Free Write's topics - tribe.net

Gibberish

Thu, 27 Mar 2008 14:33:58 GMT

Its fun.

http://tribes.tribe.net/gibberish101tribe

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RIP Gary Gygax, Co-creator of Dungeons & Dragons (X-posted)

feiruz_al-bnefsagia — Tue, 04 Mar 2008 22:42:34 GMT

If it weren't for the creative guys at Tactical Studies Rules (TSR) I doubt we'd have the extensive fantasy- and mythology-based literature and games which are so popular and financially successful today.

Rest well, Gary.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gary_Gygax

Feiruz, a second-generation "gamer"

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sugar beets and honey

skadi_lupa — Fri, 20 Jul 2007 06:03:16 GMT

there is an ocean growing within me
i can see much further from in here than ever before
dimly lit and made of sound

i enter the space
she is visible at once
i am facinated, i am amazed
i am hosting the festivities deep within the warmth of my lower abdomen

i hardly know what to say
traversing the space, her small body reveals its contour, its beginnings, its spark
i begin to believe as i never had before
and all is absorbed without tears

i am in love
like the taste of sugar beets and honey
i crave her awareness, her small wiggles
i want to share this space with her
i want to make space for her to grow

i am in love

posted in Free Write - 1 reply

finding nothing

skadi_lupa — Thu, 24 Jan 2008 05:22:32 GMT

i can remember being someone else but i cann;t remember who she was and it seems i cannot be bothered to turn around and look for her as she is no longer there.

i look into these eyes that have always looked out for me and seen this skin, this hair, these hands, this body and yet it all seems new in its age. i am not sure she ever existed. who was she? when did she go and who has replaced her? i have been here the whole time so what was the definitive moment the moment of ultimate change because gradual would not explain this complete revision.

i cannot explain this to myself. all the ordinary ...the everyday so utterly like halucinating. i never want to forget how much i have loved the fleeting even as it has gone. like wind in my face, tears flowing, i welcome the whatever. i love this yet to be.............

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Timeline

Andre — Wed, 23 Jan 2008 09:24:54 GMT

from now until my battery dies. Isn't this so much like life? Death? Until my last breath I'll be living like I can live forever. All these years threading water, looking aside from the compass. Ship threading water, moving towards nowhere in circles or in a crash course. Does it matter? Every course is a crash course, maybe just smiling and living the insanity of it as the insanity that it is is where the liberation lies?

A spider on the windshield wiper, in Los Angeles. On Venice, driving, the light turns red and while waiting, looking at this yellow spider running on the windshield wiper. Is it poisonous? Will it survive the ride? Green light.

Attention turns and moves. Attention in the head, cranium, mind, brain, thinking, spinning the wheels of thoughts, endlessly, transformed into food for them. Energy, attention, life as artistry, clean slate, each moment unknown, each question, innocent, each look, fascinated, each touch, a conosseur's delight.

Attention in the heart. Attention in the body. Attention in the blood pumping inside the arteries. pump. Pump. Pump. The most hones sound the loneliest sound of life lifing, pumping, moment by moment, sparks of attention, breaths of air, flights in the storm, falling stars, lives, kisses, flames, connections, interactions, the ecstasy of union and restarting for new life, more of us coming to this earth, more of us crowding for their 5 minutes, fifteen weeks, two years, eighty average statistical years of life, love, pain, joy, disease and death.

Threading water?

Spirit is the compass.

Body is the ship.

Mind is the navigator.

You are the captain.

The course doesn't matter. Sailing the course does.

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have any of you ever had TOU problems...

RPMcMurphy — Mon, 10 Dec 2007 16:42:53 GMT

Not due to trolling or flaming...or spamming
but because of unacceptable content...

subversive... social hacking etc.

posted in Free Write - 0 replies

PRESS STATEMENT: Revised 12.06.2007, Black File 7001, Freelance Journalist inside the Federal Witness Protection Program as a Non-Criminal Federal Witness.

Lee Vin Bah — Thu, 06 Dec 2007 14:37:13 GMT

PRESS STATEMENT: Revised 12.06.2007, Black File 7001, Freelance Journalist inside the Federal Witness Protection Program as a Non-Criminal Federal Witness.

Freelance Journalist inside the Federal Witness Protection Program as a Non-Criminal Federal Witness. “Black File 7001” is a work of investigative journalism that initially began in 1994. Early in 1999, I completed a covert assignment with the FBI lasting five years after having been previously requested to stand-down from a fulltime university curriculum with an inactive law enforcement background for possibly twelve months. Immediately thereafter I entered the Federal Witness Protection Program (WitSec) and ever since have continued to experience the U.S. government’s use of psychological torture practices and political retribution by the named agents and agencies of the U.S. government under the Bush-Cheney administration. Multiple actionable offenses have been committed under state, federal and international law while the culpable agents and agencies remain shielded from civil and criminal prosecution by the administration’s threat or issuance of national security letters, which prevent legal discovery and subvert the rule of law. The U.S. government does torture, I am one of its American victims and am requesting a humanitarian intervention before it is too late.

EDITORIAL FOREWORD:

Producing the report titled “Black File 7001” has experienced the threat or issuance of national security letters by the Bush-Cheney administration, a subordinate agent directly under the administration threatening me with the invention of a criminal charge if I publish and the suppression of this story by the same Democratic Congress that falsely promised an end to the money laundering operation in Iraq that remains perpetuated by the insidious genocide of our American military service members and other innocent human beings throughout the world.

As a former lifelong humanitarian member of what use to be the Republican Party until 2000 and a person who also voted for Jimmy Carter and Bill Clinton, I charge the neoconservatives with having filled the bowels of this Trojan Horse Republican Party with the stench of operating a continuing criminal enterprise under the guise of bringing democracy to the world.

The U.S. government infrastructure has been overthrown and this administration has declared constitutional civil war against the United States of America. The American people must organize in a lawful and peaceful revolution that mirrors and surpasses the civil rights era. We must march on Washington, D.C. and picket the corporate offices of the propaganda ministries to force their coverage of your protests and displayed messages.

It is critically important that before the next election we must demand Democratic Congressional members to openly support publically funded elections; not for profit universal healthcare; free or affordable higher education for all citizens; the meaningful development alternative fuel sources; the abatement of the conditions causing the honey bee populations from disappearing from around the world (later in the primary story I will invite you to read why noticing the smallest of G-d’s creatures holds the largest messages); and the criminal investigation of the named agents and agencies of the U.S. government under the Bush-Cheney administration regarding the Black File 7001 report.

Career politicians, regardless of political affiliations who fail the muster of the American people should be removed and replaced with genuine representatives before the next voting cycle.

Americans must become the partisans of liberty to reclaim the dream and promise of America and our inalienable rights as human beings. The jackbooted fascists of today must be prevented from emulating the treason of U.S. Senator Prescott Bush through their perversion of peace for the profits of war. The American mainstream has already been herded towards the invisible and tangible death camps of democracy. In those places you will endured conditions far worse than any physical torture where other Americans like me have been left for dead for over thirty years. These human beings of whom I speak are not criminals or terrorists; they are honorable American citizens who answered their country’s call to duty for special covert government service only to become a disposable population and the hidden dirty secret of the U.S. government.

Since 1970, one thousand and eighty (1,080) American citizens have existed as something cousin to death camp victims from the destructive effects of the Federal Witness Protection Program. These non-criminal federal witnesses and American veterans of voluntary covert government service became the unknowing test subjects in a clandestine torture experiment that exists as the precursor model for converting a freethinking U.S. civilian population into a self-consuming enslaved society. Within the death camp known as “WitSec” these human beings are subjected to the insidious methods of psychological torture that systematically erode the individual sense of self-identity until the will to live has been lost.

ABOUT ME:

My WitSec No. is 7001, I am a husband, father, writer, and freelance journalist who remained inside the Federal Witness Protection Program as a Non-Criminal Federal Witness and am now ready to surface under guarded conditions with the firsthand story of how a minority group of honorable American citizens are being psychologically tortured and politically persecuted by the U.S. government. Immediately I am seeking the support of the American public and progressive news media; the representation of a listed creative agent; contract negotiations with book publishers and the motion picture industry; a university initiative with an accredited school of journalism to include lecturing options and the sanitized conversion of my college records; and communication platforms with Ms. Oprah Winfrey and Mr. George Clooney via the Smoke House Studio.

By comparison to the physical injuries that I have endured from trauma and other accidents, the lasting effects of psychological torture are far worse. This form of torture is sourced from the fascist mindset of the named agents and agencies of the U.S. government under the Bush-Cheney administration through their commissions of actionable offenses and political retributions. As a veteran of voluntary covert government service who operated undercover for five years while contracted by the FBI as an agent of the federal government, I state unequivocally and categorically that the U.S. government does torture human beings. As an American citizen and non-criminal federal witness let the record show that I am declaring myself as a torture victim of the U.S. government. With my soul dying and the body giving signs that it wants to follow I offer that no truer words have ever been written than “give me liberty or give me death” or that “the worse death is a life without hope.”

Having previously been blessed with an out of body experience during trauma that was caused by the U.S. government and prior to my recovery in advance of relearning how to walk, I am not frightened by a natural death. The experience of dying for me confirmed the Socratic belief that the human soul is made of two parts with one half being a physical finite and the other a non-physical infinite. Life as seen from the eyes of the body is an illusion or one half of a duality. It was possible to see from two separate and paralleling perspectives at the same time. The physical world appeared normal while my body felt the tremendous force of being pulled into the earth. Initially from within the spiritual realm there was no ugliness, no beauty, no gender, and only muted colors with humanoid forms. Before I lost the sight of my physical body, the last human emotion that I felt was an all encompassing global pity that literally enveloped the earth with my living sentient energy. Soon I was sitting in space and the beauty of the earth returned with the comforting tenderness of a loving mother and at my back was the warmth of wisdom and strength from a fatherly sun. A few moments passed and my two halves were made whole again to continue the journey that brought me to this place of inhuman suffering.

