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skadi_lupa — Sun, 19 Apr 2009 08:45:31 GMT

i never need anything. the moment passes and another takes its place. it is almost as if you were never here at all. all this talk but little to show for it. i do not care how you feel, what you think, who you are... because that moment has passed and another one has taken its place.

i look back for a second and the tears run hot...though you will never see this

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Celestial, Behind A Note

Robert — Thu, 09 Apr 2009 17:53:00 GMT

my new e-chapbook is available for quick, easy downloading here:

http://www.mediafire.com/?sharekey=3f041771fc332a8124a64199ac7f73e5e04e75f6e8ebb871

:)

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can't stand him

skadi_lupa — Sun, 04 Jan 2009 06:11:59 GMT

what is up with the f^*king cat?
irritation. bent. wrong. snark built upon stress
missplacing my t's with y's and losing all hope for a future
where is this going? who is steering or stirring or reading ahead to be sure we add the sugar when necessary

who is watching the pot as she boils?
was i alone in the assumption of the two way street labeled as such and left to our own devices? could i have been that incorrect in my judgement, my spelling, my assertion? my forward trajectory...toward...when.
could i be in the wrong house?

it is quite possible, that.

it is quiet now. i could sneak out before he notices that we have left and left the cat behind. but who will create the new headline, the new footnote, the new meditation on what must be.?.
what happened to that cat? everytime the tea runs out another cup replaces the last. it is keeping me still long enough to finish the thought.
the thought that i hate him viscerally.

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Help me!

dalelovespasta — Sun, 28 Dec 2008 18:40:40 GMT

Help me! Im stuckin an elevator with nowhere to go and a green astroturf below me, thin as a feather and bold as a boy.
My ears are popp'ng, my nose is running, I'm flying, I'm going to hit the top and I don't want to cause that will hurt, but here I go, shit, I could enjoy it if only I didn't know I was going to hit the top and go bang-bang.

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now me too

marston — Fri, 19 Dec 2008 17:44:17 GMT

its hard to just come out and say hey i lied
i know its hard to take all that back . the imbalance left by too few truths. i’d love you anyway and wouldn’t second guess my decision to believe everything you say, in spite of the emotional deficit you’ve left me with. i wonder which i’d run to. the hair as it kisses your shoulders or the truth about all those nights. i need to be whole now as if any words from your mouth could save me i can still feel my feet getting stuck there in the plasticine lead filled pretty up you’ve laid there in order to ensnare. i’m there stuck. something still pushes me to grab your wrist and secure them next to me feeling your full weight over me. stretching my neck to meet you as you stretch your lips to utter everything i’m ever wanted to hear. no maybe we should slow down .let me sit up …okay ….....no i believe you, ......really its cool anyway because now you’re here and you’re ah….here so here let me open this wine…..........
lies or not we missed that journey send off party with friends and family wishing well blowing kisses throwing grain and birdseed to be caught in hair no looky looky here under the dress in the long car for me and you and i want it so badly

i know this is intimate and what if i never get the chance…....i’m a tv show deputy fumbling with his gun breathing slowly and deliberately shuffling away after i’ve got their eye. i used to know how it goes. in many respects i’m sure i still do ,but i think i need an injection something that will allow me to feel again. a pill small and round to fit under my tongue like that gorgeous friend of mine with the house of a hundred guitars. the house of a hundred hellos, her smile is like new music that you find in your ipod music that moves you forcing you to to respond to change and volume, yeah…......new music. this world will never run out of nature loving brunettes or guitar strings never be short of pianos and soft bread kneading hands with images like these i can forgive your lies now please forgive mine

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page one born

marston — Wed, 17 Dec 2008 00:57:16 GMT

New moisture reflects new life as first wail escapes. first wail mimics street talk and tumble of drums from darker jungles and distant country roads. it is these memories that are forbidden from eye raised to doctor. red dust roads forbidden from lips that say”craivent antoine hallier, a fitting name for a man that already screams for the world to be put into his hand. this child is telling the future and holding it in his tiny hand”. his mother would not always talk this way. this tone was always held and only made available to those she might seek to impress.this tone was thrown on like a fresh coat of paint on a used bicycle. fresh paint and worn tires. eyes not yet open would respond to this tone and quicken search for meal. true it is with eyes not yet open that he would be comfortable in her arms, with sight this would cease. with sight he would learn the truth behind religious musings, the truth inside a womans love for love’s sake. he would learn the first coat of paint like her first love would remain forever . the tone over years would turn and fade revealing an undercoat of rawer emotion. her tone over years would fade like dark blue chipped to reveal red. it is with sight that he would find that sparing the rod would spoil the child.
a hardened yet sensitive child he was prone to fascinations, prone to need unlike other little boys. there were few boys his age of 5 years so very attracted to women so moved by them. he would sleep and dream of them, women maddened and chasing him baring teeth and breast. baring teeth that would pierce skin, breast that would tempt him and then vanish into new morn made new by sun and abusive mother tone. he would dream of these women making chase in cars, cars that would circle him and coax him into them only to leave him there broken and alone. he would dream of these maddened women giving chase on motor bike and on foot chasing him into gorges and onto bridges that were unfinished with gaping holes to swallow him. it was here that when he was cornered he would turn to these vampires, these bloodletters and say with complete authority,”mommy i love you”, and they would soften and caress him offering warmth and rest. they would turn to him with the beauty of superstar women that would grace his television screen, with their flowing hair and wide set eyes. he would find love and heaven inside these dreams of lions and their prey. it was the biggest and the strongest of these with their evil mouths that he would trick into love and comfort. spare the child and name him rod. craivent was learning the ways of conversation with a group of new world miracles. it was during this year that he would share a poptart with a girl in school. it was also this year that they would show the red balloon and during this film he would hold her hand, he would hold it until the moisture from her hand would cause him to run away. run until he was safer behind the legs of the teacher or the scrutinizing eyes of his mother. he overheard what a heart breaker he was. it was that thought of breaking her heart that caused him to vomit during the red balloon. it was that vomiting that made him vow to never forget, he was born to do harm, to manipulate, to hold hands and hearts in his tiny fist.
it would take him into his thirties before he could grow a beard but otherwise young mr hallier had testosterone in spades. by the time he was in fourth grade he was already written up for stealing homework and putting his name on the tops of finished pieces. he was sitting in that swivel chair stomach in knots because he had done so many times what he was born to do. in fact his pan like approach had him sitting there watching all the little girls with names like joy and ruanda parade past him to speak about the unspeakable ideas he was tossing into their otherwise innocent minds. he loved them. he loved them when they would look down the row in chorus at him. the way they would pretend to sing to him. he loved them like his father who art in heaven loved us all. it was through this religion that he learned of the possibility that he was thrown to earth his wings burned from his back. it was these teaching that would force his hand up skirts and across backsides. it was his angelic being that caused the respect to fall from his heart. he too began to doubt his father, and his mother. testosterone and knowledge, he knew that these angels were thrown to earth and forsaken for being jealous of the omnipotence of their father and his chosen favorite. craivent was born in the hills of pennsylvania in 1972, he too would stand on high and challenge this omnipotence and this rod sharing as it was dealt out by his mother and her chosen favorite

