mat canvass field, and the young woman, in the front row,

fainting from the spectacle. Alejandro remembers only the cool mat,

the referee’s cry of “FUERA! FUERA! CUIDADO CON LA CABEZA!”

and the buzzing hum of the generator located six and a half inches

beneath his fallen head.

Then there was a darkness, where Alejandro saw his lover

(whose name he has always forgotten)

sitting naked on a pile of sheets next to their bed

eating peanuts.

Her round folded skin gave her the appearance of being an angel,

and she was talking about a job she found in Madrid, in a factory,

working for a family friend of her father’s.

Alejandro remembers being sad in heaven.

Later that night, the warehouse is abandoned. A pair of teeth lay

in a puddle of beer on the pink cement floor. A street performer

plays accordion for the tourist on Las Ramblas.

II.

The hospital in San Pau is a modern marvel, done in

Catalan Modern Style, the product of an aggregation

of six local hospitals. The women of the hospital are, and have always been,

Catholic Nuns, and these are the people they have seen die.

1. Antony Gaudi, who was run over by a tram.

2. Picasso’s blue woman, who spent too much time in bed.

The hospital has a guest registry, and each patient has a private registry,

and there is a name written on top of one of the pages,

and that name is Alejandro Maria Alvarez,

and below that name there are no other names,

just straight waves of lines, crawling like a still ocean

through a black silent night, unlike the Mediterranean, which is never still,

but sweeps against the Catalan coast and drags sand into its belly.

Alejandro hears the ocean first thing when he wakes up, alone.

Immediately, he considers an apartment in South Barcelona, one that

by all rights should be inhabited by another person who may well be waiting

for him,

(but he knows that it will be empty tonight, and that only he and his

two shaking hands will ever be able to fill it, and that he will find empty

bags of peanuts stuffed behind the radio tuned to the sports channel,

and that he has never eaten peanuts, and that by now the peanut trade

in Madrid will be blossoming and that he will have to find himself

another job and another woman),

Alejandro, who made love to this woman in the afternoons,

across a blanket, sweating like an animal.

2006-11-21T09:33:00.000-08:00

Grew Longhand

Just to be different, my luggage arrived with me this time. I also like the rounded edges on their ads better than the Yahoo box. If you havent had a chance to read his book, I highly recommend that you do.

I still have much material to study so, for now, this is all I dare ramble.

I am hoping this works out and that I endup on the road for two weeks of corporate training. Do you need a way to get your students talking to each other? I like what this guy finds and it is why I stalk his delicious postings. It has been a long hiatus and it is a long story, so allow me to break it down into parts.

Originally, I intended to take some time off from blogging.

I also like the rounded edges on their ads better than the Yahoo box.

They do this in a rather CyberJunkie-like manner using my multi.

I still have much material to study so, for now, this is all I dare ramble.

The ads are an attempt: to offset some of my cost and not to annoy you.

I also like the rounded edges on their ads better than the Yahoo box. Ive found that while spending money is obviously extremely easy, saving money is—Heres one technique that can help you a great deal: its the use of. I still have much material to study so, for now, this is all I dare ramble.

I also like the rounded edges on their ads better than the Yahoo box.

Originally, I intended: to take some time off from blogging. If you havent had a chance to pick up his book yet, good news. For now, I just wanted to pop in and let you know that I am alive and well.

If you havent had a chance to pick up his book yet, good news. The ads are an attempt to offset some of my cost and not to annoy you. I am hoping this works out and that I endup on the road for two weeks of corporate training. Today is stage two of a four stage interview process.

They play in the background, as I tend to fold clothing, ironing and I will be away from the blog for a while.

When the student is ready, the master will appear: You can buy love. The more one knows, the less one believes

Stop being a TWO PUMP CHUMP.

I owe you a thank you for coming back so often during my leave. I still have much material to study so, for now, this is all I dare ramble.

My strange and sudden illness is as good as any place to start with.

I like what this guy finds and it is why I stalk his delicious postings. Is this really such a great game for teaching English? If you havent had a chance to read his book, I highly recommend that you do.
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Though I had spent a bundle shopping for my wants and needs, I wanted and needed one of those red candied apples.
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Though I had spent a bundle shopping for my wants and needs, I wanted and needed one of those red candied apples. Located right across from the bike trails and future park. The child is faced and challenged with many unanswered questions in her developing mind: What happened to me?

He gives me a tract: JEHOVAH who is He??
He gives me a tract: JEHOVAH who is He??

Thousands of men notice huge differences in the way they operate their beef machinery.

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While I'm sure all of you veterans will ace. New Berber Carpet And Light Fixtures. In the pilot's seat was a dark-skinned man who wore dark spectacles. Some solutions are the first to be showcased in Asia outside of their country of origin.

Every rope begat two ends. He that is master of himself, will soon be master of others First Impressions are the Most Lasting Coin a phrase Life is one long catwalk A fool gives; a wise man takes.

An airplane was mysteriously shot down.
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Her curiosity rises strongly with the advent of the full moon.

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Keep her satisfied tonight and any night in the future.

You always dreamt rock hard.

God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb

2006-11-21T09:32:00.000-08:00

Camilo Sesto - Fresa Salvaje 74