Smidge

I think things are ~actually~ fine.  

Just something feels a smidge off.  

Like one shoe tied slightly tighter than the other.

Is this idle hands?  

Angels dancing on the head of a pin?

Take it in

This unlit pyre of totems
pack-rat cached
some within reach
others only objects of meditation, anymore.

my altar to my elders
shelves of urns not yet filled with ashes and dust
still exposed to moth and rust
even though you aren't

your comet is extinguished.
your corporeal form has burned out
but I have kept your impactite, your desert glass

your eyes and stubborn heart
your tools, your fishing rod
your handwriting, your job
your football tickets and how you talk.
your boat shoes and tall socks
your sewing machine and house plant
your army uniform and canvas bag

can't sense "you" the same anymore.
nothing to see but granite, carved.
nothing to smell but your empty house.
nothing to hear but home videos and a voicemail
nothing to taste but the wards of this recipe box
nothing to touch but these pieces of your impact crater
that I've maniacally endocannibalized
in my frail quest to hold you closer longer.

Sweet sorrow sometimes too unwell balanced.

For many - in honor of Milton Douglas

Beat WIP

Barges laden with moronic misinformation

Heaping shipwrecks in the DNA of a thousand generations

Insulated from hell by ill-gotten Haversham wealth

Hatchling idiot armies: shed your mind-numbing shells

What diminishes the blemishes 

On rich luxurious finishes?

What enhancements bring shines 

to the truer bluer blood lines?

What can make whole again

Decrepit mansions of of sins?

Authenticity.  Stop.

If you think that you can.

B*tch you better know that you ain't nothing but a lucky mother f*cker
It ain't nobody 
Got no time
For your Bullll-sh*t.

Divers

On Monday morning,

When it hasn't been raining,

And I'm early for work,

I drive through the flea market parking lot

To see last weekend's castoffs

In their native habitat

It's mostly trash.

Hell, it's all trash

In one way or another.

The furniture stands out because of its height in the parking lot.

It's usually the press-board kind that you build yourself and which are now bookshelves and dressers slouching in the stylings of Pisa, Italy... or whose paper skins have succumbed to  years of cat scratches and southern sunlight.

The most ubiquitous feature is the cardboard box.  

Every station, it seems, has at least one.  

Nearly all of them hold merchandise at one time or another. 

Some also served as cash registers, others served as lunch pails.  

I suspect that some have served as play pens for vendors' children.  

In whatever case, by Monday morning, their carcasses are strewn about the battlefield rather ingloriously.

My favorite things are the heaps and assemblies of black metal tubes and black or gray foam, upholstery, or straps.  

At this point, my imagination is free to wonder whether these were once objects for organizing offices, promoting physical fitness or enhancing sexual pleasure.  

Some may have been used for two or three of those purposes at different times.

Nice to start the week with a grin and a chuckle, anyway.

Third Sunset

Like it's your birthday.
The after party
The hotel lobby
No sleep
Never.  So, what aBOUT Brooklyn?
Unplugged, like uncorked, unbound
Plugged in, like wired, electric
tuned in
turned on
not tense
holding life with botanist's tenderness
and it blooms.
Today it bloomed.
And driving home,
looking west.
all the way to east.
Streaks of Fierce Aqua and Sunstroke Pink with Breaks of Blue Asphalt Smoke
Drips of essential life oil on the tongue of a tired soul

Ingraved

The grass withers and the flower fades.

A tree falls in the forest and no one  hears a sound.

Suns set; eyes close.

The inevitability is reforged into ornate destiny and gilded providence.

All ferries trudge to the west, across the river, to the by and by, to the islands of the blessed.

Ashes minuet with dust.

Bowing, swirling; drawing eye to eye.

Rust.  So much rust. And rot.

Endless epochs of paint and polish to rebrand death.

Silk flower and botox deceptions brilliantly cursived onto hearts already interred in walking comas.

You and I...

Are there still embers?

Will we stand and face the infinite beyond with clear eyes and pure hearts?

Will our flames be found bowing, swirling; drawing eye to eye?  