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I Forgot

TheWizurdOfOdd — Fri, 12 Dec 2008 22:01:07 GMT

Eos arises to wake Helios to ride his chariot across the Heavens,
As I arise to the invariable dawn of the dilapidated day to come.

Bringing with it an insipid populace to digress,
In muddled masses within their own bemused existences.
Through the mind's eye impeded by an expedited culture,
Intolerable of uninhibited thought;
Or could it be that I am intolerant?
Intolerant of the conventional social life that is the American dream,
Of a house,
Two-car garage,
Wrapped in a white picket fence,
A wife,
2.5 children,
A cat,
Dog,
And a gerbil.
I shudder in fear at this fate of a 'civilized' life,
Wilting away within a growing darkness of the monotonous,
Mind-numbing parasites that are the upper middle-class...
Day after day, their meaningless lives drone on incessantly,
Reminiscent of a pair of twin propeller engines of a DC-9,
Throbbing in thunderous succession.
The very thought of this sort of habitual routine becoming my own,
Aggravates my psyche into feverous madness,
Frantically clawing away at the roof of my skull,
In hopeless desperation to flee from the cubicle working class drudgery,
Until death do us part...

Eos arises to wake Helios to ride his chariot across the Heavens,
As I arise to the invariable dawn of the dilapidated day to come.

I sigh with a heavy heart,
Mulling over endless inquiries of what is,
Can,
May,
Could or could not be,
A pure and true awareness of self.
Is there, no longer, a place on this shallow Earth for a free mind?
Have we as Humanity hit a brick wall?
Who, then, is left to ponder and question
This progression of knowledge and lack of understanding as to why we are here?
What has happened to the, ever increasing, theories of what comes next?
Where have all the philosophers gone?
When will selfishness, greed, hate and bloodshed become taboo?
...If ever...
Peace is not a hope in this day and age;
Instead becoming more and more like a deplorable cruel joke,
A might more mythical than a man liviing in the moon...
...Made of cheese.
What has happened to us since the Renaissance?
Is this what has become of the Age of Enlightenment?
Why is every novel idea to come along, now challenged as false,
Before contemplated upon as a possible truth?
How has Mankind become the stagnant, socio-cultural idiot savant it is today?
Will we ever stop with this obsessive compulsive,
Self-gratification to 'upgrade' our lives?
HDTVs, iPods, Blue Ray Discs, Digital Cameras
Or anything else we may come across in the new mega-stores of gadgets galore.

Forget Global Warming.
Forget Starvation.
Forget Disease.
Forget the War.
Forget the Threats of WWIII.
Forget Poverty.
Forget the Hate.
Forget Genocide.
Forget the Exchange of Blood for Oil.
Forget the Dying and Dead.
Forget it All.

Shut yourselves away from the rest of the world,
Hiding within your comfortable suburbanite track homes,
And complain about the REAL problems of your own little worlds:
Rising gas prices,
Raised taxes,
Recession,
The switch to High Definition
And the size of your fucking television set.
Utter nonsense to prattle on and on about,
Sheltering the populace from the callous realities of this newborn century,
Frighteningly evocative of 1984.

Eos arises to wake Helios to ride his chariot across the Heavens,
Illuminating an ever expanding, chasm unto social redundancy.

Michael Stipe sings it best:
"It's the end of the World as we know it... And I feel fine."

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tiny horn in E plays great, looks phallic, etc.

bobstad — Sun, 23 Nov 2008 16:50:26 GMT

This is a link to the thread FERAL FAUN DISCUSSES RADICAL FEMINISM and my posts at the bottom about a tiny horn a hand's breadth long with nine tone holes, a single reed and conical bore; which is nearly as loud as a zurnah and sounds like a tiny saxophone crossed with a blues harmonica. <http://theicarusproject.net/forums/viewtopic.php?t=11100&start=15>

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Memories

trobi1021 — Mon, 17 Nov 2008 04:06:16 GMT

Images of a time long ago
Visions of a childhood lost in time
Loves long ago forgotten
The smallest things brought to mind
The smell of a girl’s hair
The taste and feel of that first kiss
Something familiar yet unsure
Dreams of what was
Fantasies of what could have been
Mixing with fantasies
Churning, swirling within thoughts and ideas
Unsure of what was real
Not knowing what was or is real
Did it really happen?
Was it something I wanted?
Is my mind playing tricks on me?
How can I know?
Age takes away what I valued
Faded memories
Dying without notice
Faces become a soulless mist
Voices become distant echoes
Others made stronger with each passing day
Building on memories past
Keeping alive the feelings I once had
That one special word
The sparkle in her eyes
Although my mind has faded
I fight, struggle to keep them alive
A single surviving memory
One image, one smell, one touch
One memory to prove that my life was real
To prove that I existed

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Black File 7001: In 1999, Lee Vin Bah became an unknowing human test animal in a U.S. Government mind-control and torture black project. Wednesday, October 08, 2008 [Revised: 10.12.2008]

Lee Vin Bah — Sun, 19 Oct 2008 07:06:22 GMT

Black File 7001: In 1999, Lee Vin Bah became an unknowing human test animal in a U.S. Government mind-control and torture black project.
Wednesday, October 08, 2008 [Revised: 10.12.2008] [Press Statement]

Black File 7001: McCain’s Genocidal Holocaust in America

The McCain Doctrine:
Empty dribble for those unable to distinguish horse manure from shoeshine. McCain’s inner-cracker surfaces with “That one!” aka “Those people!”, “Tar Baby!”, “Little Black Sambo!” or “Jew Boy!” McCain’s comment caused me to remember my youth in the Southern U.S. and gas stations with three bathrooms for men, women and colored. One night I went to sleep as a Jewish child and woke up the next morning to hear my family saying that the U.S. Government now considered us white. As for my race, I chose to remain “human” while at least attempting to recognize same in all people as the individual threads within the beautiful fabric of our humanity.

