more poetry, less trite bullshit.

more poetry, less trite bullshit. Who cares that I bought groceries today?

Gnawing on a string of midnight;
anger is omniverous.

I’ll grease metal silver-cloud-linings, trying
to slide down some unsuspecting constelation;
a star-spangled banister-rider,
banging eye-sores with tear-drips from the sky’s lips.
Luna never sang so sweet
her concave crater-stains smiling sweetly at me
or grinning greedily at me.
Is the moon fuzzy like a peach?

Trying to turn over a new emotion-leaf.

Rubbing brain-elbows with eucalyptus leaves;
soaking myself in the star-light’s-echinacea-tea.

I didn’t even look out the window. I’d probably only see light polution anyway.

self obsession in blogs and poetry

blogs are a trap for the self-obsessed.

Not only that, but I think they foster a self-obsession. It’s easy to get into reading blogs, (they’re the “real TV” of the internet). And of course anything you read gets internalized to some degree, and then you start to think like a blogger, which then causes you to want a blog… and become self-obsessed.

Look at me! I’m a blogger! W00T!

um, fortunately, I didn’t need to start reading blogs to have this sad self-obsession. Here’s my favorite poem, (by Frank O’Hara)



When I was a child
I played by myself in a
corner of the schoolyard
all alone.

I hated dolls and I
hated games, animals were
not friendly and birds
flew away.

If anyone was looking
for me I hid behind a
tree and cried out “I am
an orphan.”

And here I am, the
center of all beauty!
writing these poems!


I think this proves my point.

Welcome to the Freedom2surf signup page!

“Welcome to the Freedom2surf signup page!
Sorry – Our free webservers are currently full”

oh well. I’m looking for other alternatives.

This is the first time I’ve opened up blogger in IE for pc. Very weird. How do they do this? I’m so confused… It’s not a frame, and it very much appears to be a part of my browser. How do they do it!?

um, yeah, what was I going to talk about? Hmmm. working on the weekends sucks, especially when you find out about this expectation on sunday afternoon. I’ve been depressed lately. (I don’t think this is actually related to working on sunday, but anything is possible.) I blame lack of sleep, and far too much to do after work… I have less and less “unscripted” time. Time to just do whatever…

My poetry journal has been the most neglected it has been in at least four years. I write in it sometimes once a week now, and I was doing so well there for awhile. Aproaching my once or twice a day in the summertime. I guess when it’s nice outside, I want to go sit more and write. I also blame the fact that I haven’t really read anything inspiring lately. I was very excited to get the new book of poetry by Jeff Noon, but it turned out to be pretty uninteresting. I should read more of it, but when do I have time?

My most recent musical discovery is this punk/pop band called The Strokes. I think they’re from the UK. (I really have no idea.) The first song on the album, and the title track, is “Is This It”, which is probably a question, despite the lack of punctuation. The phrase keeps rolling around in my head, both in lyric, and in word form (does anyone else end up thinking in typing strokes?) … yeah, you can’t respond yet, but you will be able to. soon… I’m desperate for that instant feedback… I’ve become addicted to reading the comments on Yami’s site, and I want the same thing for myself. Of course, I don’t have hordes of foreign exchange students who have everything in common with me, but maybe I’ll find an audience in the balding-mid-twenties-underpaid-techie crowd.

a poem off the top of my head:

sweet silvery jukebox-smile
teeth matte like the grit on a scratch-to-win
pig-tails and short skirt–
high-school-girl high

you cavort my eye
cajole my attention span into flickering your fickle direction
I’m a weak knee’d gummy worm
squishy in your palm

precicely pinned in your geometry textbook
hearts and stars around our names
I’m your disected frog, I’m your stairway physics experiment
I’m empty and old, used and discarded

whatever happened to that jittery feeling anyway? I used to get all nervous talking to girls on the phone, now I just want to hang up and talk to someone in real life, or go check my email… speaking of…

confronting the background images

I’ve been studying web narratives. Hypernarratives. I have a new theory:
The web is a narrative. Every click is based on a decision. The decision
is based on knowledge of the elements on the page, knowledge of where the
click will take you. That knowledge is like a plot. So in a way, the
difference between the term ‘hypertext’ and ‘hyperfiction’ is nothing.
There is no difference. Hyperfiction is only pretending to be closer to
what fiction once was, what fiction once meant.