I know too many strangers.

Measured in Bridges

Today was beautiful.
Wistful breeze down the valley from the north.
Sunny.  Not hot.
I wore my charcoal summerweight jacket with a blue check oxford, creased khakis and brown driving slippers.

I'm talking a lot of pictures.
You will be so far away, now.
After we just moved so close.
The pictures will help me visit.

Watched sailing and crew from the Officer's club and Thayer.
Hasn't changed much in 18 years.
I guess we have, though.

This is primordial land.
Still a bronco.
Forging not being forged.
Elemental forms in elemental states.

You will be able to hear coal trains down by the river.
Was Grafton like this?
Barges sneak past from time to time.

Preparation is not readiness.
Waiting is not anticipation.
Faith is not certainty.
Separation is not loss.

I keep waiting for the encore.
Tense eagerness for your next act.
But so far, only crickets call from the blackberries.

Cadets smoke cigars in the dreamlight; their own resting places a few paces West.

AM.
Katie and I walked counter-clockwise.
The wind is from the East now.
The east wind carries us all away.
This one only has clouds on it, now.
It has already brought you here.

Went south to Avalon and Sea Isle.
Boats, boats, and boats.
Wave churns and salt spray.
The familiar grassy dunes.
The east's cedars and oaks huddle over their ivy-smoothed beds of myrtles, sumac, and young gum trees.
Immediately to Emerald Isle.
Sizzling bacon and new fishing line on the big round coffee table.

Two lobsters tonight.
I just have to keep swimming.
Italian dessert board with Aunt Mary.
You would have loved it.
The conversation at least.

Sunday.
A day measured in bridges and Rivers.
Townsends Inlet toll bridge.
Delaware Memorial Bridge.
Millard Tydings over the Susquehanna.
The Baltimore Harbor Tunnel.
The Patomac.
The Rappahannock.
The James.
The Appomattox.
The Roanoke.
Eventually the Tar.
And finally the Neuse.
But then not even the porch light was on when we got back to your house.

For Omama.

Saxophone is practiced by the unskilled.

Debris institutionalized
into a camel's callous
ground in and waiting
for an age-long purge.
Leaning forward.
Reaching up.
Grasping.
...at a clear mind.
Hoping.
...for a clear soul.
Accepting.
...it as not enough.
Furrowing.
A mind and a brow.
Sinking.
Into a darkness I can not escape.
Landing.
On a sand bed of hope.
Somewhere under the waters.

Still no surface or light.
But in a cave without intimidation
from the creatures of the deep.

It is not dismal, though.

Mr. Gatsby,
Her hands look look just like Barbie's.
If Barbie had a manicure.
So still.
Such peace.
Why can I not taste that?
Put me in the runabout
In a summer's day.
Let an incomplete word remain
Until the day
That swirling over swamp
And flying over sea
Have died.
And may that never come.
Although it must come.

Tirian York Towan

Rusby Westmoreland.

Tonight, we plagiarize - I had this conversation, and I still remember it

a) You know, a few months ago, I made a terrible mistake.
b) Really?
a) Yeah.
But I realised something.
And instead of crushing the thought the moment it came I...
I let it hang on and...
Now I know it to be true.
And I'm afraid it's stuck in my head forever.

b) What was the thought?

a) That these are the best days of our lives.
It's a terrible thing to know, but I know it.

b) I don't know about that.

a) Well, yeah. Yeah.
Maybe you'll be lucky.
Maybe you'll have better days, but I doubt it.
We stood on top of the mountain, compadre.
It's a long way do-be-do-be down.

and hope to keep safe from the pain

your words linger
in a space
in my heart
that is - while I think you imagine it a giant blank warehouse -
actually is being actively and intentionally condensed into the tiniest emotional nuclear waste dump imaginable, a Russian nesting doll whose additional layers make it smaller, tougher, and more contained.
a heart the size and consistency of a "bb".
It dances on the head of the pin, though, no angels in sight.
Angels aren't thinking about reopening the wound with a swift jab from a fission explosion.