In self-definition I am a Humanitarian-Universal-Infrastructuralist or a person who has spent a lifetime identifying and interrelating the commonalities between myself and all known sentient beings and other components within the universe from which to become more human.

My views of the current U.S. President and Vice President find them culpable for treason, egregious crimes against humanity and international terrorism while wearing a mask of insipid divinity. Clearly these judicially selected ten cent millionaires are criminal sociopaths who function from a series of learned behaviors used to produce a desired result while being incapable of recognizing any genuine sense of right and wrong.

These individuals and their followers bare the marks that brand their names with the gamatria of the most inhuman and deceptive beings that walk among us on the earth in legion with what some would call the antichrist. Although I have never considered myself worthy of the blessings, respectfully I believe that throughout my life there have been a number of occasions when my being was touched by the many faces of G-d. With all of that said, one should never confuse spiritual currency with political capitol since the latter is most often sourced from the abyss of false profits, which brought the genocide over six million Jews, Gypsies and homosexuals in Nazi Germany; the slaughter of tribal nations in America; the turning of human beings against their brothers and sisters throughout history; the selling of children, women and men as slaves; the gang rape and victimization of Arabic women who are then whipped as criminals; and the 911 terrorist attacks used to perpetuate war profiteering and oil piracy for those who drink from a rivers of human blood and suffering. Considering my temporary acquaintance with death, I believe the purest form of spiritual worship that collectively joins us with the universe is simply the individual act of at least attempting to recognize the human being in all people.

BLACK FILE 7001:

“Black File 7001” is a work of investigative journalism that began in 1994 as an academic prospectus with the goals of publishing books, producing movies, film documentaries, and developing a lecture syllabus with the thinking who better to teach than a person with skin in the game. While in a fulltime academic setting and shortly after beginning this protect, I discovered actionable intelligence that was brought forward for case installation at the federal level. Already possessing an inactive law enforcement background and specialized skill sets where few if any training manuals exist, the FBI requested my voluntary assistance for a projected twelve months. Five years later I completed the FBI undercover group one investigation having successfully penetrated four organized crime groups while never being afforded one day off for that entire period of time. Since other federal law enforcement agencies are not equipped to handle long duration personal security operations, I entered the Federal Witness Protection Program (WitSec) as a Non-Criminal Federal Witness in 1999. Nearly immediately after entering the WitSec the named agents and agencies of the U.S. government under the Bush-Cheney administration unthinkably began outing my active covert status. Since exiting the WitSec in good standing early in 2001, political retributions by the U.S. government have continued to terrorize me with actionable offenses and the tactics of psychological torture. These culpable acts additionally serve as a passive sanction for the assassination of an American citizen and a former covert agent of the federal government. This story is uncharted territory and I am unaware of any other writer/journalist who has actually penetrated this fraudulent clandestine federal program, which shrouds itself beneath an undeserved veil of secrecy that exists in the absence of public scrutiny and meaningful congressional oversight. The latter might explain why multiple action notices regarding this investigation have gone unanswered by the craven Democratic Congress that I helped elected to office with their false promise of ending the corporatist money laundering operation in Iraq.

Within the next 30 day or by New Year’s Day 2008, I will publish an extensive sanitized report that has been redacted from a much larger work. Please communicate with me and contact your local election campaign committees to demand that your congressional members take action in this matter.

American citizens are being used as the unknowing test subjects in a clandestine torture experiment shrouded within the Federal Witness Protection Program (WitSec). Non-Criminal Federal Witnesses (1,080) are a special minority class of American citizens in title only who are being used as a laboratory control sample for the applied tactics of terrorism and psychological torture (psyops) on a U.S. civilian population by the U.S. government.

Writing remains one of my two fragile anchors holding me to this world and a federal agent (L.H.M.) directly under the Bush-Cheney administration has telephonically communicated “you have a lot of people in high places afraid to death that you are going to destroy their programs…and if you publish a book, the government will invent a criminal charge against you.” After refusing not to publish with an invitation to that federal agent’s handlers to “go pound salt up their asses”, a series of actionable offenses were committed against me in political retribution under state, federal and international law. These same entities on several occasions have outed my classified status that with each culpable act, serves to intensify what has become a standing passive sanction for the assassination of an American citizen and former covert agent of the federal government.

As a physically disabled person from two trauma accidents caused by the federal government or incurred in the line of duty during covert government service, I applied for Social Security Disability Benefits (SSDB) through the required classified channels. This process required that I utilize my second WitSec Inspector (A.S.) and the Social Security Administration’s Sensitive Operations Division (SOD) that was established for persons in covert-ops, the CIA and the U.S. State Department working oversees. The Social Security Disability Benefits were authorized, but following my refusal not to publish the WitSec and SSA’s SOD conspired to punitively withdraw my SSDB. This occurred prior to beginning treatments for Hodgkin’s Lymphoma cancer in 2004. The government’s own federal court judge who heard the SSA case issued several letters of complaint to the Sensitive Operations Division, charging that office had provided the court with erroneous information and that the SOD’s delay in responding was contemptuous to the point of preventing a fair hearing. Two months past while the SOD and WitSec crafted their evidence and my SSDB’s claim entered the appeals stage. During the initial SSDB process, repeated telephonic conversations had been made with and between the WitSec and the SOD to insure that the production of the SSA documents would not out my covert status. After multiple assurances that complete security would be maintained, the WitSec and SOD deliberately or at the least through total gross incompetence filed documents that outed my covert status by commingling my identities in violation of several federal laws and a federal court seal. After the matter was sent to the SSA Hearing and Appeals Board where it remained for two years that federal agency notified my private attorney they had lost my classified government file in violation of the same laws allegedly protecting my covert status. A copy was returned by my attorney and two weeks later my benefits were denied again. The SSDB matter is pending on civil appeal to the federal court where I am certain it will be again denied by the government’s crafting of the evidence. Lastly the WitSec and SOD conspired to deconstruct my only viable work history by purging a covert front business located in Texas from the regular SSA computer system and additionally failed under contract to sanitize and convert my previous Social Security records into my new Jewish name. Allegedly I had been employed by that Texas front business for over a decade as a construction estimator that for all I knew might have found Dick Cheney answering the telephones on an earlier occasion. Following the WitSec and SOD’s punitive acts of political retribution, during two subsequent visits to the local SSA office the computer screen was so void of information that the office staffers contacted their supervisors to report they believed their computer system had been penetrated by hackers.

Prior to 911 and before the USDOJ had been prostituted by this corrupt administration, I was able to assist in the covert criminal prosecution of my first U.S. Deputy Marshal/WitSec Inspector (J.D.) for his theft of government funds.

After 911 and following my refusal not to publish under threat of the invention of a criminal charge by the U.S. government that same former WitSec Inspector/federal felon was released from prison and allowed to stalk me. While near death from chemotherapy and radiation treatments for Hodgkin’s Lymphoma cancer that same federal felon physically accosted me by the arm inside of a warehouse superstore. Thirty-six security notices went unanswered by the U.S. Marshals Service’s Federal Witness Security Program Headquarters.

The second WitSec Inspector (A.S.) eventually came to my home with a regular deputy marshal who did not have a WitSec security clearance, which further outed my covert status and sarcastically laughed that he had forgotten to tell me that the WitSec Headquarters’ mailing address had been changed after 911 and that under the new U.S. Patriot Act my only means of communicating with headquarters was directly through him. That WitSec Inspector continued to smile while stating that my classified information and security notices had been circulated by several staffers without WitSec clearances before it got to where I thought it was being sent. When asked about the other Deputy Marshal’s security clearance, the WitSec Inspector stated “owe I use non-WitSec personnel all the time to handle WitSec matters.” This same WitSec Inspector has committed multiple actionable offences and has outed my covert status numerous times while creating a growing mortal threat environment around my geographic location.

Many of the public self-aggrandizing claims and testimonials given before the U.S. Congress and published by the Federal Witness Protection Program will soon be debunked within my Black File 7001 report.

Following the WitSec and SOD’s removal of my work history with their deletion of the covert front business from the SSA computer system and even though I am a very capable and multitalented individual with strong skill sets, given this act and the government’s failure to perform under written contracts, I have been unable to find employment after submitting over 3000 job applications. However by comparison and in direct contrast to my own personal situation, the first WitSec Inspector (J.D.) after his release from federal prison for the theft of several thousand dollars in U.S. government funds is now gainfully employed and processing the private financial records of American citizens as a mortgage loan officer. Under this administration criminals and traitors are rewarded and the good servants of the American people become part of a disposable population.

Out of 18,000 federal witnesses, 16,920 are criminal and custodial federal witnesses and 1,080 of that total number are “non-criminal federal witnesses.” The six percent who are non-criminal federal witnesses are comprised of honorable American citizens from every cultural identity within our society. These same veterans of voluntary covert government service took that extra step above and beyond the call of duty to participate in our system while defending our constitutional democracy and the American people. Within that minority of six percent I am an even smaller number of non-criminal federal witnesses who entered covert government service with an inactive law enforcement background and specialized skill sets of a nature that possess few if any training manuals.

The ACLU of which I am a member has tried to bring four previous cases involving non-criminal federal witnesses through the Washington, D.C. office. With each lawsuit brought by the ACLU, the Bush-Cheney administration has issued national security letters to prevent the legal discovery of evidence and thus subverted the rule of law. However, in my possession is the actual physical evidence that includes but is not limited to federal court documents proving the outing of my covert status; the federal court documents of the first WitSec Inspector (J.D.); lawfully produced audiotape recordings of WitSec personnel and others; and the proof of warrantless wiretapping, data mining, the electronic theft of intellectual property; et al. One should remember General Douglas MacArthur’s island hopping campaign during WWII. As that relates to this matter, I am bypassing a slugfest with Goliath that would only serve to hold me in stasis with my foot in the courtroom door. Instead I invite all freethinking human beings to a Greek debate in the court of public opinion. Criticism and contemplation are necessary to keep a flourishing democracy alive. Let the U.S. government bring forth its best criminal cowards to stand on the square with me in open examination before the American people and the world.

