war is peace.

excerpted from the forward of the recently-released "National Defense Strategy of The United States of America":

The Department of Defense is implementing the President's commitment to the forward defense of freedom as articulated in the National Security Strategy.

doesn't the phrase "forward defense" sound eerily like some orwellian doublespeak for "preemptive?"

read this creepy, creepy document: http://www.globalsecurity.org/military/library/policy/dod/nds-usa_mar2005.htm

someone interpret me please.

it's lonely on the edge of life.

a poem written over spring break. not sure it's done:

Easter '92

It was Easter. I was eight.
That's when my mother told me,
a hint of hesitation in her voice,
that the Easter Bunny was a lie.
It was she who'd left the baby blue basket
full of artificially-colored candy,
plastic eggs and synthetic grass.
I cried and refused to go to morning mass.

Years later I lost my former faith,
the radiant faith of my family.
I was led astray by books and by my body,
by the bitterness of desert wars and barren hearts.
I was no longer able to accept
their simple magic, the salvation mystery.
Men don't die and rise.
Rather, they rot and are forgotten.
The Easter Bunny was a lie
and bursting forth from the grave
is pulling a rabbit from a hat.

Be minimal. Be intentional.

I just came to the realization that we are not all unique individuals; rather, we are all particular expressions of the general trend of LIFE-TOWARD-PERFECTION. We are all electrons in a cloud, never here long enough to be counted, but collectively creating the forces that hold things together, that move things along. Rumi babbled in ecstasy one day about not seeking love, but seeking the barriers within oneself preventing love from entering freely in. Knock, knock. I am love. I am knocking. We all have barriers. Freud called them neuroses, and though he too was crazy, he had a point. So what if one day we all decided, "FUCK THIS! We aren't going to be afraid anymore! We're not going to be afraid to love unashamedly, to be open, receptive, yielding, VULNERABLE EVEN!" What would happen? Would the world end, or maybe just chuckle deep in its core? Laugh if you want. Love if you can.

you know i try . . .

i have been stood up twice in the past two weeks by two different people.

i am officially giving up on girls.

i know i might sound like a misogynist, and i hope my female friends forgive me, but i honestly have no clue.

whatever women are looking for, i apparently don't have it.

and right now i feel like jumping off the earl long.

(Title)

Her hair, heaped on her head,
forms a clumsy pile.
Her eyes, a brilliant brown,
swirl round, swirl round, sarcastic
and sexy in their sockets.
She is five foot four and thin.
She is all thick lips and skin.

She is terrifying, and I turn.

no, seriously . . .

who's for hopping a train and getting the fuck out of here?

can't think of a thing.

two poems . . .

Author

I am writing a new chapter
in my life. I will not give it
a grand title or begin
with a wise old epigraph. No,
only a number. Three I think.

Every step is a word,
every breath a comma,
every thought a parenthesis.

The story bleeds out
at my feet when I walk
these syntactical streets.
Gray, grammatical buildings
structure these sentences.

And every moment I worry
if I've not mistakenly woven
a stumbling series of weak metaphors.

**************************************

Savior

A scarecrow in a cornfield at dusk,
hat cocked back to betray
a sagging, hairless head of hay.
Poor thing, basically a beaten bag,
arms spread, pinned at the shoulders, wrists,
hung dumbly like a limp, muted messiah.

a sonnet written ten minutes before it was due . . .

Sisyphus Under The Oak


I considered the oak, lively, defiant
Its massive arms stretched in victory
And wondered at how such a sprawling giant
Could with such elegance mock gravity
While roots black with peat, rot, and history
Claw mercilessly at the earth below
It remains a remarkable mystery
How sturdily its bulky branches grow
I sat in the lap of the old live oak
Between its gnarled and knotted knees
And listened to its melancholy croak
And smiled because it sounded like me
It knows that all life is struggle and grieves
But in spite of death proudly shows it leaves

she was smoking, my face was down, my hands in my pockets . . .

her name is laura and who the fuck knows?






every single day i feel older and older . . .