On the alters of:
normalcy,
provision,
comfort,
exaltation,
satisfaction,
and possibility

have I offered my:
youth,
sanity,
self,
passion,
satisfaction,
and actuality.

Yet, in less than one sentence,
The nesting dolls are pushed off their shelf,
and slow-motion dive toward the nucleus.
You have reduced me to glass and ash.

Can a phoenix use its own tears to heal itself?
Is that a refining process?

diarist and poet

scan the list.
hunt for yourself.

the name-tag you wear disappoints
you.
me.
you is me.
or at least like me.

difficult to admit
this identity crisis
without judging
loved ones
and self
for generations.
I'd rather not.

In America,
they say,
you can be self made.
It's in your head.
Marketing isn't bioengineering
in my head
or body.

Nathan, can we jump?
Can we not and say we did, like you used to ask?
Is lying to yourself worth the time?

My head
is held
to the spot
on the couch
that I made
with my name-tag
and I am rebuked.

so I scan the list.
and hunt for myself.

The First

Certainly the earliest I can remember.
Perhaps a gift of rememberance.
The virginity of it - he washed us as it.

Bliss

The bliss provided by ignorance is mortally dangerous unless enjoyed under continuous selfless nurture and protection by one who is not ignorant.
Everyone must admit to enjoying some amount of this bliss at any given moment in the present or past.
Some may attempt to deny the possibility of dependance, either through denial of their fallibility or an insatiable pursuit of elimination of the selectedly admitted voids in their knowledge.
Others will embrace as much ignorance as they possibly can if it has historically provided perceived bliss without the proportioned taste of the inherent dangers, or if ignorance in part or in whole represents the most simplistically or immediately easy path, (regardless of belief in, or prior experience of those dangers found in such ignorance).

wip 2

I think we've finally found a way
we can admit to ourselves
that we were all lying to each other.

And I pray, with those same words
we can forgive each one, the other
for speaking lies that we had told ourselves.
we spoke the lies that we believed ourselves.
we believed the lies that we had told ourselves.

wip 1

A strong sense of destiny...

Bang! Pow! Boom!

perfectly sublime combustion,
echoes of previous ignition;
that I could even stomach the differential
is judgement against this sphere.

origins of metaphor,
and sources of experience;
many and tens of many,
none real.

along this diameter of sustenance
where I and they are;
we together are unaware
and inconsiderate of each other.

You are to me simply an implication;
a presumption,
a statistic that is cement;
an observation not requiring a soul.

I
...I,


See your eyes.
and

See myself.
and

Feel warmth.
and

Feel touch.
and

Apologize.

For me.
And everyone.
And me more.

insecure.

the leap from the small pond to the ocean turns the biggest fish into nothing more than shark bait.

apprehension

on the horizon of possibility
at the verge of a lifetime
where the fear of hitting the bottom
is equalized by the hate
of the worthlessness
of the top
of this cliff.
Falling, weightless...

the good guy

the guy who goes home with the same girl every time.
and enjoys it.
the guy who lets you in front in traffic.
and waves.
the guy who takes fewer napkins at the Chinese takeout place.
and leaves the chopsticks.
the guy who wants it to rain.
and owns no umbrella.
the guy who plays your guitar at the party.
and not for ego.

that guy.

what i always hoped for

I wish for significance.
I fail.
but, if I can be of assistance..

inertia

so clear
the pathway is just one of those tunnels
in mountain laurel that is undoubtedly the trail you would take to the bottom
of the mountain to see the rapid river you can already hear.
Except, having gone down that trail,
I can remember too many instances in which I have become entangled in overgrowth,
roots or fear and have never made the entire trek.
This is so clear and so ominous.
Yet, somehow, this is one of the moments,
like when I was with Phil in the Meadows of Dan,
in which I know that I would make it to the bottom if I actually wanted it enough.
And this time I actually want it enough.
I will climb past the roots and the fallen logs, and well beyond my fears.

paradise

Incrementally
systematically
debilitatingly

I loose faith

in humans

in significance

in self.