THE TREASON OF CONDOLEEZZA RICE:

It is also my intention to challenge the blatant lies told before the U.S. Congress by Condoleezza Rice regarding the administration’s knowledge of events prior to 911 – the FBI and CIA did have operational joint counterterrorism taskforce offices since the mid 90s.

“A litany of lies about 911, Iraq and now Iran – There is one point that I am compelled to insert within this document beyond the scope of its primary focus and here seems as good a place as anywhere. A covert FBI Special Agent and former teammate in charge of two special operations groups who worked in the field with me and whom I supported in the hunt for Eric Robert Rudolph also known as the Olympic Park Bomber, revealed during the mid 90s that both the FBI and CIA had established joint counterterrorism taskforce offices to exchange foreign and domestic intelligence. This fact directly contradicts Condoleezza Rice’s testimony before congress regarding the August 6, 2001 PDB Briefing Report titled “Bin Laden Determined to Strike in U.S.”, during which Rice stated that a fractionalization existed between federal agencies, which prevented intelligence information from being communicated to the Bush administration. The most blatant lie came when Rice stated that no joint FBI/CIA taskforce offices existed before or during that time, while alleging joint taskforce offices were being established forthwith. Further supporting a charge of perjury against Condoleezza Rice and I believe grounds for treason, appears to be former CIA Director, George Tenet’s public testimony regarding actionable intelligence in July 2001 regarding Osama bin Laden’s plan to attack American targets using commercial jetliners. July 2001 marked the last time that I flew on a commercial aircraft on my way to lecture at the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia and an occasion when I exchanged passing remarks with former U.S. Senator Gary Hart sitting near me. The actionable intelligence was clearly suppressed by the Bush-Cheney administration. In other words, given these facts and the known associations between the 911 Terrorists; the family of Osama bin Laden; the Saudi Arabian Royal family; the United Arab Emirates (poised to purchase 25% of Citibank and 40% of the U.S. and British Stock Markets); and the oil trading partners, personal friends and business associates within the Bush-Cheney syndicate it appears that the United States of America was allowed to be attacked by a foreign enemy to act as a protagonist event for the perpetuation of war profiteering and oil piracy. Therefore I strongly believe that if the unveiled enemies of the American people were not politically shielded, they would have already been prosecuted for treason, conspiracy, racketeering, money laundering, operating a continuing criminal enterprise, international terrorism, and crimes against humanity.”

SPECIAL NOTE CONCERNING IRAN:

Before the 2006 election the U.S. Intelligence agencies already knew that Iran did not have a “secret nuclear weapons program.” That report was presented to the Bush-Cheney administration and was politically suppressed with instructions given between the lines to craft new evidence. The facts are that Iran’s nuclear enrichment program has not been able to achieve a greater rate than 3.8% enrichment, which is even a lower percentage than what is required to bring a peaceful nuclear power plant online and far less than the enrichment level needed to produce a nuclear weapon. The psychology of substituting sexuality for the creation of illegal wars with oil rich sovereign nations, seems the iconic aphrodisiac of this administration when laminating that over sixty-eight elected Republican politicians have been charged and convicted of sexual crimes against children; that George W. Bush, a known cocaine user (sexual stimulant), deserted his post in the Air Nation Guard when they began drug testing; that both Bush and Cheney took multiple deferments from military service during Vietnam so that other Americans could die in their places; that Dick Cheney made use of a Freudian phallic extension in the form of a shotgun to shot his friend in the head during a hunting expedition; that Dick Cheney has a pneumatic penile implant to achieve an erection; and that the nude photograph of George W. Bush in college displays an unremarkable penis. Add these factors together with the absolute power over the U.S. military and the world will recognize a six headed monster with twelve hearts that numbers 666 and produces the political fodder that destroys the sovereign thought process, creates a toxic society and consumes the collective human soul. Plainly stated devil cannot exist without followers.

MY REQUEST TO MEDIA, UNIVERSITIES, PUBLISHERS, MOVIE PRODUCERS, AND THE WORLD OF HUMAN BEINGS:

While my reaching out might become the closing scene in a lifelong journey to become more human, knowingly I choose my own death over remaining a torture victim and slave within an uncultivatable existence where self-nurturing and remaining true to one’s own nature is an impossibility. The Democratic Congressional members that I helped elect have remained silent with the full knowledge of this matter and only a handful of good human beings seem to be listening for the moment. Already a subordinate federal agent directly under the Bush-Cheney administration has telephonically threatened that if I publish a book the government will invent a criminal charge against me. This is not the America that I defended and have nourished. Nevertheless if we are to remain a world of human beings, we the people must publically exam the U.S. government’s ongoing psychological torture of up to 1,080 Non-Criminal Federal Witnesses who are American citizens and your good neighbors. Currently I have established online locations on YouTube, Tribe.net, Comcast, and have posted on the message board at The Ed Schultz Show website where these American citizens can share their stories with other human beings and possibly begin to reclaim their individual sense of self-identity through these communication platforms. One non-criminal federal witness has already communicated they are hiding outside the U.S. to protect themselves from U.S. government torture. Recently I attempted to communicate with a well known actor’s movie studio and was informed that I must have a listed creative agent to represent my story before they will be legally able to communicate with me. Therefore and in as much that I would dare to hope to restore my own life back to the place where it should have already been, I am seeking the representation of a listed Creative Agent, Business Negotiations with members from the Publishing and Motion Picture Industries, and a University Initiative from an accredited School of Journalism where I might combine all of these components within a flourishing academic setting to create a lecture syllabus and continue writing. Please do not think me a selfish person, because I have remained one of the most extroverted and giving human beings you could ever know. This academic and professional prospectus has endured as my long-range plan since beginning this journalism project and is one of the few reasons why I have not ended my own life after experiencing something cousin to an extraordinary rendition to a clandestine blacksite torture facility that exists invisibly within the plain-sight of American society. Please do not let this story die with me and challenge the validity of any member of the Democratic Congress for their repeated failures to respond to several action notices regarding this matter.

Beyond the above I wish to offer one final piece of personal information. When I relocated to this area I had no intention of becoming involved with anyone and had anticipated reclaiming my academic standing to achieve my goals in life. While visiting a local bookstore and coffee house, I met the finest human being whom I have ever known and today that person is my wife. Together we raised our young child from her previous marriage and I have been blessed by the experience of being a father. Had it not been for my wife’s medical insurance I would not be here today writing this story. My wife retires at the end of this year and our child is now attending a university. What that means for me living on a fixed monthly annuity income and having been waited out by the WitSec while my saving depleted is that I will not be able to afford the additional $600.00 a month for my portion of the medical insurance policy. Further I have been unable to move in any direction to build the life that I wanted from the resulting harms caused by the WitSec cocoon that I will address in detail within the redacted report that follows. To protect my family and legally separate myself from my wife in the event of recurring illness, I am preparing to file the divorce papers on my desk. Never will I forgive or forget that the U.S. government under the Bush-Cheney administration has systematically deconstructed my family and prevented my equality as a person and an American citizen while psychologically torturing me in ways that have already killed other Americans who are non-criminal federal witnesses through suicide and medical neglect. This deconstruction of my family unit is comparatively symbolic to the overthrow of the U.S. government infrastructure by the international crime consortium and the same coconspiratorial war profiteers who attacked the United States of America on September 11, 2001. Having lived so long as the shell of an American citizen in title only, if I am unable to be made whole again in America, then as a torture victim and dissident under political persecution I am prepared to request asylum from the government of Canada. Should that fail and if I cannot be restored then I am ready to leave this world for the peace of oblivion and wish each of you mozel tov.

THE QUESTION HAS BEEN ASKED BY A GROWING NUMBER OF HUMAN BROTHERS AND SISTERS, WHAT CAN WE DO TO HELP YOU?

First please do not attempt to send any money I believe that it is possible to earn a living with the years invested in this story and I prefer paying my own way, which has remained the purpose of my labors while enduring U.S. government torture. Profoundly from a place of extreme isolation your concerns are priceless gifts that have touched me deeper than words could possibly express and I truly feel your human warmth and compassion.

Beyond that human inclusion the most important act of support is not to let this story die from a lack of response or another empty promise by the congress just so this matter will be “disappeared” like the 1,080 American patriots who are non-criminal federal witnesses in the Federal Witness Protection Program. Please meditate for the good energy of the universe to encompass the lives of all human beings and continue to contact any person or organization who will if nothing else at least feel the truth of this torture story: Democratic Party headquarters around the nation; elected representatives who truly wish to remain in office; U.S. and international human rights organizations; members of the progressive news media (The Ed Schultz Show, Air America Radio, Democracy Now, The Nation Magazine, I.N.N. International News Net, Studs Terkel, the ACLU, Civil Rights Attorneys; etc.); the free and independent sovereign nations of the world (Vancouver BC, Canada, UK, Italy, Spain; etc.); the International Court of Justice aka the World Court and Cour internationale de Justice; and any other conduit of communication that might wish to know, share or actuate this true story.

Ms. Oprah Winfrey and Mr. George Clooney are two people whom I admire for their humanitarian and creative contributions to the world. With their support this story will not be silenced and human lives will be saved. Please send each of them “one” simple note requesting their support of the “Black File 7001” story and include my website and e-mail addresses. The movie “Syriana” spoke to me at a very personal level with Bob’s betrayal by the government he served that ultimately resulted in his death. Oprah Winfrey's all-girl leadership academy in South Africa is only one of the endless humanitarian contributions made to the world by this great human being. The education system has played a significant part of my life with a trilingual professional educator in my immediate family, a child currently attending a university and my own employment with the FBI in the third year of a fulltime academic curriculum. The purpose of that covert government service was initiated to prevent national and international organized crime organizations from distributing methamphetamine within the public school systems and throughout the United States of America.