McCain – “I’ve been on nuclear powered ships”:
Yes, second from the bottom of his graduating class, John McCain wet starts his Skyhawk on the flight deck of the USS Forrestal in 1967, detonates a Zuni missile on the F4 Phantom parked behind his jet and causes the infamous fire aboard the ship killing 132 U.S. Navy sailors and wounding countless others. McCain’s military career has consistently recognized the admiral’s son successfully making touchdowns for the opposing team - stop John you’re running the wrong way…the goalpost is the other direction! McCain’s political career has the same “reverse maverick” modus operandi while supporting an illegal war in Iraq that should result in first degree murder charges being brought against George W. Bush and his administration, as cited within Vincent Bugliosi’s book titled, The Prosecution of George W. Bush for Murder.

McCain – “My friends my record speaks of continuous service to the nation”:
Whose nation wrong way McCain – North Vietnam, Saudi Arabia, the UAE and Dubai, land of the Bush bin Cheney harem whores? Allegedly, McCain with a false war hero persona sided with his communist captors in North Vietnam during the war. McCain, you must DECLASSIFY YOUR SEALED MILITARY AND ASSOCIATED RECORDS to answer the charges that while a POW of the North Vietnamese, you voluntarily and without being tortured did give aid and comfort to the enemy of the United States by producing over 32 propaganda tapes denouncing America as a nation of war criminals and did treasonously provide classified military flight path routes to the NVC, which allowed them to reposition their antiaircraft weapons and kill U.S. pilots on their return trips back home. Tell the American people why you and Kerry changed the standing rules that allowed U.S. Military Commanders on the ground to immediately implement a rescue mission to recover POWs and MIAs when sighted and now require a two day delay be communicated through the Pentagon before taking action, which may as well be two years in jungle time? McCain you allegedly support crossing into Pakistan to kill the complicit Bush family’s friend and ally, Osama bin Laden, but you won’t rescue our U.S. Military POWs and MIAs after the CIA has confirmed over 15,000 sighting. Not to mention that my sources close to the U.S. Special Forces operating in that region confirm that the Whitehouse via the Pentagon telephonically gave a special operations team the following orders after identifying the target for neutralization; “do not to kill Osama bin Laden and remove your team from the area.” When the team later inquired about their combat pay, they were told the mission had been classified and technically speaking since on paper they were never in the Afghanistan/Pakistan region, they are therefore not entitled to combat pay. Wonder if this was one of the same formulas used by your syndicated Republican consortium to systematically rape the financial assets of the American people – where were you 90% of the time for the past eight years? Maverick? – no I think you have been more like sedentary hot buttered goat custard.

McCain – “No one in this country supports genocide” – vomit!
Guess what “my friends”, McCain headed a Senatorial Investigation Committee to cover-up the Bush family’s continuing genocide of Americans and scapegoated their blame onto the back of a power company engineer for another Republican act of treason. My sources so very close to the U.S. Secret Service that I once declined their offer to be photographed sitting at Bush 41’s Whitehouse desk, volunteered that President and former CIA Chief, George H.W. Bush ordered the clandestine testing of a military Electromagnetic Pulse [EMP] weapon on New York City from a refitted A-6 Intruder jet-bomber with a golden canopy that “Killed American Citizens.” New Yorkers died that day, just like on 911. On the date of that EMP weapons attack ordered by Republican George H.W. Bush, American citizens died from an inability to obtain emergency services following massive regional power outages caused by the covert use the U.S. Military against our nation’s people while on U.S. soil. Following 911, it’s too bad that Rudy Giuliani affected such a rapid clean-up of the crime scene area to destroy any evidence; especial with what I suspect would have been found after the botched demolition operation on WTC Building No.: 7 that suddenly decided to drop into its own footprint without being touched. The Bush oligarchy historically recognizes an ongoing lineage of treason to perpetuate their global continuing criminal enterprise and the largest theft of government funds in the history of the known world.

President and former CIA Chief, George H.W. Bush replaced CIA Chief William Colby who died during a suspected assassination on August 27, 1996, before he could testify in the 1953 staged suicide/murder of U.S. Army scientist Dr. Frank Olson [CIA MK-ULTRA] from the same top secret laboratories in Fort Detrick, MD that recently recognized another alleged suicide in one Dr. Bruce E. Ivans [911 Postal Anthrax produced from within the same facility].

Black File 7001: The Genocidal Holocaust in America
U.S. Genocidal Black Projects in torture and mind-control have continued in development since the CIA’s importation of 1600 Nazi SS war criminals to America during “Operation Paperclip” where they continued their inhuman atrocities on human test animals within the MK-ULTRA Program. Those monstrous practices were first begun at the Auschwitz-Birkenau concentration camps. These genocidal black projects are covertly funded by billions of dollars from American taxpayers and are rarely scrutinized beneath their program titles by the congressional intelligence committees and their elected members with top secret crypto clearances. Typically these black projects and their methodologies are shrouded beneath federal programs with misnomer titles; kept under wraps at top secret military installations; are concealed within academic research grants; tested during the surrounding events of natural disasters; monitored within the public education system; entrenched within technological devices and surveillance equipment; and are hidden from public scrutiny around the world within prisons, hospitals and centers of academic learning that occasionally double as a blacksite facilities to varying degrees. These formulas for torture are applied against every thread of our existence and the total fabric of humanity by the controlling few against the many whom I feel will increasingly find their revolutionary voice for a restorative democracy that recognizes the human being in all people. Exposing these U.S. black projects causes’ whistleblowers like me to become Targeted Individuals [TIs] who are cauterized through “slow kill” and “silent kill” methods that psychologically wall-off mind-control victims with layers of suicide programming or are rapidly silenced by assassination. Self-inflicted harm is the cornerstone of the four principle components within the CIA torture matrix. This means that the “deep state” proponents of genocidal black projects in torture and mind-control within the U.S. Government infrastructure use covert operatives or jackal agents to harm or murder innocent American citizens. The only reason why these criminal agents and enemies of humanity have not murdered me to date is because I write and publish. The jackals and other criminal actors known to me have been warned along with their handlers that unannounced appearances will be considered a mortal threat. My contacts in the Federal Bureau of Investigation have been notified.