at least the dam of universiality has not burst.
I would not survive that surge.

the last one was better in my mind

they're not virgins anymore.
there's a change in her eyes.
his eyes change less.
but, her eyes go from ponds to lakes.
and the switch is custom.
sometimes the threshold is low. (most honorable, little lady)
other times, it takes a lot of flooding for the hurricane flag to be flown.

but no escapees have run past here without damage to report.
that is the beast.
the gun is so automatic, it hasn't been manned in a millenium.
she will never __________ again like she used to.
a true blank.
a somberly recognized transition.
that is the anti-personel mine station you can read in her face.
there has been a binding ceremony, but half the participants were laughing.
reality is sling-shotting this direction, watch out!

visage

when the ice shell
encrusts the atmosphere of the womb,
and the subordinate orb
sepia,and brushed, appears,
though but a reflection of other glory,
to the terrestrial creatures,
reaching upward,
gnarled, naked, blind, and frozen,
and the marvel is revealed
to other creatures
whose reaching is less an apparent manifestation,
and upon whom the shadows of impression are cast,
There,
There is luxury.

And when spectrum,
array,
and infinite variety
blend amongst turbulent vapor
and chemical luminescence,
while only eyes reach toward them
these are still
gnarled, naked, and frozen
while transfixed
and this simply the interaction betwixt the classes
of creatures dumb, and creatures wise,
between whom the shadows of impression are unidirectional.
There,
There is superiority of luxury.

Fredrick George Messer

Do you see?
I've been carrying you around with me.
One of the good ones.
It's just like the song says.

I'd been hoping to bump into you around town.
But I don't get up that way much anymore.
Infact, I think I had a dream about it.
I wonder if it was the 21st...woulda been close to then.

Anyway, I guess that's why your toes were numb, huh?
Did you know it then?
That was the summer before this past one, wasn't it?

What's it like to feel it coming?
What's it like in that moment?
I think you would tell me.
I wish I could have asked.

Well I still have that screwdriver that you said wasn't yours.

http://www.legacy.com/newsobserver/Obituaries.asp?Page=Lifestory&PersonId=122294386

I quit.

I do not wish to ever again be responsible for the execution of anyone else's senseless, heartless, or reckless ideas.

this time i heard the laughter in the yelling

there were these men
and seperate fog.
they probably saw it.
i think of how a new beast supplants the painful memory of the old.

The Rascal and The Bandit.

The vapor as a geiser from his lungs.
like the suddenly halted old yeller.
but right there in town, he said.

the folks never even knew how they were damaged.
In their forward motion, they became oblivious, somehow.

Which is more commendable?
The lazy soldier
or
the apathetic citizen?

And how should I test my hypothesis.
No flashlight is worth that, no matter how bright.

but still, I am held alert by the beam of light.

Also, he called today,
who cannot comment on laziness or apathy.
and added a credit to an almost nominal account.
and the rope bridge may have swayed but held its head up.

Veil'd in flesh, the Godhead see;
Hail, th'incarnate Deity:
Pleased, as man, with men to dwell,
Jesus, our Emmanuel!

for so long, I was young

to take the attitude
of the best friend.
I don't feel it anymore.
to with true, quiet joy, recite your mass.
Oh.
Oh, God.
Oh, Immanuel.
Coincidence, no.
Apocalypse, not.

But he, without waiver, spoke the Father's word.
Thy will...
but, not the perfect one, no.
just a mimicry,
Yet even the poorest still life indicates the first fruit.

and this, is this harvestable whatsoever?

wow not a metaphor if you hear the rest...

this was winter
death looks down
the color of the hills
there is a gate
he will climb over that with his treasure
it will be dark then
he does not disturb the silence.
lying still, always facing the constant motion.
(wow)
Linda Gregg
All of it singing.

the new life.

when are we raised?
when is the new life?
Is this whole 'day', under the sun,
just a thumb-twiddling stall?

I hope not.
I hope,
rather,
there is terrestrial redemption.
new life.