For a time I prevented the false prophets who professed a love of children and humanity from preying on the innocent, but the “war on drugs” like the “war on terrorism” are only political mantras meant to perpetuate and fatten the cash cows of government profiteers.

PLEASE CONTACT MR. GEORGE CLOONEY WITH ONE LETTER ONLY:

Agent:
Mr. George Clooney
C/o Bryan Lourd
Creative Artists Agency
2000 Avenue of the Stars
Los Angeles, CA 90067
424.288.2000
424.288.2900 fax

Publicist:
Mr. George Clooney
C/o Stan Rosenfield & Associates
2029 Century Park East
Suite 1190
Los Angeles, CA 90067 USA
310.286.7474
310.286.2255 fax

Movie Studio:
Smoke House
Attn: Mr. George Clooney
C/o Warner Bros.
4000 Warner Blvd., Bldg. 15
Burbank, California 91522 USA
818.954.4840
818.954.4860 fax

PLEASE CONTACT MS. OPRAH WINFREY WITH ONE LETTER ONLY:

The Oprah Winfrey Show
Attn: Ms. Oprah Winfrey
http://www.oprah.com/email/email_landing.jhtml

BLACK FILE 7001 CONTACT INFORMATION:

E-mail:
BlackFile7001@comcast.net

Tribe.net:
http://people.tribe.net/49395906-0c49-4c98-b92a-79f37b7927cb

You Tube:
http://www.youtube.com/BlackFile7001

Comcast: Currently blocking my ability to establish a website online.

The Ed Schultz Show (Message Boards – “The Media” Section)
http://www.bigeddieradio.com

posted in Free Write - 0 replies

StarFish Journal

Robert — Fri, 16 Nov 2007 17:14:15 GMT

just letting people know that the latest issue of The StarFish Journal has gone live as a PDF file, and that the all-new visual gallery is up and running...check it out:

http://starfishpoetry.net/current.htm

posted in Free Write - 0 replies

Become a part of "bAbeL - art project"

seipone — Tue, 30 Oct 2007 16:07:16 GMT

Dear brothers and sisters,

i study art therapy in Germany and work on the arty part of my diploma at the moment - and i invite you to support my work “ babel“!
Babel is about the try to cancel the moment of disintegration, it is about identity, community,structure and the basic needs of human beings and it is about you as well, when you join this project;
Please send me one article of your clothing, which you don`t need
anymore (it doesn`t matter if there is a mark on it, a cut in it, the
zipper is not working anymore etc.) and a word (in your language, a
word, which you like, which you don`t like, which you use often or
never, it can be a name, too) to this adress :

Sandra Becker
Hunscheidtstraße 162
44789 Bochum
Germany

in case you like to send me more material - like little messages,
infomation about you, your life, your country,the article of clothing
( maybe there is a story about it - you never liked to wear it, it was
a gift, you wore it in an important moment) - i will be pleased about
it.
my plan is to put all together in a new way - so that there will be one dress and one poem at the end for one performance/ film/installation, but it is not clear how it will be exactly - at least the most important thing depends on you. maybe the dress and the poem will go on a journey again, maybe they will come back to you, maybe you get a message from them, maybe you won´t see them again, maybe....the ideas become more and more with every package i get from you what ever will happen - i let you know. and be sure; whenever you give something - you get something.
the artwork will be shown at the diploma exhibition of the FH Ottersberg (Germany) on march 21th 2008.
you will find a documentation on my tribe-blog.

i hope that it will be possible to support me,
looking forward to get a message from you,

Become a part of babel !
sandruschka

posted in Free Write - 0 replies

Everywhere Mary/Mars goes...

Zoe — Wed, 03 Oct 2007 21:15:39 GMT

You deserve all of this,
You deserve all I give you.
There is always light in a dark room.
You give me the space to be myself, no matter what form that space may fill.
You deserve all of this.
You deserve all I give you.
There is always the light from your eyes to light my path.
When there is nothing but slience to say.
The light we give eachother keeps us unafraid of tomorrows.

posted in Free Write - 0 replies

ant

sugarbunni — Sun, 04 Jan 2004 03:58:59 GMT

Intolerable itching comes from within my skull. I thought, once, that I had found a long, thin, sharp object with which to scratch. But, as it turned out it was someone else's perfect marshmallow roasting stick. Sometimes, I think too much and the situation becomes very inflammed. That's when the throbbing starts. I have discovered that if I scream loudly in a particularly shrill tone for an extended period of time the vibrations offer some sense of relief. However, the world today is in short supply of sensible places to scream. Like a tiny ant tickling the crevaces of my cortex, the itching persists. I can hear the ant laughing at me in his tiny, condesending voice. I hate the ant and someday I will eat him whether he's spicy or not.

posted in Free Write - 5 replies

You might be interested in

Neeraj — Fri, 11 May 2007 18:33:19 GMT

Hi,

Some of you might be interested in a new site I was involved in setting up

www.portrayl.com

It's basically a writing site where writers can post and showcase their works with a cool little twist: other people can add onto the stories creating new stories going in a different direction.

The site is completely for writers (I do try my best, and have also posted some chapters on the site as nshah, but I'm no writer), so if you have and suggestions for the site or if there is anything you would like to see on the site, please reply to this post or let us know directly. It's for you, so you should be able to enjoy using it.

Thanks for reading everyone
Neeraj

posted in Free Write - 0 replies

Screeching through blanksville

Sat, 21 Apr 2007 21:47:48 GMT

A ring of mold on the bottom edge of the door and a broken window beside me, the christmas lights have decayed into uselessness, dripping in broken strands from the hedges, adding to the compost heap of merriment, the old party streamers of drunks whooping it up in the dusty new years eve bar of worn elbows and hunched shoulders around a shot of whisky. Chores. It's the weekend procrastination that stretches over a series of images to become a lifetime of still images. Cobweb building in time lapse. A cracked barricade on the back door of the old house, UPC stickers staring at me from the brackets like slit pupils in a silver goat eye. In claymation I form the expanse of forehead and the pulpy horns of the animal as police batons, a demon half at peace watching with the laziness of a Koala, horse teeth and white fur framing it's flat mouth, wide like a picket fence.

"The control room has been disconnected. Fuse boxes hang dangling from the walls from layers of old paint peeling away like a cancerous tongue, tumors benign; the face of an old witch reflected in scratched CD's, unsalvagable memories dirt scarred; boxes stored at useless angles. a chaotic feng shui of old briefcases with unreliable locks waiting to spring open on windy days and toss trash like a bomb into the wet streets, a bulldozer of ragged fingernails scraping at the pulp, a love letter made out of an infinite series of marilyn monroe clones in a steady pattern of degredation measured in lip gloss to photoshop effects, air brushed sensuality; the remnant of a spotlight that was never there, glossy prints at $8.99 a slice invading the dull nautilus brain with an icepick of harsh and unrealized frantic need, the obtainable collection of missed opportunity . . ."

The beast laments with a heavy sigh and steps back, it's face a stencil of a doorway onto green rolling hills and robin's egg blue sky where puffy clouds shaped in letters of the alphabet are frozen above the bliss in a push-pinned dance of joy; the child's nightmare -- it spells an ancient Sumerian message of doom above the playing field. Outside the windows, the stars burn out.

posted in Free Write - 0 replies

map of the human piano, part M

onearm — Fri, 30 Mar 2007 13:04:37 GMT

“This is the lowest bitch-work in the camp; no one has ever lasted longer than a year at this post.”

The hostel owner is frantic, stomping out of her narrowly-situated, sweaty kitchen-tent, assaulting us with questions.

“Who’s going to run this place while I’m down with the smallpox? Don’t you KNOW anyone?”

“Yeah, but they’re all four-year-olds,” McAuley retorts in a flat whisper. It’s his usual detached tone - eyes averted, as if he can’t surmount the prospect that his speech could actually fall on comprehending ears. I can feel my right eye narrow to a slit, the sinews twisting in my right shoulder.

“Elitist prig...,”

I spit.

The tables and yellowed newspapers erupt, giving way to wide bins of pomegranates and lemons, the narrow tents are now yawning skylit atriums. Wide open glass doors sweep in the sweet decay-smell of autumn leaves. African lullabies push themselves from my lips, a call answered by Miss Pham, now a good six-months pregnant, adding harmony while she pushes her grocery cart past us.

“Nicely done,” I smile, and walk out the door. At the curb is a windowless Chevy van, fitted out with off-road suspension and knobby tires.

“It’s about time you guys showed up.”

The New Strangers and I plummet into the valley, down hills of clover and wild strawberry. The speed, sharp turns, the sudden drops resound in my gut as the van flies off grassy moguls, finding its tread instantly without spinning. Through the windshield, I watch the valley-basin approach, steadying myself with my eyes, scanning the rough hillside. The New Stranger at the wheel is a good driver; I trust him, even though the onset of motion sickness seems to hang down in my elbows and knees.

We pile out of the van. The metal frame of an abandoned swing-set stands in the green basin. I pull myself up to the crook between two of the endmost supports and watch the sun set, trying to process the conversation we’d had during our descent: who were we, again? Catholics ? Jungians? Zen Monks? Hassids? We tried to remember ways we could find each other. Email? The United States Post? We knew it was impossible. We were already lost.

The sun has gone down. The cashier at Englund Marine has sent me into Union Town to deliver a message. I’ve been in this tenement building before, in dreams maybe, in this rude amateurish addition to the stately turn-of-the-nineteenth-century bath-house. I’m asking for Mrs. Todd who operates the Workers’ Saloon, but the streets keep dropping me into the Shanghai underground, into the tunnels of Seattle’s public market, into the carpeted top-floor apartment over the steam-baths, into the untended gardens that lie to the east of this strange castle... and the message is forgotten.