The Federal Witness Protection Program [WitSec], complete with a blacksite facility staffed by government psychologists assisting in the mind-control and torture program, recognizes a clandestine shadow network with given WitSec Inspectors and associated federal agents and agencies conducting sadistic and genocidal practices against Non-Criminal Federal Witnesses and Government Whistleblowers who unknowingly become human test animals within the fraudulent federal program.

This human laboratory control sample within the WitSec is subjected to an evolving mind-control and “no-touch” invisible physical torture experiment sourced from methods produced by the CIA’s MK-ULTRA Program and the KUBARK Counterintelligence Interrogation Manual [The Torture Bible]. The ongoing cover-up by WitSec’s administrators includes their lying under oath before the U.S. Congress to conceal the wrongful deaths of U.S. Government Witnesses from the lasting erosive effects of psyops, mind-control and torture while in and after having exited the Federal Witness Protection Program.

This additionally includes the theft of government funds while robbing the American taxpayers of $Billions through padded numbers to feather their budget. In 2000, I assisted the USDOJ to investigate and successfully prosecute my first WitSec Inspector, John W. Dubois [name authorized by U.S Marshals Service for release] for the same charge. Dubois was later released from prison and allowed to stalk me, convey veiled death threats and later accosted me by the arm while I was near death from cancer treatments.

WitSec Headquarters took no action after filing over 30 security notices, which remains in keeping with the most of our state and federal elected representatives; including Senator Ron Wyden, Congressman David Wu, Oregon Governor Ted Kulongoski, and Oregon Attorney General Hardy Myers. Actually my volunteer work as a consumer advocate has placed nearly $30 thousand in the State of Oregon’s depleted coffers and I like Oregon’s AG, but their motives that extends beyond the perpetuation of the “Dark Figure of Crime” is best known to each of them and should be explained to the Oregon voters before the next election; certainly I am affording them yet another opportunity to respond, since they already know my legal name and contact information.

Every frontline covert operator working deep cover assignments, Non-Criminal Federal Witnesses and Government Whistleblowers who are granted a fraudulent Protective Person’s Status under Title 18 of the U.S.C. only to become unknowing human test animals in clandestine experiments, on average begin developing Post Traumatic Stress Disorder [PTSD] within 24 days of exposure in their given operational areas. Some are affected sooner and all experience the complete deconstruction of Constitutional Civil Liberties and inalienable human rights entitled any person [human being] and/or an American citizen after being psychologically pressed into the Federal Witness Protection Program.

The oil rich nations of Saudi Arabia and the UAE, Dubai that supported the attacks against America on 911, today are the only entities making money during the final glut of their end game to destroy America with the treasonous assistance of their complicit partners in the Republican Bush-Cheney administration.
With every economic hardship that our fellow human brothers and sisters are continuing to experience with the collapse of U.S. Republican capitalism, respectfully for those of us who remain an unseen minority as a protect class within plain-sight of mainstream America, the concentrated formulas used against us are horrifically deconstructive and are infinitely worse than anything being generally experienced at this moment.

This is Clandestine Genocide being conducted against American citizens by the U.S. Government. For my group of Veterans of Voluntary Covert National Service, no matter how much the economy and life improves for the majority of Americans living on Main Street, USA, our existence as Non-Criminal Federal Witnesses, Government Whistleblowers and Targeted Individuals [TIs] will remain one of Adjunct Human Slavery within a Virtual Death Camp Environment that continues to systematically and systemically murder our members who are equally entitled American citizens of good character. From that hellish place we watch the blessings of liberty enjoyed by our fellow citizens like “bubble boys” able to move about you while never allowed to penetrate the membrane of that inhuman vessel that falsely imprisons us away from our constitutional entitlements and inalienable human rights. The culpable actors within the U.S. Government have made it virtually if not completely impossible for most of use to find employment. The women in our group have to a degree been able to obtain public assistance, albeit an unnatural reduction from their former financial statuses before the WitSec Program.

This becomes an egregious human rights violation and Constitutional Crime committed by the U.S. Government against its veterans of covert national service who apparently are systemically targeted for eventual death following their voluntary participation as partisans of liberty.

A convicted felon in prison has more recognized civil liberties and opportunities made available to them than American citizen who went above and beyond the call of duty to participate in our government system to make the world and our nation a better place for all human beings.

Female Government Witness and Whistleblower Subjected to Rape Torture!
One female government witness and whistleblower recently communicated that following her discovery that a number of Republican Senators were laundering millions in U.S. taxpayers’ dollars through quasi federal programs, that she was kidnapped and subjugated to human sexual slavery for the sadistic pleasures of those wishing her death. Once programmed through mind-control techniques she was raped for two days, hung by the neck and thought left for dead until she awoke in a pool of her own blood and feces with her sexual organs destroyed.

After a 24 hour reconstructive surgery and a period of recuperation, she returned to a university where she completed her degrees only to have those targeting her for torture and mind-control, separate her from securing those University Degrees while leaving her with $30 thousand dollars in debts for student loans. Somehow she will have to pay-off those federal student loans while continuing to seek restorative justice and restitution for the crimes committed against her. Be aware that all American citizens and other innocent victims of genocidal human experimentation are being subjected to these crimes against humanity by the same individuals who espouse the rights of a blastocyst while processing Christianity. That said, even the members of the Nazi SS attended the Catholic Church.

Like this brutalized human being and gentle woman, I remain disenfranchised from the completion of my degrees by the actionable offences of the WitSec Program and without an audit conducted by the federal government, to this day I am not certain if the WitSec Inspectors actually caused me to pay nearly double what I owed in federal student loans.

