my E l e c t r o n i c pen april 2 0 1 3 the i n d e x
got Guillermo'd in late april, waiting for spring, all of us.
counting small things in the early morning sun, a Swiss man snores, a Moroccan girl sleeps in my bed,
and guinea pigs make a mad dash to nowhere.
let's write more than three lines, poots, you're awake before 7, the coffeepot ticks, and i guess this week you thought alot about work.
well what you mean is work in the physics sense.
after dreams far and wide, in the early dark hours, this poot was kissed on the head by an angel.
a striped angel wearing dark glasses
with nothing and everything to say, poots and her left ovary pour another cup.
great emails for an early sunday morning after lots of pale wine from countries that shouldn't make wine.
a snoring swiss man. cold, cold sun outside the window, quiet animals on a sunday, and a racing poot-brain.
did the racing poot-brain get me where i am, for better or for worse, richer or poorer, and existential crisis number sixty two.
alt-tabbing between fantasies, SHUT UP hamster, chewing, not enough coffee to quell a desire.
the guarded one snores, two nights of dinner, and all the biology in the world waits.
poots has an entire day to prepare; like her offspring after her, it's mostly in the preparation.
my ideas aren't very public.
today as happy medium, let's talk about teri garr.
snarled, alone, minding my own business.
early up, java rocky, 33,000 will have to do in the real world.
the only real-life stories i have, i cannot tell.
this is the fight.
how do you tell your real life stories?
how many untold stories do you have?
mine are all, untold, alll.
i once googled myself
in the end,
we're all terribly alone.
my forty-seven year old breasts and i, know this, now.
in case of emergency.
what is an emergency; a mistake; a poor judgement;
why does it always have to be so hard to explain yourself;
my english is darn good, methinks.
backwards people in the metro,
frustrations and anger,
and a young mother lays, brain dead in ICU in toronto.
god, what is fair, what is fair.
forgive us our sins.
three minutes before eight.
what time do you leave for school.
margret thatcher dead.
poots' body whines, cross-eyed, waiting to focus on this monday
this coffee, useless, angry without my coffee
the radio blares at me
22 likes on a photo
when i cannot touch you, are you real.
am i too large.
perhaps my tactics are too direct.
am i smarter, dumber, or just louder than you?
i cannot learn in your way,
i cannot deliver on a silver platter,
time is of the essence: one life here folks:
things are piling up between men and women:
can we talk about paleolithic brains
and their place in this century.
poots and pigs up early.
change of life, harumph.
yesterday, there was a calmness, which swept gently by.
i had not felt it before, perhaps long forgotten.
there's a warmth that comes with winter;
in the depth of it; in the dark;
it comes, forces us inside; inside ourselves;
and leaves again, in march.
ebb and flow, yes, a rodent runs on a wheel,
and he needs an official 'name'.
APRIL 3 still cold in the city.
Frankie, Franklin says some very wise things. Not amongst them however is thought control.
poots is up early, there's a reason, none intended.
the nabob's half tepid, the forehead a bit sweaty, buzz buzz heater.
cold bits and pieces swirling quicker than the morning eye can follow,
through the semi frozen branches, in a still grey canopy,
outside the window in this town.
photos slide by on a timeline, starfish, Seattle, and a sunset.
the world moves. people move. i sit still. and i am okay.
my mind wanders; when my heart laments; some ideas are simply life; some can be changed;
courage to know the difference, *sigh*, poots, *sigh*.
bottom of the cup now,
thanks for the early wakeup.
putting the brain in 'neutral' can be a good thing at times like this.
webpages flashing white things,
child and man in opposite beds,
and does writing her provide enough release, enough calm, level surface, brain dump, not yet, keep typing poots,
into the tiny metal box, 399 dollars and four square, the whole world can see it, the coffee ticks.
such things will never melt your heart any less; your standards are never lowered; cursed, you attend life with only perfect expectations.
cursed. it's simply the way. watch scott kiloby and all curses disappear! you are convinced of that. what does he think when he watches cold winds in april,
blowing tiny frozen translucent bits of earth dust around the backyard trees. is a snowflake non dual i wonder. some of these are probably opaque, but
most are not.
i can coin a genre, i can stake my claim.
do i need more coffee, now that, is a real question which can be answered.
grunts down the hall; periodic absence of heart and mind; ebb and flow;
fuck off to the entire world.
how's that for a genre. well. harsh i guess. i'm allowed, sometimes?
or maybe only half the world. yes, let's say half the world. and i wonder if that is what most people REALLY mean.
they'll never really know i guess, since it takes an hour of mEpping to discern it. argh. feels good though. fuck you.
it's the 2013 world people. i can do that now.
just don't take me for granted.
not for one day. not for even one day.
at our peril, that is.
i did not deal these cards.
they are not mine to wheel and deal.
If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge,
and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing.
woke up still in love, i am not nothing.
easter, easter, everywhere