I fall through the roof of the penthouse again. There are no smells here, no indentations in the carpet fibers. It’s not night or day; a grey television snow lights up the windows. There has been no movement here to unsettle the dust. I crawl under the bed and the floor drops me again onto the stone path to the Castle Shrine, just south of the Main Compound. I enter from the east gate. A scattering of tiny windows lets in slivers of light from all four directions. The room is tiled; deep browns and light blues map out acerb patterns on the floor and ceiling. Shelves set into the walls hold brittle flower arrangements. The pool in the center of the room holds no water; the fountainhead is snarled in flowering vines. A television sits on a wooden table against the north wall, screen facing vaguely southeast. It shows a queen attended by two ladies, surveying her court, choking back tears.

I fall through the floor into the slanted tunnels of the Public Market. Fiona is riding on my back; we are moving in a quicksand of tourist swarms, looking for a place to sit down and eat ...butter knives and paper napkins and stained coffee pots. The 1970s haven’t happened yet; I must be asleep. I hear the giggling, babbling of a young girl, but it is not her. She waddles up to the side of my bed, tickling the sides of my chest. I look down and she’s not there, but I hear her voice bubbling and feel her little hands goading me to wake up. I strain to look over my right shoulder.

“Who are you?”

She giggles. I roll out of bed and look down at myself, but I’m not there, either.

posted in Free Write - 0 replies

It plays come with the site which is fun of Korea ^^

kim — Mon, 19 Mar 2007 05:43:14 GMT

How are you. I 5taku am operating a site from Korea.
5taku The site currently is operated with free site and the eastern image which is famous from Korea, the photograph and a song it provides.
The tribe everybody from hazard from the now when it lets to establish the Altavista compiler on site top easily there is a possibility of meeting a Korean culture.
If line of inquiry be and the writing to leave in the free notice board. (Only, writing shortly above without writing it ascends.)
www.5taku.com

posted in Free Write - 4 replies

always accepting submissions

whyvandalism — Sat, 24 Mar 2007 15:57:40 GMT

always accepting submissions
why vandalism? is an online arts journal currently accepting submissions from visual artists and writers of poetry, fiction, and gonzo. We also publish original art/film reviews and essays.

www.whyvandalism.com/

posted in Free Write - 0 replies

dream 2/22/07

onearm — Sat, 24 Feb 2007 03:36:36 GMT

there are at least ten of us in this second-floor hotel room - people take turns speaking, reciting poems, accompanied by dramatic shifts in lighting - as part of their performance some of the speakers summon holographic images from their fingertips - I begin to reflect on how rare this type of gathering is among my clock-punching world, although in the dream I seem to have very little idea of who I am or exactly where this hotel is situated - a tall woman makes her way across the room at sits on the floor next to me - she carries herself with an aristocratic poise - her name is Hekat, though she does not tell me this, I just seem to know, just as I seem to know the names of nearly everyone in the room – it’s as if they all had strongly spoken psychic nametags –

Hekat has a sun-baked and wart-studded face, thick leathery skin deep with wrinkles – she is not pretty but she is beautiful – her limbs are long and rugged – she whispers into my ear as not to disturb the current performance, saying she owns a publishing house, Hekat publishing, and she would like to publish one of my pieces – ask her which piece; she says, “The Junk-Bond Artist,“ which in my waking life is no such piece, though in the dream it is a work I'd almost finished – I try to tell her that “The Junk-Bond Artist” is very new, and though a rough bootleg copy might have fallen into her hands, the closest thing I have to a finished version is a spoken recording, a tape I'd made last night – I try to tell her this, but I stutter and swallow my words – my tongue is heavy and clumsy in her presence; she is possessed of a goddess-like aplomb that makes me seem nervous and shifty by comparison – she seems to suspect that I was planning to go with another publisher, but eventually, in broken English, I get the message across –

the next thing I remember is being surrounded by a new set of strangers in a low-lit basement, who, apparently, are listening to a bootleg copy of the tape – the voice is tremulous and whiny, like a man speaking while weeping, and though I recognize the spoken words as my own, there is a grain of in-authenticity to the recording, as if it were being played on a turntable at the wrong speed - the speaker hiccups and swallows audibly into the microphone, and is evidently very drunk, slurring, lisping, randomly slowing down or stopping, losing the pace of the story - some of the words are incoherent, which pains me because this is the original composition on the tape; there is no written version to refer back to – in between the strained lines, I hear one of the strangers say, “it sounds like somebody’s trying to play ‘writer' - ”

the dream segues into a low-budget punk rock festival out in Olney farmland – the stage is set up between two barns - I watch the opening band’s first few songs and try to let go and enjoy myself, but I can’t get into it – as I walk toward the highway, I notice that the stage is sinking into the river; half of the band members are knee-deep in water –

suddenly I am at a party in the Uniontown neighborhood of Astoria, directly under the Megler bridge – Hekat is there, along with another host of new strangers, many of whom are pale, waifish nymph-like girls – they seem to float rather than walk – they wear flowing ostentatious gowns, or are in various stages of undress, or nude – their bodies are creamy and hairless; their skin seems to glow – the blonde fairy-girl who seems to be the chief among them offers me an array of tiny white pills labeled with illegible etching – she identifies them as essence of a certain flower root, though the name soon slips my mind, and when I ask her to repeat, I am certain she tells me something different – I ask if it is a hallucinogen – she replies that it is a tranquilizer dispensed in such exact intervals of dosage as to produce hallucinogenic effects - several times I ask again the name of the flower, and several times she gives me a different answer – at her suggestion, I take the lowest dosage, 38 milligrams – I mingle about the party and slowly begin to get high – the sensation is not unlike the initial onset of hallucinogenic mushrooms after having swallowed a few valium –

I soon find myself in a dimly lit slate-floored washroom with marble countertops – though I don’t feel inebriated by the drug, I have lost my clothes and I am crouched naked beside a basin, before a mirror – my eyes are narrow slits – I hear the nigh melodious voices of two or three of the fairy-girls, and I slide off the counter onto the floor – the drug seems to have liquefied my bones – the chief fairy says, “you don’t have to hide yourself from me - ” I slither around a corner and see the blonde chief fairy and one of her friends in bridal gowns floating under a shower of warm water - again I ask her the name of the flower root essence she’s given me and wonder aloud how a stronger dose would’ve felt – the fairy floats toward me, extending her hand across a wooden table – in her hand are four tightly closed white lily blossoms – she instructs me to eat them – the petals are dry and crumbly; they have no flavor –

suddenly I am back amid the strange party crowd, fully clothed and seemingly in charge of my faculties – Hekat and I agree that we should “go out,” if not to some scruffy bar then simply for a walk – soon, the entire party forms a committee on the stairs leading up to the front porch – people are pointing at graphs and calendars, an itinerary for our 'evening on the town' is being hammered out – I want no part of it – I suggest to Hekat that we leave them to their devices and split off from the group – a rancor of protests passes through the people on the stairs – I watch them from behind a rusty screen door –

Hekat and I walk halfway down the stairs, then jump off into a small boat that is floating in a canal that runs under the staircase and westward toward Young’s Bay – the boat speeds off and a wave of relief passes over me – I soon become aware that I am no longer in a boat with Hekat but with a series of vague personages that gradually oozes into and out of form; I am never alone with any one individual, but with the transitional phase between the last person and the next – they speak of mundane things, of lunch menus and lug-nuts and passports and oil-cans as the boat passes through mud ravines and sloughs –

soon, the presence dissolves and I am alone in the boat, speeding through an unfamiliar swamp wilderness – tall trees grow out of the slimy bank, flanked by tall reeds – the trees sprout heads and torsos of flushed, babbling idiots with red-burning menacing eyes – the tree trunks split into amazingly long insect-legs, the branches form into multi-jointed arms – the stilt-like tree-morons are closing in on me, shrieking and biting the air as I plow through the green weeds on the surface of the water – I look back, horrified, as they begin chasing me… and I wake up

posted in Free Write - 0 replies

i need a topic

yakova — Mon, 19 Feb 2007 06:25:08 GMT

please give me something to wrote about!!!
please please!!

posted in Free Write - 1 reply

How about a Writing Prompt to start your Sunday?

Reidco — Sun, 14 Jan 2007 04:12:34 GMT

"She loved her purple felt hat"

posted in Free Write - 0 replies

The Larval Vogue

Robert — Fri, 15 Dec 2006 17:35:30 GMT

Yesteday wrapping conceit around your ankles. Sacral, perhaps embedded in animated holes of did not. Your singular pile of spiked flesh chastened as a hook mysteriously drifting across voided machine terrain. Yellow fans a dazzling smile with only fifteen seconds remaining in the chalice.

A gateway to another astronaut kiss, lonely because enough is never enough. Dancing to never wear the feather of disease again. Bid farewell to the love of silver rooted in representation, a dozen roses focused on the speed of light. Triumph in desecration. It was suddenly easy to rate the larval vogue, the steely grip sullying your bloodied crevice. Wounded wings...

Empty, burning allies at a cross of wrinkled onyx, psychic energies flown to drivel. A beautiful play at nothing. Fighting another location doomed to handle flaccid, exposed ribs until the dawn of the last day ingesting the best this life had to offer twice. Turning too harshly, with rogue powers destined to attempt choke-holds on blithe sentiment, inspired by a leavening curl anywhere, anytime.