I hope.

on hobbies

On hobbies,

A model train set in the basement was either built, bought, or spontaneously generated.
As the third possibility is only a figment of the silver screen, I will consider only the prior pair.
Model train design, manufacture, and sales is an industry. Jobs are created, utilities are consumed, cars are driven, posters are printed, etc.
Why?
So some child (or man/child) can be entertained?
Why do humans engage in entertainment? In leisure?
Two probable reasons come to mind:
1) We are not wired to instinctively accomplish the tasks which we feel compelled to accomplish for economic reasons. (We were not made to provide for ourselves in menial labors like putting the heads on pins, managing a hobby store, etc., but we do.)
2) We are somehow un-fulfilled in any (perhaps the aforementioned tasks, perhaps even in the tasks necessary for life)and seek a sense of mastery in another simpler or more 'interesting' task.

We were not made to enslave ourselves to labor, let alone labors not directly affecting our sustainance. If we are not fully able to feel that our labor is accomplishing our provition and protection, then we must pursue a sense of satisfaction from another source. We may seek our satisfaction through a 'hard reset' to our hard-wired drives through:
1) A lifestyle which supplies exactly and directly for our needs.
2) Leisure, which finds us in a state of simple, direct, due provision and protection without the application of any labor. (picture: man on dock, fishing; woman on couch, reading)

I believe we generally find the first solution implausible when the surrounding society is non-participatory. So, we resign ourselves to the second solution. We intentionally participate in tasks which assume provision and protection but have no exchangable value (who would pay a man to watch TV?).

However, if a person finds him/herself only satisfied by participation in deeds without any provisional, protective, or exchangable value, this is probably mild insanity, and may qualify the sufferer for an accelerated rate of expiration...(but for a supportive political/familial condition).

Coming soon: "On retirement", "On non-exchangable goods", and "On wanton consumption"

on capitalism

The inherent vice of capitalism is the unequal sharing of blessings; the inherent virtue of socialism is the equal sharing of miseries.
-Winston Churchill

eucharist

Well, I don't want to comment too sharply on the doctrinal qualities of 'substantiation'

But, Craig nailed the metaphor of the eucharist as the apparent driver of Margaret Yadusky's life.

scale

Magnificent spatial impression in my adulthood has been hard to find.
I mean, the grand canyon got me earlier this year - it WAS big.
But, were I only, say, 8, canyon de chelly would have changed my life.
though much less grand.
I understand the quests of lunatics.
The 20,000'+ crowd.
People who need simultaneous grandeur and limitless horizons.
Even I still find some perspective in the beach vista from a widow's walk.
But now, the view from a lighthouse hardly holds wonderment.
Some airports are still cool the first time.
But on the flight home, it's just a race to the baggage claim.
jading? I don't know the participle form, but I feel it.
Even my grandparent's old house, 3500 feet, when I was 5,
was a hundred times bigger than a 6500' house now, 2 decades later.
A Gehry building is a novelty, not a monolith.
Perhaps there are multiple edges slicing.

1) I have seen much.
2) I have imagined more.
3) I have seen into the sights and imaginations of others.

Photo, Film, Connectivity, Semi-Conductivity, Distribution, Transportation,

If I had lived without those, could I still be wowed?

# 70-something

me, kettle?
oh.
wow.
i see my speck, and raise you a log.
i am yet alert to enumerate.
hmm.
is this the classic?
I call.
you.
out.
logger.
"pot," I call you: 'black'.
And tomorrow, and tomorrow,
and the petty pace, you have now defined.
called.
and raised.
check.
and 'checkmate'.
eat it.
get off me.
resentment devours sympathy.
I hope he's right, and the novacain suits the toothless.

the greats.

Historically, so many people have made decisions for indirect, unselfish reasons which ultimately became part of their paths to their historical remembrance, that I detect myself to be on a bullet train into obscurity.