Under the Bush oligarchy and within the Bush-Cheney administration, whose members were the first to avoid government service and the first to send our youth to be murdered for financial profits, a former Nazi became a Catholic Pope and the grandfather of Karl Rove [Roverer] aka “The Architect” built the Birkenau death camp. Karl Heinz Roverer was the Gauleiter of Oldenburg. Roverer was the Reich-Statthalter or Nazi State Party Chairman for his region. He was also a partner and senior engineer in the Roverer Sud-Deutche Ingenieurburo A.G. engineering firm, which built the Birkenau death camp where tens of thousands of Jews, Gypsies, dissidents and others were slaughtered through genocide. During that time and before while reaching back to 1920, the namesake of the two Bush presidents, George Herbert Walker and former Republican Senator, Prescott Bush laundered the financial assets of the Nazi industrial complex through WWI, WWII, and the Jewish Holocaust against the United States of America while our nation was at war with Nazi Germany. That treasonous legacy continues today as recognized since September 11, 2001.

The Federal Witness Protection Program with its “deep state” blackops proponents sharpened the blade of tactics later used against detainees inside Abu Ghraib Prison on the unknowing human test animals within the WitSec black project. To date the CIA torture matrix has killed and murdered an estimated 115 human slaves tortured to death inside Abu Ghraib Prison, Iraq; 35 were ruled homicides. The developers of the ongoing CIA torture matrix within the U.S. Government continue to target innocent American citizens for “slow kill” and “silent kill” deaths on U.S. soil and the majority of our alleged elected representatives remain silent. What excuse will they give when this matter reaches the light of public examination?

Other Examples of Black Projects Shrouded from Public Scrutiny
Some other examples of the programs and shrouds used as covers for the testing and development of the torture matrix include: The War for Profit Corporatist Deconstruction and Reconstruction Model; the No Child Left Behind Initiative that erodes the education process in High Schools, funds the testing materials exclusively sold by Neil Bush’s education software company, defrauds varying percentages of students from attending college, herds others into the cheap labor pools, and targets new immigrant American citizens for military service under an anti-American and treasonous administration; the New Phoenix Program; “Project Monarch II”; the CIA MK-ULTRA Program [the Manhattan Project of mind-control to create the perfect Manchurian Candidate] with projects Bluebird, Artichoke and over 250 subprojects; Dr. Ewen Cameron’s development of the July 1963, CIA KUBARK Counterintelligence Interrogation Manual at McGill University, Montreal, Quebec; “Project X” where KUBARK and other new variations that had largely been used in South America from 1983 to 1987 were remixed into a second “Bible” of the perfect torturer, titled Human Resource Exploitation Training Manual - 1993; the events surrounding Hurricane Katrina and the genocide of New Orleans with the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers’ funding for strengthening the levees being diverted by Republicans to build a “Teapot Museum in North Carolina”; the FEMA trailer camp as Guantanamo Bay in New Orleans with free bus rides to Wal-Mart; Guantanamo Bay Prison, Cuba; Abu Ghraib Prison, Iraq; the three word mantra “War on Terror”; Color Code Terrorism Alerts and related Fear Tactics [terrorism]; Fluctuating Gasoline Prices that rise and fall with pending legislation and elections; the Attacks on September 11, 2001 by the oil trading partners of the Bush family; the 911 Postal Anthrax from the top secret laboratory at Fort Detrick, MD and the alleged suicide of Dr. Bruce E. Ivans; the 1953 staged suicide/murder of Dr. Frank Olson, from the top secret laboratory at Fort Detrick, MD; the tactics of Psyops Terrorism used against the American people and the world; the Genocide of over 100,000 innocent Iraqis [women, men, children, and infants] as War Crimes and First Degree Murder; the unconstitutional Judicial Selection of a U.S. President; the lies told to regain control of a Democratic Congress only to deconstruct the U.S. Constitution and the hopes of American citizens with Nancy Pelosi’s “Impeachment is off the Table”; “No-Touch” Invisible Physical Torture Techniques; Targeting Individuals [TIs] with Psychotronic Weapons using Electromagnetic Pulse Energy, Radiofrequency, Microwave Radiation, and Subliminal Imaging to “Alter” Brainwave Patterns that collectively result in Mind-Control or “Brainwashing”; the “Memory Pill” aka Brainwashing made simple by Big Pharma [also involved with MK-ULTRA]; the Punishing of Goodness while Rewarding Criminality and Gross Incompetence; Pharmaceutical particulates in our Toilet to Tap Drinking Water Systems; Atmospheric Nitrogen Fertilizer and Sulfuric Acid from Coal Furnaces compounding Global Warming and Affecting the Balance of Nature with increasing numbers of Dead Zone in the Earth’s Oceans; Plastics Consumer Products manufactured from Oil being used as “Slow Kill” Poison Delivery Systems; Video Surveillance Cameras installed on virtually every street pole for the harvest of a Retinal Recognition Database while simultaneously causing Desensitization to Empirical Intimate Intrusions and Psyops Suppression of the Sovereign Thought Process to create a Toxic and Self-Consuming Society [Self-Inflicted Harm of the CIA Torture Matrix]; the Psychological Conditioning of being Electronically Strip Searched or Raped by NSA X-Ray Body Scanners in Airports while some unknown operator sits in a closed room recording the images of small children and adults into a Database for Republican Pedophiles; Microwave Antenna Arrays positioned throughout most cities that have been removed in Germany from the known harm caused by prolonged exposure; the Electoral College measured against the Popular Vote to manipulate the will of “We the People”; Electronic Voting Machine Irregularities; Ad Nauseam Rhetoric repeated through the Propaganda Ministries that have deconstructed a Constitutionally Entitled Free Press; the Absorption of Generational Wealth for Converting those in the Middle into a Peasant Class Society; the Perversion of Language with a “War on Drugs” verses the Perpetual Promotion of Prescription Pharmaceuticals with many Patented before an Illness has been Invented; and the Deregulation and Privatization of America’s Economic Infrastructure to finish what they started on 911. All of the above and more, depending on the individual concentration or a collective lamination of same, recognize the means of causing psyops terrorism and torture technique that although tested on those of us who walk unseen among you in their most concentrated forms, have increasingly been implemented against the general population of America and the World since September 11, 2001.

Standing Alone for the Human Victims of Torture.
With the exceptions of Senator, Barack Obama; Congressman, Dennis Kucinich; and Congressman, Elijah E. Cummings, the majority of our elected Congressional members, including my Senator, Ron Wyden and Congressman, David Wu have supported genocidal torture programs through their craven silence and failure to implement a Congressional investigation regarding my firsthand experience of having become an unknowing human test animal and victim of torture as Non-Criminal Federal Witness, No.: 7001.