When the gulf between flatness and dry resonances sense every lazy eye screaming to fly by voices automatic why at the good breathing in and out in filial spurts, a frozen dial constructed together,

a noble loft, away with the over

projecting tender architectures onto you

to unite right and wrong,

feral tendrils of aesthetics

sipping ecstatic wine.

http://peyoetryhut.blogspot.com

posted in Free Write - 1 reply

true story of my youth....

housemonkey — Mon, 13 Nov 2006 03:27:13 GMT

Teenage Disneyland Hell
1982, 16 years old and not very bright. My girlfriend at the time had convinced her mom to lend us her 1968 Ford Fairlane to double date with my friend and his girlfriend to Disneyland. The happiest place on earth was located about 2 hours from our homes in the San Gabriel Valley. At the time my Friend Ed and I were not known for our moderation so the Southern Comfort and joints were passed quite a few times on the highway. Upon entering the park a splendid time was had by all, that is until we felt the need to replenish our fading buzzes. So we stumbled around looking for a dark corner to continue our party until we found what looked like a suitable bench tucked away in the outskirts of Tomorrow Land. The only problem was the elderly couple snuggling on our bench. We kind of loitered around the bench until the couple graciously offered the bench to us. As the sauntered off to the payphone we wasted no time in breaking out the goodies. We probably had a good 5 minutes of shots and we were halfway through a joint when a most unsettling sight befell us. Walking directly towards us were 2 fellows dressed as keystone cops. As I stubbed the joint out in my palm I believe what they said was “could you please hand me that and come with us?” In a weird kind of daze we walked through tomorrow land with our comical escorts. After walking through some secret door we found ourselves in the fuckin’ Disneyland police station. The place looked like every cop show on television with haggard looking detectives sitting at desks answering phones and radios. We were led to separate cells that were really just like those damn interrogation rooms on TV. I think what they mainly asked me was what we were doing and I figured there was no way to lie my way out of it so I told them the truth. I asked them how they busted us so fast and they were proud to let me know the cute elderly couple on the bench were narcs and the call they made at the payphone was to them. The really screwed part of this whole thing was that because we were all minors rather than release us they felt obligated to call each of our parents to come pick us up. Disneyland is 2 hours from our houses , each way!! That meant each of us could look forward to a harrowing 2 hour drive home with our pissed off parents. So after 2 hours my folks show up and my mom is very upset and my dad is strangely silent. The ride went pretty much as I expected …how could you do this? I’m so disappointed in you. Something about throwing my life away and so on. The ride got a little more interesting when my mom insisted on stopping at the liquor store to pick up some more Southern Comfort so we could “party” when we got home. When we finally arrived at home I tried to allow myself to be swallowed by the living room couch and distract myself with the TV so I wouldn’t hear my mom’s sobs and banging around in the kitchen. I couldn’t help but overhear when she told my dad to break out his stash and roll one up for his son. So a few minutes later I was faced with my irate mother thrusting a glass of Southern Comfort and a joint at me .As I placed both items on the coffee table between us I pleaded, “I don’t want to do this”. To which she retorted, “Come on, you’re a big man, Lets party!!” We continued on like that for maybe 10 minutes until I finally took a big drink put my feet on the coffee table in grand dramatic fashion and lit up the joint. Again, her response was pretty much like I figured it would be. She slapped the joint out of my mouth and broke down in tears screaming, “How could you do this to me!” As I slinked off to my room in the garage I knew our relationship was forever changed. I think until that time she was able to ignore the signs of teenage experimentation. I was no longer her innocent little boy and it worried her. I love my mom more than words can express and I’m sorry that I put her through that. That being said, those times as a teen with my friends were golden and I will always look back on them fondly… Did I mention my son turns 16 in February?

posted in Free Write - 1 reply

Audio Tapes Wanted

glasshopper — Tue, 07 Nov 2006 20:18:46 GMT

Hey everyone,
I'm working on a project that requires several hundred audio cassette tapes (yes, those clunky objects that held our music in the days before iPods, CDs and .mp3 players).

I know a lot of people have a stash of old tapes in a box in the basement that they've forgotten about. Why not get rid of the tapes and donate 'em to a good cause?! I will recycle the tapes (via true recycling, not downcycling) and use them as part of my upcoming album.

If you or anyone you know is interested, send me an e-mail or visit http://www.myspace.com/glasshopper for more info.

Thanks!
Jess

posted in Free Write - 0 replies

"and now the garden blooms"

joshua — Mon, 02 Oct 2006 20:30:17 GMT

This cursor moves you, as sounds made with breath and tounge.
feeling the form in the womb of the void
it is not.
it is un.
As I gaze about, taking life in, I stick my face in it.
Reach into it and withdraw what I seek.
It is for me
It is oresent
It is gift.
It is prescious.
Now feeling precarious and godly, a creator, a manifestor.
I am Narcissus, I begin to splash at my reflection in the mirror pool.
Bestow your gifts
cherishing what has been given
when you give of your self you give to your self
sharing is grace.
Your feet were flosting above the ground
you immersed within the sound
vibration coarses through you thrusting you toward your home
reminding you that you wre never alone, when.....
you were naked and it was dark
yearning and your face grew wet..
drinking and snorting, shooting yourself
stabbing at your veins, feeling insane
fumbling your words into and through dreamlike metaphors
there you identified with your heart,
a tumultous hurricane
ripping trees out of their roots, and homes from their foundations...
like weeds in a magical garden, and now the garden blooms.
jjas- cc 2006

posted in Free Write - 0 replies

Newbie

Miss_Mars — Thu, 10 Aug 2006 01:48:29 GMT

I look forward to expanding my circle of creative imaginations...... Mars

posted in Free Write - 1 reply

no user-serviceable parts

onearm — Fri, 25 Aug 2006 18:55:17 GMT

no user-serviceable parts

theory by theory, the funeral advances
and our garbage sweats in discrete leak-proof plastic bladders

this funeral is fit for a god:
the god of balsa wood, the god of hospital food and bleary airport mucous,
the god of tepid March drizzle diluting the malt-liquor piss-puddles,
a flimsy god sweltering with nicotine-plaque and mailbox perfume samples

these tooth-sucking pre-dawn minutes hit drop by drop
like a strangled, painful urination - drop by drop -
and a world without sleep is seen through a narrow shutter;
people paint themselves black and stand in ticket lines
staring at themselves in denture-cream and kindergarten-greased plexiglass

were you born with too much blood?
I was born in a bag of water
I was born into oysters and epileptic machines
do you still work best when broken? best when broke and swollen?
have we striven this far to fall, destroyed?

re-swallowing a few drops of vomit on the southbound express bus
if I can just keep my head steady until the freeway exit
the traffic lights behind me will converge on a new zodiac

because, god damn it, we’re not just made of meat anymore -

posted in Free Write - 1 reply

De-coding the catapult

glenwells — Sun, 21 May 2006 23:39:14 GMT

long livers teach the truth
to mischief makers
seek the calm inside the storm that brews
afterlife and counter-balance each and every tool
death defying analytical squandering the past
slow-emotion drifting through heated debate and desire
the class of happening regret
borrowed fiendishness replacing moral compass
the minute by minute after-glow
dissolving into future realms of feast
eating mistakes, par-taking the fuel of floods
it's only water, evaporating into sky and clown
the wait is hardest before the fall
failure a questionable option not signed or seared
sun leaks gravity that surrounds all morning
then the dewy burst of gluttony fells the mighty oak
some such refinery melts from somber reflection
the eye-opening regalia dances light in a voice of retreat

posted in Free Write - 7 replies

open to new

skadi_lupa — Thu, 17 Aug 2006 04:33:17 GMT

something anything comes and goes like smoke
it cannot be held it cannot be analyzed

the loss of anguish has been the blessing it was meant to be
i have become a hunter
and all indwells the heart held in ones hands when smoke becomes tangible

so we are as incomprehensible as we are open
the doors are warped, but within is held a tangible soul like smoke
to love a wild thing is to be understood

burn the house down
analytically enshrouded in comprehensible smoke

posted in Free Write - 0 replies

poetik offering: heart in a jar so like a butterfly

Renee — Fri, 04 Aug 2006 07:07:17 GMT

my young heart
frail and trusting
little girl so so little
gentle and open
gradually worn down
by cruel hands words hands words
my butterfly heart
cannot fly away

so young so small
trapped in the hands
hands of those supposed to care
supposed to love, gently gently
supposed to
but dont

flitting flitting butterfly wings
of my little heart
hands that hurt

pushed my butterfly heart
into a glass jar
it can be seen as beautiful
but its stifling and sore
tattered and torn

captured
captured
by others
by myself by fear
wings tattered & torn
a glass cage
for so long

my heart my heart
captured by hands that hurt
long time ago long long time ago
beloved yet harmed
captured by ones that hurt me
so long time ago long long

and slowly the lid
slowly the lid
that lid
loosened
was made loose
turned open

and the butterfly heart
tattered and torn
hurt and sore
scared of outside in
outside out
scared to fly

listened

to the open sky calling

empty clouds
calling
empty sky
blue blue blue

hands words gone
so long ago gone
tatters healing
wings powder returned
able to fly but
unable to trust the winds of life
the hands of those
supposed to care had hurt

butterflyheart unable to trust
the hands of Life
the hands of Love
the hands of God...
"where have you been?" the butterflyheart cries
"why did you let me be hurt?"
butterflyheart calls out
"can i endure it again? please no"
butterflyheart fears
"please let it all be ok"... "please"
butterflyheart prays
the sky calls
wind whispers with open hands
"its ok. its all ok."

wings are made for flight
tatters may stay tattered
but flight is your birthright
and chrysalises is the key
transformation based on trust..

and so my butterfly heart
climbed up to the tip
of the open lid
of the glass cage
of hiding (but seen)
tired of being seen
and not free
but the night passed

and so my butterflyheart
balanced on the ridge
on the tippy edge ridge
and waited
and waited

then the whispering winds
of the east new beginnings
at dawn
softly lifted my tattered wings
up up softly up
whispered in my ear 'its ok"
and i let go
let go
and gently rose
into the pink sky
of empty sunrise

trusting the hands of God
the hands of God
to guide my flight
in breeze
or in storm
building trust trust trust
in Life
in Love
in love
in me
in you
in love
in love
in life
in death
in me
in you
in all
in all
in All

***************
a humble offering
Peace,
Renee

ps. i appreciate and incorporate feedback into any later drafts... thanx for your co-creation...