Mark 14:3-8.
3 While He was in Bethany at the home of Simon the leper, and reclining at the table, there came a woman with an alabaster vial of very costly perfume of pure nard; and she broke the vial and poured it over His head. 4 But some were indignantly remarking to one another, “Why has this perfume been wasted? 5 “For this perfume might have been sold for over three hundred denarii, and the money given to the poor.” And they were scolding her. 6 But Jesus said, “Let her alone; why do you bother her? She has done a good deed to Me. 7 “For you always have the poor with you, and whenever you wish you can do good to them; but you do not always have Me. 8 “She has done what she could; she has anointed My body beforehand for the burial. 9 “Truly I say to you, wherever the gospel is preached in the whole world, what this woman has done will also be spoken of in memory of her.”

Michael Faraday was a blacksmith, book binder, valet, and secretary.
Jean-Jacques Rousseau was a Secretary and music copyist.
Galileo wished to be a priest, and instead was arrested by the church.

when the elevator music starts.

Did you go hungry this week?
Were you homeless this week?
Were you un-clothed this week?
Were you beaten this week?
Were you imprisoned this week?
Were you even disowned?

My week was okay, too.

Addenda 3

There are two ways to find one's self more effectively wealthy than ever the case previous.

1) more work
2) more risk.

Work, as the primitive commodity, is clearly the most fundamental measurement of value.
But risk, as the willingness to provide work on speculation, may also be rewarded with an estimation of value.

One's work ought to provide for one's needs of preservation through nourishment and protection.
If one's labor is not immediately directed toward those tasks, it must be exchangeable for one or both of those needs.
When one's exchangeable labor is not sufficient to acquire nourishment and protection, one ought redirect their energy to more direct efforts of finding/raising food, or creating clothing and shelter.
If one can neither provide directly for their needs, or exchange their labor to provide for their needs, they will die unless propped up by family (genetic or political).
An economic society may be primarily measured by the indirectness of one's labor toward providing for one's needs.
A society in which all farm, weave, and build, is dissimilar to the society in which each role is filled by another person.
As to the superiority of one form or the other, I will not hastily judge.
Obviously, specialization can provide more for more with less. But, perhaps generalization can provide less, with the same, for all?

Risk is the willingness to labor in vain if there is a possibility that the labor may somehow not actually be in vain.
Risk tells the worker to work more as this may yield more nourishment or security.
Risk tells the worker to work differently as this may provide as much nourishment or security with less energy.
Risk tells the worker to part with what is known in exchange for the possibility that the unknown is superior.

Either Labor or Risk in isolation is senseless. One labors to nurture an apple tree for its fruit, thought there is the risk of loss by storm, beast, or plunder. One offers the tended apples for sale though there is the risk that the potatoes purchased are not good to eat.
Yet, one ought not tend a tree for boredom's sake alone. This is a hobby. It is a waste.
Neither ought one take his new potatoes and senselessly offer them for resale, this ultimately devalues the potato and thus the first exchange.

Addenda 2

There is labor which you are given.
There is labor which you steal.
There is labor which you enact.
There is labor which you buy.

One is given labor through inheritance, friendship, loyalty, parental nurture, governmental subsidy, or supernatural providence.
Some say it is all super natural providence, but they have not thought it through well enough.

One steals labor through manipulation, intimidation, taxation, or literal theft.
Some are skilled in squeezing others for a desired deed or non-deed through guilt or flattery.
Others use guns, or threats, or raised voices or fabrications of rank.
Some use the government. This is Socialism, Fascism, Marxism, Communism, etc. From the able to the needy.
Some just steal. A Watch, a necklace, a car.

One's self may be employed as the primary producer of one's economic output.
This has been more popular (necessary) in the past than it is today.
Still, the theoretical produce of one's mind and body are the essential gauges of human economic value.

But, one may find themselves in control of the labor of another when some other person places a definite value on their time.
So, if someone describes their self-perceived economic value in a way which corresponds to another's perception of the same, then the one may buy the labor of the other. This is the deepest economic kernel of employment.

So, which is best? A balanced portfolio of all but the second.

lame.

The only people who read this are scammers.