_confronting the background images_

environment as part of us:
dust in your apartment
cobwebs make you you
eyes cultivate relationships
eyes as connectors
eyes as ambassadors of image
eye circuits
image investments, eye bank-tellers
eyebrokers, imagebrokers
walking out on the image eye by eye
one eye after the other
ships of eyes, drowned eyes, wooden eyes
giraffe eyes, elephant eyes,
elephant images, wet images
(like water, washing away, being washed
away, falling image, image storm)

Eye images confuse the matter:
eyes in pyramids, eyes in hands, in texts,
in contexts, in pancakes, in meatballs
eyes eaten by stowaways…
eye-slaughter, eyemage.

Dragon guided by the wind

Dragon guided by the wind
computers our agency…
“the medium is the message”
to some degree, the message is
transformed by the medium.

We fanciful children
playing god games
(because that myth has finally fallen)
sweep out onto the streets
get sucked back into silicon
live computer-guided lives

Each inch of digital empire
is an itch in the right direction:
We’ll buy power, or die trying.

In the unforeseeable future
species die out and replicate themselves
brains bought and sold
biceps too, and physical will augment
the digital.

waiting for an email

earwax windex why to exponential
leaves wither at the touch of environments
like the sahara in my eardrums. I’ve
stolen the Tajmahal and eaten the gold dome
it was like a chocolate orange, tasted
just as sweet, cracked like an egg,
one part jagged, pushing up into my gums
made me bleed eggshell bloody hell
all onto the table. Doves and satan
with a red nose (he leads santa’s sleigh)
all carpet-dive into something resembling
the red sea. It’s my gum laden blood,
the carapace of my ghosts, the dreggs
of my dead lovers, the sequin studded leather
of my current lover. I’m now a norwegen,
or a sacrificial lamb, can’t think which.

I’ve got switchblade eyes,
treetrunk fists, busker’s breath, bat
sonar in the sea of night’s sky…
I storyspace with the best of them,
sing like leonard (cohen or nemoy,
I don’t know.) I now like to look
I like to look tomorrow, I wait
for email as if it were the end
of the world, which it will be
if I never get the email…

no new mail.

no new mail.
no name on my datebooks
what an empty desolate

no potatos
no tomatos
no swing dance lessons
what subconscious patheticism

no signposts
no scapegoats
no pocket protecting prophets
no idea screaming sockets
what dreary savage

no network television yet
no cartoons or doodles
no subscription porn
no dreamtime crap
no science fiction fandom
what sad sad sad sad sad

Programming Poem in C++

while( scanf( "%look", days_ahead ) )
   if( I get up tomorrow )
         the terrible day will descend;
         screamf("Fuck you, terrible day!");
	   The terrible day will not descend;
	   I will lay beached on my bed;
	   a trembling sun will not hinder me;

18 wheel bitstreams.

18 wheel bitstreams.
Text is not enough anymore.
We’ve got to capture eye & ear,
mouth & mind.

Perfectly quotable,
text like thumbnails–
wet your whistle for words.
I’m an accounting machine
crunching out the numbers of intelect
and emotion.
Trouble is, you’ve got to understand both,
most don’t.

My lists are all you’ve got to chew on.

* * *

If it took you as long
to read this
as it takes me to write it,
you would understand

what I’m saying.

* * *

Jump on, it’s a freeway out there.
Ten-ton roller-derby
balls of static.
User interface universe.

Forms and fields

Forms and fields,
database detachment.
Why isn’t there a field for emotional disposition?
Is this any less urgent than favorite pet or color?
We are increasingly quantified by impersonal statistics.
Sociological downtide.
(Spirit of ASP.)