posted in Free Write - 0 replies

next door to a little black rain cloud

skadi_lupa — Wed, 12 Jul 2006 05:45:36 GMT

and she touches my wholeness with her inane ranting
just next door to a little black rain cloud

throwing tantrums while saying it is she who has been accosted
poor little sad princess

convinced by her projection--her own personal zeitgeist
she insists that all see only that which makes her story real

i cannot support her illusion...i cannot allow her to take up anymore space
she is a ridiculous person

when she calls out i find in am numb
i am beyond compassion and well into a white noise phase

what she reaps she has surely sown...
as true as what comes around goes around

living next door to the little black rain cloud
the sun shines brightly in the face of foolishness

posted in Free Write - 0 replies

pick up, pick up, wake up

CassandraGemini — Wed, 05 Jul 2006 01:46:45 GMT

picking up pieces of this fragmented life that i seemed to create for myself but no matter how hard one tries to glue and recreate there are still fractures reminders memories of the past that just dont seem to fit anymore and while I reflect on the faces that once made me smile the eyes are no longer clear the brows now furrowed and soft touches aren't felt will never be felt again this fragmented body this shell still holds a person inside but i'm building reinforcements of unbreakable steel

some things no longer matter to them but they still haunt me.. the sounds of strings and beautiful things and the scent of passion still lingers in my clothes while i hold on so tightly to the thought of being happy once more... senseless things being said back and forth and back and forth and i can't seem to keep my lips tightly sealed no matter how hard i fight! but yet...i seem to only be saying what i mean to myself but what good is that if nothing flows like the waves they crash and break but are still constantly going

as long as the moon is still glowing bright i will still be

a shell made of broken fragments but brightly colored and

still

but this all means
nothing to you
while i sing the songs of the past even though
the past
is the past
and the world
keeps going

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Givorak's Dream

Tue, 04 Jul 2006 19:17:15 GMT

Givorak's Nightmare

When Givorak woke, he took the bright stunning light, lack of noise, and rows of silhouetted figures about him as either the manifestation of a new nightmare or evidence that he was no longer in his own bed. The general test - pinching oneself, wouldn't work. He found he couldn't move his arms. Not that immobility proved anything. One can dream that too. Givorak wasn't really his name anyway. That is to say, his mother was in the process of providing him with a name but didn't really finish . She said, "Give..er..awwk!" and, in a violent and fatal seizure, was sent thrashing to the floor where her lungs and a spasmodic throat produced something like "eh..thi..k..issssss" which the registrar dutifully transcribed as Givorak Ithikus Jones. His middle name, Ithikus was kept secret following a stay at one orphanage where the other boys (you know how cruel young boys can be) called him "G.I. Joe" and would ask, while pummeling him, "Which country are you going to invade next?" (which is what the kids' history vids say G.I. Joe did). I'd love to tell you more about his youth, but after opening and closing his eyes several times and finally biting his lip (painfully so), Givorak has managed to convince himself that he is no longer in his bed.

"Where am I?! Who are you?!" he gasped at the silhouetted figures around him.

The figures did not appear to move, but an unemotional voice to his right responded, "We are They."

"What the fuck?!" he said, "Who are you?"

"They... T...H...E...Y... They," the voice responded, with a hint of exasperation.

"They? Who they?" said Givorak, now leaning back toward the still sleeping theory. "I must have fallen out of bed and bit my lip. I mean, who the fuck says, 'who they?'" Givorak thought.

"They, you know. They say that it's good for you. They put genetically modified corn in your food. They have black helicopters. They steal your newspaper, They send jobs overseas, They read your mind and They are always telling you what to do."

"Well, that's what they do.. what about you.. and what the fuck is going on?"

"No. We are They!" screamed the voice.

Givorak laid silent for some time, as if considering all of the evidence his mind had received since the day he was born. Finally, he swallowed, then asked, "They who?"

Depending upon whom you ask, They say that Givorak was never seen again, but They also say he was seen in a small town in eastern Montana bar-hopping on the arm of an ancient Elvis.

(c) 2006 Gary Hassler, all rights reserved.

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An Experience

Tue, 25 Apr 2006 03:45:07 GMT

Experience

As I walk toward the Sandpoint Marina, the night streets glisten with a kind of hyper-reality that seems full of detail and realism while at the same time remaining abstract. Lights, yellow and red, blink on and off in time with the music from my headphones.

It is early morning, or late night, depending on the sleep cycle of the beholder. It is at this time of night that drunks, disgorged from bars like writhing larval parasites in the vomit of a man with a rare and incurable disease, stumble about.

I can’t sleep; that is, when I try to sleep, visions of injustices and harm fill my head with images and my heart with indignation. I decided to go for a walk partly to quell those visions and partly to work them out.

I arrive at the Marina at approximately the same time a freight train begins to cross the trestle over Sand Creek. As the train’s wheels protest their fixed destiny between rails laid long before their arrival, I imagine I can see sparks emanating from the conflict between confinement and dangerous freedom.

Car after car passes, most stacked with one or more shipping containers of various sizes. Some of the cars are empty. I notice that most of the freight cars appear to belong to foreign companies such as “Hyundai.” I wonder why South Korea needs to ship across North Idaho and exactly what is being shipped.

The battle sounds of the war between train wheels and track fades, mingling with the shouts and screams of the inebriated blocks away.

I turn from the departed train and survey the shoreline in front of me. There is a rock outcropping slightly to the left of my direct forward view. On top of the outcropping, within a distance of four feet, stands a large raccoon. It is facing away from me toward the drunken cries of the disgorged. The raccoon, however, does not appear to be paying any heed to their shouts and high-volume ramblings.

I study the raccoon carefully, surprised to see this manifestation of the wild and natural amid the unnatural sounds of the train and the inebriated. The racoon seems to be unaware of my presence, allowing my eyes to percieve its energy and strength.

At this moment, I note that living things appear to have a different level of mass than the non-living, but whether the living have more or less mass, I am not sure.

After an indeterminable amount of time passes, the raccoon becomes aware of the attention I am paying to it. It looks in my direction; eye-to-eye we regard each other.

I feel as if I am looking into the eyes of an old friend. I half-way expect the raccoon to hurry to my side and strike up a conversation. “It’s been a long time,” I imagine it saying, “how’s the writing thing going?”

In fact, I almost speak aloud, but my tongue does not move and my lips stay shut. As we look into each other’s eyes, an understanding passes between us. Yes, we are both where we belong. Yes, we are both out of place as well. Eventually, eye contact is broken by mutual agreement.

The raccoon then moves in my direction. Its apparent destination is under the bridge I am standing upon. After a farewell glance, the raccoon dissapears beneath my feet.

I turn and head for town, suddenly having a need for movement. Everything looks differently. I am aware of all my senses but I feel like I am an observer, not a part of the scene going or around me. It is as if I borrowed a body in order to gather information about this strange planet through the body’s sensory system.

A drunk, telling his equally drunk female companion not to look, urinates off the dock next to an expensive pleasure craft.

I wonder what the raccoon would think of that.

Gary Hassler
May 21, 2005

posted in Free Write - 2 replies

Ashes of Thought Fractures

xcess — Thu, 08 Jun 2006 05:24:17 GMT

I sensed him right away. The little bitch. I don't know if it was papparazi or homeland motherfuckin' security. I felt him before he even showed up.

He thinks he's taking photos of the yaks but I recognize otherwise. He gets his shot. I don't even flip his ass off.

Thankfully this pen is quite mightier than an elbow to the EOS.

I mean I picture my elbow connecting right on the extended lens.
That of course transfers a lot of energy through the body of the
camera directly into that major bone called the nose. Is the
nose the bone?

I don't really care.

What I did enjoy was the image of
that bone cracking from the shear speed of my impact.

Come up and shake my hand.

Then take
my picture.

Snake

* I claim to be non-violent. Though some of my criticisms are quite violent even though they're just words on a page.

Ashes
of
thought
fractures.

I gotta go.

L8,

j

posted in Free Write - 0 replies

non-Specific Relativity

glenwells — Sat, 27 May 2006 02:31:26 GMT

I'd think about time
as if
it were a piece of pie
grab a slice
catch a train
never be late

lost in the shuffle
short-comings apparently
render obsolete
thoughtful comparisons
of oblique mis-information

a tasty diagnois
with no doubt
of theraputic result
leaves a calming sense
periodic dis-membering
withstanding

It's Science

blood on the floor
there's alibi to taste
the act of believing
starving the stone of disease\

he's borrowed from cannibals
unfettered
ill from remorse
born of disaster, waiting in line/

blank amid stares
awash in songs of the night
no wind, no sail
adrift>

posted in Free Write - 0 replies

damn day

Rowan — Sat, 20 May 2006 22:41:52 GMT

waking up early to the pounding on my bedroom door. i hear "get up, we're leaving in five minutes." uniform on and a cup of coffe to go, bag in hand. meeting up with the team. our last games of the season. meaningless gossip. we stretch out and i pull out green hairspray to match our shirts. thrown in, left attack wing. midfield, thanks coach. sprinting up and down. the girl is too fast. burning pain in my side. the ball hits the ground. i run after it. the girl puts out her stick. i fall over it. the ref. ignores it. more running. playing horribly. i didn't score once. similar games follow. we lose over and over again. coach puts me in goal. i let them all by. that loss was entirely my fault. tieing the last game. seasons over. i suck at life. please, kill me now.