Addenda 1

Smith may well be correct that specialization is the secret to economic efficiency.
But let me argue that niche generalization is the secret to wealth.
Is not the conductor paid more than the violinist? Why?
Because the conductor can play the violin, oboe, and trumpet.
Perhaps not a "true proficient," but neither a slouch, and clearly the master.
The composer and orchestrator are even second to the conductor.
And further, the man who runs the symphony is greater.
For the man who can balance an orchestra, a dance troupe, a theater, and benefactors; he is greatest.

Who is worth more?
The man with the chain saw, or the man who knows which tree brings the most at market?
Neither.
The man who knows both and more is the one who can run the company profitably.
For one must know the material, the technique, the process, and the final product all at once to supply the good demanded.
A man must build an armoire before he can properly hew the log.

But, perhaps I must bow to Smith again.
Are not these monarchs of particular industrial management only another speciality?
Yes, for there is but one manager per company, and perhaps a few per category of business.

Yet, if a man could be the manager of many companies, is he still more specialized?
Him, we would call a mogul.
Yet, he is most specialized.
Though he is the Renaissance man.
Alas.

ha!

The caption read:

Click to enlarge!

AppARently, it only works on pictures.

sorry honey.

the acceptible

I am boring.

I hope for things which could be explained
but perhaps are improvements
or at least are inherent consequences.

natural and predictable are spades
to the hearts of the contrivance and novelty.

Am i requesting predictability?

my pulse calms and beckons.
but to what?

oh dear god, the universe is too vast.
and I can't really tell it so, what a conundrum.

what might shakespeare be thinking of me?
Ass of mouth with knight's soul, solely asinine in the mouth of night and wine.

it must be fear

why not elect the mor(m)on.?

from whence my trepidation?

I think I'd just rather live here than switzerland.
but my threat remains.

if congress squelches the fair tax - regardless the commander -
I must undoubtedly supress my patriotism in favor of my ideology.
esle I am the hedonist, and not philosophically so.

damn $240m

not to say that i wouldn't like a quarter billion bucks. that sounds perfect.

but i'd rather be the guy who could talk himself (and you) out of hell.

there it is. now huckabee, kick ass or die trying.

the new apocalypse

the book is going mediocrely.

this has been a bad week.
the only person I know who's had more beer than my sister this week is my dad.
he's in bad shape.
goodbye uncle john.
I wish that writing could be a salve tonight,
but even Ben GIbbard fails me.
now having lived through watching someone die
to the point that I couldn't come back.
but why? Aren't we all dying?
I guess I'm just bitter that hoping and praying are futile.

I'm listening to a CD which is a soundtrack not to any film, but to an imaginary life
only in my head and which is very dramatic.

passion, pride, purity, pursuit, power, punching, passing, partying.
beautiful places, average people, ugly places, beautiful people.
perhaps only contrast.

it's my birthday.
and I'm not ready to cut it off with sleep
as though insomnia were my suprehuman power to still the rotation of earth.
grrrrrrr!! I strain to roll back my eyelids.

to forsee.

perhaps I am impaired.

But I believe that I have just envisioned the future.

According to the vision: I will not get a PHD.

Ok.

Heavy.

I will be a builder like never before there was one.

Heavy.

the future of...forestry.

I just applied for a job as a grunt with a green-builder in chapel hill.

I'd love a job I could believe in and learn from.

by the way, check out the band Future of Forestry

PSIII

I would use an expletive, but the only person who may ever know that this post exists has probably already heard it, and will likely be reading this in the same room as the one in which his young children are amusing themselves with reading or intellectual board games.

So, I'll just describe myself as disappointed. Not despondent, or depressed, but certainly alienated and disenfranchised.

snead

like how even cardboard has a smell.

papers

I'm not quite sure yet,
but I think I'm an antifederalist.
not a libertarian.
never was.
but I think I'd have voted anti-federalist
if I'd been alive 220 years ago.

buddhist crucifix

crazy, I'm sure.
but I'm trying my darndest
to get feeped up
on green tea.

season opener

If I have idols in my life, they are:

myself
my wife
-and her exquisite figure
intellectualism
-thomas jefferson
-francis bacon
-john locke
-etc.
the beach
music
more of myself