Even though John McCain publically stated “my friends no American would allow genocide to occur when it is completely within our power to stop it.” This unfortunately is not the case and like the past this same government demeanor that once allowed the genocide of over 6,000,000 human beings during the Jewish Holocaust is at play again. My story, Black File 7001 has been blacklisted by the propagandized corporate news media, most of the progressive news media, including Democracy Now, NOW on PBS, Air America Radio, and The Ed Schultz Show. Of course talk radio is what it is and I quit listening over a year ago, but Democracy Now and NOW on PBS, are two shows that I have followed and supported for years; only they will be able to answer the reasons for their own silence.

Currently and while still seeking asylum in Canada, I am attempting to contact Oprah Winfrey with Harpo Productions, Inc., the Canadian BBC and would welcome communications with any genuine journalism organization, publisher, film maker, literary agent or elected political representative willing to discuss the Black File 7001 story. My thank to those of you who have sent a petition to the Government of Canada requesting they grant asylum under the conventions of torture cited by the UNHCR and retroprosity for my Protective Person’s Status issued by U.S. Attorney General, Janet Reno under Title 18 of the United States Code.

The Bush-Cheney administration validates Black File 7001
Ironically, Black File 7001 has been reverse validated by the Bush-Cheney administration through their federal agent’s unlawful use of a communication facility while telephonically threatening, “Bah – you have people in very high places afraid to death that you are going to destroy their programs and they said if you publish your book, they will “invent” a criminal charge against you.” Following my invitation for his handler’s to go pound salt in their asses, agents of the Sensitive Operations Division of the Social Security Administration and the WitSec Program first awarded my Social Security Disability Benefits and then in an act of political retribution, punitively withdrew same under written letters of protest from the U.S. Government’s own federal judge. In an egregious violation of several federal laws that extend to a charge of treason under the Federal Identities Act, those mandated with my protection deliberately commingled federally sealed classified government documents and illegally unsealed my covert SSA file for public viewing from January 8, 2001 [my son’s birthday] until the U.S. Attorney in Seattle, WA suddenly contacted my attorney advising that she was filing a Motion to Reseal on July 14, 2008 – the Bush-Cheney administration is trying to perform a cover-up of the many crimes committed against me. A federal court judge is deciding the case on civil appeal in Seattle, WA.

Again, the administrators of the Federal Witness Protection Program [WitSec] have lied before the U.S. Congress regarding the deaths of government witnesses from the causal effects of the genocidal program while financially raping the American taxpayers with padded numbers they alleged represents 18,000 government witnesses when liberally speaking the number is more likely no higher than 8,500. Only 6% of the total number are Non-Criminal Federal Witnesses and the rest are Custodial and Criminal Federal Witnesses.

The ongoing egregious federal crimes and human rights violations committed against me directly or in layers and the mechanisms that have denied my constitutional right of legal redress under duplicitous use of national security protocols, have deconstructed my ability to enjoy the fundamental right to life, complete my university degrees, secure employment, recognize my Social Security, and retain my Social Security Disability Benefits from the actionable offences committed in political retribution by a corrupt government system that has leaking classified government information under Title 18 of the United States Code to a telecommunications company engaged in this blackops RICO conspiracy. The erosive effects caused by psyops and “no-touch” invisible physical torture by the U.S. Government, recognizes a resulting harm that has remained infinitely more damaging during the past eight years than the singular event relating to the Valerie Plame Wilson matter.

The list of criminal offenses committed against me along with the commingling and leaking of federally sealed and classified information is lengthy and has created a mortal threat environment around my geographic location in violation of the WitSec mandate. This further serves as the U.S. Government’s passive sanction for my assassination that increasingly becomes a probability nearing the end of the treasonous Bush-Cheney administration.

Under this administration and others, this is the clandestine reward for those good citizens and former law enforcement members who gave something extra in service to our nation. With a Protective Person’s Status as a Protected Class, we are “disappeared” into an unequal parallel within our mothercountry that is barren of constitutional civil liberties and inalienable human rights. While being mummified for voluntary covert national service, our individual sense of self-identity is eroded into an existence of adjunct human slavery within a virtual death camp environment were an unnatural death waits in the shadows. Once situated in the plain-sight of the general population, we are confronted by the constant threat of lethal deportation or vicarious extraordinary rendition back to our birth identities and certain death from known mortal threats and often the actionable offences committed in political retribution by the very U.S. Government personnel allegedly tasked with our protection.

Sh'ma Yis'ra'eil Adonai Eloheinu Adonai echad.
Many of you have written Diane Finley, Minister of Citizenship and Immigration, Canada and again I am indebted to you for your sense of humanity and kindness. Should any of you have time or the inclination, I would be equally grateful for a note being sent to your Elected Representatives, Oprah Winfrey, the BBC, and any progressive journalist who might assist me in sharing the Black File 7001 story. Whether my life is forfeited in this process, G-d or the Mother of All Things has placed this mission in my path and as her servant I obey.

posted in Free Write - 0 replies

.

MixMastaConrad — Sat, 30 Aug 2008 07:29:24 GMT

so marks this lapse of time trailing thoughts.
This time it's god,
this time it's you creating
hand clenched lightly around this brush,
dismantling a train of thoughtful images.
onto the california sky line, blue
into green.

as the date of the inevitable creeps up,
my spine buzzes,
my teeth clench,
onto every inch of everything I've come to love,
I clench.

This is the epic "all discovery" journey
that has forced to pass.

That date, 4 years down the road,
and I'm still sweating a tad bit.
Contrary to the river I was feeding a couple years ago.
But still a minor stream,
a blip among blips.

I've learned to become an excited ball of imagination.
the what if's blow me to pieces,

And the relation between then and today,
the uphill trudge,
the dance at the top.

to reach love and enlightenment,
to accept and embrace
the new liberation.
breathe into me, the light and purity.