posted in Free Write - 0 replies

or just leave me the fuck alone

Fri, 24 Feb 2006 06:51:13 GMT

we woke up buried one morning, wedged in there between all those salt licks you never made a dent in with your goddamned weeknight meetings, home games, rehearsals, those worn-out one-beer anecdotes, the slide-shows and that tic-tac peppermint patty cool hidden valley ranch smooth jazz way you had of splicing yourself into every goddamned surveyable centimeter - that dry paste you leave on people, spit-flavored, and mousy - now sit back and pick at it; smear the pus on some tissue paper and leave it somewhere we all go - we rehearsed this scene, too: an oily evening of those half-amused disapproving head rattles, that pinched grin wrinkling your face in precisely the way you hate the most, the lines you dig, fill in, rub out, gloss over, retrace again so we all know just where your knuckle-cracking pinched nerves draw their little impossible lines you pick at, wipe down with tissue paper and wash out with saltwater and beat down gently in your back-porch-light way - yes, there is dust - yes, the panes are warped and the wind gets in - now is that enough grain for you to waste away on?

oh, so you were just in the neighborhood? well, I was just about to unplug my phone, turn out all the lights, draw the shades and pour rubber cement into the gas furnace - but now that you’re here, I suppose I have a spare hour and a half to let my dinner burn in the oven while you rehearse the signs of frostbite and pretend to wrench my fingers out of the pencil sharpener - we’ll agree on a plan of action - I’ll sign on for the deluxe funship cruise package - you’ll act dissatisfied, run a fresh emory board over your nails, sigh, bite something in the air, and shrink two sizes right there in the living room as it fills with smoke - I’ll make up some excuse about forgetting to thaw ice and not having enough time to plant cabbage and we’ll both suck down a hearty lungfull, hating each other for years of stolen air -

posted in Free Write - 3 replies

in a dream

mskayasattva — Sat, 13 May 2006 22:24:21 GMT

running~
running through your forest fire
catching up to the speed of sound
to get to you

a bright light at the end of an ashed tunnel~
i'm focused on the unwavering stillness..
this is a race to buy back my heart
held suspended above your hand
in ransom

I ran some
more
to get to you
because I knew
I had no choice
but to follow your voice
behind our purple velvet moon

I had better get there soon
my hours burning out
so close to you and yet
you just may be an incredible eternity
just outside of my reach

running~
running through this dark abyss
catching up to the speed of light
to get to you

then suddenly I halt

and I see this wonderful
astral sea
of perfect tranquility
and realize this:

thatthereisnosuchthingastime

!!radiant!! you appear
before me through me in me
with glowing nimbus above your head
this is what you said:

"you've paid your due
and so here is your heart my beloved one
washed with love anew"

bliss

*

posted in Free Write - 0 replies

Lunchtime in the "Living Room"

pactime — Fri, 12 May 2006 16:40:10 GMT

First I closed my eyes.

There was a gentle breeze that lifted strands of hair from the scrunchy-bound tail
that I thought I created so tightly.

But not tightly enough I guess. (stupid hair)

One little strand tickled the side of my face with such strength and intensity that I was sure it had a life all its own. Oh tickley whisp! You brush, therefore I am!! Oh tickley whisp!! With you I can have no reverie...(brushes it aside)

Then I opened my eyes.

I’m sitting in the sun on the edge of the pillar(thing) next to the fountain, watching the shade creep in, and it too seemingly alive, an antiwhisp, so full of itself with its own shadows leaking out into the diminishing patches of sunkissed space.

Then I listened.

On top, a mix, a mélange of motors and engines and squeaky city bus brakes, parroted and echoed by the grating grating sound of metal, hark!, a pole being dragged across the concrete floor of the Square. Grating. Squeaking. Metal on Chalkboard.

And next a mix, a mélange of voices his and hers multiplied 300 times and contained within the outside inside, the indoors outdoors, of The Square. 300 pioneers! First a din and podge of sounds, tones, moods, RUMBLY and indistinct underneath the city sounds.

But slowly clarifying,

inching towards individuals: conversations, laughter, ideas, orations, arias. With rhythms tapped by the dance with the footbag.

And underneath again, and from where it comes as I sit there and notice it, I know not. I can’t tell. It:

The strains of a violin that waft from behind and over me.

And when I look, really look around, I see 300 voices. I see color, and light, and darkness. Sun and shade and shadows. Bodies moving, not moving, standing-sitting-laying, one SOLID mass 300_________________and then, just one.

From amid and among and in the midst of the sun and the shade and the light and the dark, of the mass and the sounds loud and soft, I see the one. I see her at that very second, in that very place, where she was meant to be seen. *How* she was meant to be seen.

My heart skips a beat, and I smile.

posted in Free Write - 0 replies

Echoed Dragons

Robert — Fri, 12 May 2006 05:42:32 GMT

nickled lunar foam remembering its sought
presaged gravity brightening improvisations
curving the scalar to read a feeling left in water.
pleasure beaten doesn't know a stone's light
dawn inertia guarding the sun's forsaken yellow.
amateurish, green, and searching the stolen lyrical
in twilight's opening of the wood, music affirming
dancing echoed love waving in its own way what
dragons have written there with me.

http://poetrystate.blogspot.com/

Poetry State

posted in Free Write - 0 replies

Michael Gira please keep your tongue out of my ear

onearm — Wed, 26 Apr 2006 13:22:56 GMT

I need to brew another pot of tea or at least wrest out these last two molars before they ratchet back up into my skull because there are too goddamned many of me in this room, grappling over this stale machine, jabbing our fingers into each other’s eyes, swapping out skin-grafts, tapping me on the shoulder every nineteen seconds, using up all the good oxygen, ripping ribbons out of our way-up-yonder TWENTY FOUR HOURS the house is filling with flies, they pour screeching at me out of the furnace, dumping down in crisp black static-electric mats on our faces, and by the time I discover just which one of us is writing this, we’ll all have run out of air in here SPLIT THREE WAYS [this text has been modified from its original aspect ratio and formatted to fit a two-dimensional space
exactly eleven hours have elapsed since I first set out to delete this hackneyed rot, eleven hours that folded my brain over upon itself exactly eleven times: 1] I need to purchase a firearm 2] sleep is wasted on me 3] I am incapable of doing anything real 4] I said to the doctor, “Doctor, I feel a vast chilling emptiness inside me,” to which he replied , “Have you tried pouring liquor into it?” 5] I need to remind my old friends to remind me to find new friends 6] I’m gradually becoming more comfortable with my intolerance 7] in the past fourteen days I have slept for an estimated total of ten hours 8] sleep needs me; I don’t 9] a drink needs me... 10] abandon all hope 11] make me a sandwich ] but whoever is writing this has left me a trail of typographical errors and idiosyncratic punctuation habits SINCE YOU BOUGHT ONE THIRD for which I can surmise the following: 1] he is leaving me this trail intentionally 2] to throw suspicion not on himself but upon the man whom he is so abysmally and humorlessly impersonating 3] but even behind this intention is a deeper motive, a need to be discovered for the poor imposteur that he his [as I comb through his scribble, erasing, cutting and pasting, marking his misspellings with a red Sharpie, I realize that I have taken him out of his own writing and gently, insidiously interpolated myself like compacted sour lozenges between his dim words; in being almost laughably unsuccessful at impersonating me, his would-be-scapegoat, he has impersonated himself impeccably, thus, proving to us once again just how precisely unreal a man he is] 4] and this need is, in itself, a message, though not necessarily to me, but you, his gentle reader YOU OWN EVERYTHING

there are too goddamned many of me in this room, grappling over this stale machine - between the armless one with the blunt scissor-segment prosthesis, the one-legged three-dog-headed man, barking, belching, shitting out the words, “That’s it, I’m done!” like a suspect being interrogated under purple high-beams, the blue corpses keep piling, their faces matted in dry, dead flies - there are less of us now - there air is sweet; it is not a good sweet: bones of each other’s that we’d broken in these last skirmishes now healing into bricks and pipes, limbs sawed off above the joint with bitten leather strips and 90-proof-backyard-still-applejack now growing into floor lamps, table legs and window frames, a rattling in the attic, the man in starched shirt and black suspenders is lumbering down the stairs, I hear him just outside our door, now, black phlegm rattling in his black lungs, wheezing, barking, shitting out the words, “I’ll take it with me to my grave!” I'LL TAKE IT WITH ME TO MY GRAVE

posted in Free Write - 1 reply

Lucky Charms, Silly Rabbit

pactime — Tue, 02 May 2006 04:20:48 GMT

This was good, right?

So I'm heading into work today. My days take a decidedly routine routine.
It's not really monotonous or anything, but pretty static. First thing, strap
the boy into the car seat. He asks for his truck book, then tells me
to turn on the stereo. "music, daddy." Ok. Tunes on...today is Phish.
Driver. He likes Driver a lot! Then come the shades. He asks for his.
"shades, daddy." I hand them to him. He fumbles w/'em, and invariably (but
not monotonally) puts them on upside down. "help!" We put 'em on right.
Then we head down the road.

It's a quiet road in a quiet 'hood. I like it. It soothes me when I have to leave
my house. I like day care too. He's happy, and I like all the hugs he gets
when he arrives. One little sweety likes to high five me, then she kisses the boy.
It's too cute, and it sets me up into the right frame of mind for my work day.

And that's how my days start during the week. Not bad, right?

Well today...and mind you that I AM NOT superstitious...we had the weird experience
of crossing paths with a black rabbit. This thing was jet black. It was blacker than a black bear.
It was goth it was so black. It was night. Like a January midnight, sleeping in the basement.
And it just sat there lookin at us. The boy saw it first...
..."bunny daddy!!" He sees everything, always first.

So I'm left to wonder, b/c I really can't shake the vision, nor do I want to. Is there
any speculation out there on the wind about black rabbits and portents of good
fortune? I figure that if rabbit feet are lucky, then whole rabbits left alive to imprint,

ne', sear,

their images into minds must be luckier, and if black cats aren't so lucky, well, maybe
somehow black rabbits are the opposite. Super lucky.

Whatever. Whatever they say out there on the wind about black rabbits, I know that I like what I remember...I like what I see...and my mind's eye and the mirror of my mind is usually a pretty good refraction of that which I saw and should retain. So...

...be it. It's good to be us! (The bunny told me.)

posted in Free Write - 0 replies