Not to get all spiritual on you or anything.

posted in Free Write - 0 replies

full

skadi_lupa — Tue, 01 Jul 2008 23:58:19 GMT

so full right now
to bursting and beyond
a jumbled chaos of fullness
a messy menagerie
so full
my heart is full, my heart is full
my spirit and my hands are full
my moods are swinging
so full
i have more than i need
so fully full
up to the top and over the sides........
so full

posted in Free Write - 1 reply

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 - 3 replies

add if you want, or i will

rosehoney — Sun, 18 May 2008 01:36:45 GMT

i am overflowing as whatever Im being filled with is overflowing from elsewhere.
the bursting over is happening and it is both beautiful and scary
when the river is swift but not swift enough to pull you under flowing towards a calm
I am in the place
i am that place
I am overflowing and the glaciers pour down the mountain in their own special sort of torrent
the places in me where I am no longer singing cannot be located anymore
in moments I miss them and the certainty they hold
those moments last a split second and then they correct themselves

posted in Free Write - 0 replies

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"

posted in Free Write - 0 replies

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.............

posted in Free Write - 0 replies

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.

posted in Free Write - 0 replies

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"

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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

posted in Free Write - 0 replies

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

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.

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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

*

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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

Talking about the weather (word art)

Sun, 30 Apr 2006 18:17:52 GMT

**the words/letters that are all caps and in (parenthesis) are bold ittalic in the original. I don't know how to do that here.

Talking About the Weather

you know that we talk all the time and it is usually the same (I)’m not really good at that relationship game although i keep trying to talk about the weather what i really want to say is that i (WANT) to know you better or maybe you should say that for i have never been the type of cat to just jump into the lap of any old stranger though i just might linger just out of reach unsure whether to walk up or leap away because of the danger i need (YOU) to say what kind of intention you would like me to mention not that i will do that but just so i know whether you want me to stay of to go its just not that easy as you can plainly see (TO) figure out or understand me i have trouble with it myself but that doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t try just to figure out what this is all about if you want to (KNOW) for what i really am if i can say it right is the filament in a lighthouse’s light but what i need is a lens to give me some focus as my light spreads around in the way that i live do you think you could do that would you like to try i know it would be worth it it’s just (THAT) i’m shy so it’s not that i don’t like you it’s just when (I) try to say that it never comes out the way that it should for you to understand the way that you could it’s just so frustrating not to be able to say what i want to and to speak the way i (NEED) to in order to make you hear me so i feel like i am in a rut but more importantly wasting our time that we could be sharing together and all the experiences i could share with you it’s not just about my wants but it doesn’t seem fair that (YOU.) should have to miss out so i guess that is all i can do i’ve tried to get it out

© 2006 Gary Hassler all rights reserved

posted in Free Write - 0 replies

Anomaly, Set

Robert — Tue, 16 Aug 2005 21:33:51 GMT

Carrying that process beyond us...

Machines that sever black pools imprinted
in the engines of profit, dispersing deadly
metaphors buried within the shape of a yes

Feral, bristling Bible belts drip terrains, naive
levels of perplexity streaming into the tentacles
of prophecy. Sour volcanic ash wearing a moon-beam...

Interwoven abomination factories battle humanity to the death
Faithless syllables drafted wise martial vibrations
into possible meanings, their droning cartels
raping invisible strings doing evolutionary penance

Nothing but eternity.
Baleful radiation crevices echo
an idea made equal to itself.
Insulting misasma shoes sneezing meteors...

...parading jade senility, the glories of eternal recurrence slope into eulogy filters cut short by intersecting cycles of sugar...drinking the long night away, my hand thunders the hope of a child...custard rolling a champion, hard tears loving me...into music...monstrous beer mysticism origins put into a name that whispers it...crossed destinies stretch temples into blood foliage...letters mauintaing the stream become increasingly whorl-like, all transgressive qualities hoisted by vampiric, titular royalty annealed by ennui...

Constellated smears petrify
Digital clefts chase their perfect
aporias into the fatality that lies
concealed in heraldry

...unless you start at the crown chakra and work your way down

http://arghfuckkill.blogspot.com

posted in Free Write - 2 replies

Kahlil Gibran's poetiks on LOVE

Renee — Mon, 24 Apr 2006 17:01:50 GMT

A Quote About LOVE
Wed, April 12, 2006 - 10:19 PM

~~~~~

Then said Almitra, "Speak to us of Love."

And he raised his head and looked upon the people, and there fell a stillness upon them. And with a great voice he said:

When Love beckons to you, follow him,

Though his ways are hard and steep.

And when his wings enfold you, yeild to him,

Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.

Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself,

He threshes you to make you naked.

He sifts you to free you from your husks.

He grinds you to whiteness.

He kneads you until you are pliant;

And then he assigns you to his sacred fire,

that you may become sacred bread for God's sacred feast.

All these things shall love do unto you that you may know

the secrets of your heart,

And in that knowledge become a fragment of Life's heart.

To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night.

To know the pain of too much tenderness.

To be wounded by your own understanding of Love;

And to bleed willingly and joyfully.

To wake at dawn with a winged heart,

And give thanks for another day of Loving.

Give your hearts,

But not into each other's keeping.

For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts.

And stand together,

Yet not too near together:

For the pillars of the temple

stand apart,

And the oak tree and the cypress

grow not in each other's shadow.

~~~~~~~~
--- Kahlil Gibran ---
excerpts from "the Prophet"

posted in Free Write - 0 replies

a new tribe for those

Blanket — Mon, 17 Apr 2006 11:21:33 GMT

that want serious constructive critiques on their poems and are willing to do the same
http://tribes.tribe.net/poeticconfines

posted in Free Write - 0 replies

slugs with backpacks

Sun, 16 Apr 2006 19:45:30 GMT

the rain...
the rain falls on the leaves like tears from the sky
falling, falling...
landing on the ground at my feet
like the tears on my face
falling
into puddles
surrounding my pink slippers
the ones I wore when I crushed the snail
on my patio
it was an accident, but
I only hope the goddesses and the womyn of drums, chanting
and trees
will forgive me
maybe if I take off all my clothes
and chant with my face
upturned in the falling rain/tears
that fall from the starlit, goddess infested sky
maybe then I will be forgiven
for the slime
on my pink slippers....

posted in Free Write - 0 replies

wishes

mskayasattva — Sat, 08 Apr 2006 06:05:45 GMT

she longs to shapeshift
into a quiet mouse
who parades about
in the dreams of a cat
dressed in a tuxedo
that lays about on the lap
of the small child
whose father harvests delicate coca nuts
and these nuts they make their way
to the chocolate fact'ry
where one day you gingerly buy
a chocolate scone, maybe two
that become blessed
by your heavenly tongue

posted in Free Write - 1 reply

"No Talks"

MsSmart — Sun, 02 Apr 2006 03:43:02 GMT

No Talks (4-1-06)

When I was a kid, I lived in Detroit, the then motor/Motown city.
We were the third house in from the corner on Vaughan Avenue.
My phone number was, Broadway 35752, and yep, we had a party line.
There were these two ladies, sisters, who moved into the corner house.
They painted the outside of the house pink.
That was totally outrageous for the times amidst the conservative nature of the mid-west and their aluminium siding/brick home residents.
The ladies dyed their hair blue.
The other end of the street was lined with stores - Cunningham’s with fountain service featuring nickel cokes, A&P’s, Julie’s deli and candy store…
The two ladies would regularly pass us outside at play as they head off to the store.
They always walked 20 feet apart.
Not sometimes, always.
And they never talked, not to each other or anyone else.
We called them “No talks”.

1963, Detroit, 2 ladies, pink house, walking 20 feet apart, blue hair, and they never talked.

posted in Free Write - 1 reply

Oh

RastaFariHymns — Fri, 31 Mar 2006 20:10:46 GMT

I'm Subjected to the rigors of this Tragedy
Well Motherfuckers be Mad at me
For Emphatically spreading Ideal philosophy
In which Horton baskes Logically
chronically complaining about water retaining
But not actually draining the blood from the boil
Roasting up free base on Aluminium foil
While Wars are fought on all continents for oil
can you fell the Slave masters whip as it's coiled
Whos plans I desparetly wish to despoil
Evilness apparent it shows in their minds
Don't go over the yellow just follow the Lines
Don't step on Bombs watch out for Land Mines
Watch out for P-Bush and his evil designes
Keepin Human beings in Moldy confines
Keepin the Conciousness in Disillusion
Spreading Chaos and Mass confusion
We need to Watch out!

posted in Free Write - 1 reply

4 poems.

youknowyouloveme — Tue, 28 Mar 2006 23:50:57 GMT

Just wrote these today. Gotta do something with all these emotions. :)

#1

Unsure of myself, I
Never said I was special.
Did you think I was lying?
Even I can
Recognize a failure.

Things should be different, but they aren't.
Help is so far that
Even if it reached me, I would be long gone.

Simply try to
Kill me if
You want to help me.

So sick and tired of this internal battle
Oppressed inside myself.

Beat me until I breath no more,
Lying cold on the steps,
Under the
Ever-so scrutinizing gaze of the people.

#2

Unnoticed, I sit in the corner,
Never
Daring to look up.
Even to meet your eyes would
Reveal all my thoughts to you.

Time stops as I
Hear you heading toward me,
Every foostep echoing.

Stiffening at some sudden
Knowledge, I can't breathe as
You stop in front of me.

Shaking imperceivably, I
Open my mouth to utter some lie.

Blushing, I find that nothing escapes my
Lips. I sit there awkwardly, but you seem to
Understand.
Reaching for my hand, you lead me into bliss.

#3

Your gentle smile, like the spring wind
Softly easing the toiling traveler's troubles
Causing him to pause and wonder at its cheering influence.
(I love you. I still love you.)

Your simple blush, like the rising sun
Coming slowly at first and then emerging in its full glory
Warming all those within its glimpse.
(I love you. I still love you.)

Your angelic eyes, like the angels' grace
One glimpse is remembered forever
And convinces the viewer of your perfection.
(I love you. I still love you.)

Your silent tears, like the inspiration of martyrs
Giving those around you courage to defend you,
And to declare the unspoken.
"I love you. I still love you."

#4

Your eyes could be coals
To ignite the imagination of a painter
Into making a portrait of Aphrodite--
But, she wouldn't come close to you.

Your heart could be broken
So easily and yet be
So difficult to repair--
A definite sign of value.

Your lips look lonely
But to join them is
Not a risk I am willing to take--
Please, forgive me.

Your smile is empty
I wish I could fill it up
By spreading the joy I get from being with you--
It would definitely be enough.

Your hand dangles unheld
And I can't help but offer
To take it in mine, just for a moment--
In the hopes of making that moment last forever.

My heart was broken
And my smile was empty
And my hand unheld--
Until I met you.

posted in Free Write - 0 replies

Russssssssssssssssssssss

MsSmart — Mon, 27 Mar 2006 03:43:09 GMT

Russssssssssssssssssssss (3-25-06)

I met a space alien once.

I was sipping coffee on the sidewalk café.
I saw him sit down and immediately spill both of his large coffees with the swing of his brown suede fringed hippy pouch. I was right next to him, saw the whole thing. My eyes met his and we both laughed. He returned shortly with two more coffees and proceeded to chat me up.

He said he was from Andromeda.
I said, okay, I’m from Sherman Oaks.

I like freaks. A freak is always better than someone boring.
I figure like this with freaks, since they feel free to share their story, I feel free to ask whatever I want.
So, I asked him how he got to Earth.
In a space ship.
Okay.
He had me read passages from a few weird books. I did. He was mildly amusing. He said his kind was all over the globe, more were coming, and that they communicated telepathically. He had his rap down. He had a few “not of this world” space rocks with him which he wanted me to hold. I did. My coffee and his charm were ending so I bide my adieu. He said wait, call me sometime and he wrote down a phone number. I asked what his space name was and he spelled out, Russsssssssssssssssssssssss. I smiled and said that I liked his ring. It was artsy and had a weird stone on it. He said, “yeah, thanks” as he flipped it open to reveal a secret compartment, “that’s where I keep my LSD.”

So much for the space story, darn it.

posted in Free Write - 2 replies

just another day

Fri, 24 Mar 2006 06:39:52 GMT

While waiting to cross the street downtown, I saw a blind woman being led around in circles by her "seeing eye dog"...it led her to the curb, then it led her to the Radio Shack entrance, back to the curb, over to the bus shelter...around and around they went, looking like a wind-up toy that keeps running into walls and spinning around until it runs into another one. I WONDERED how long this had been going on and why none of the people waiting in the bus shelter had put a stop to it. I wondered if I should do something.
Then the light changed and I walked.

posted in Free Write - 0 replies

my bad self

Fri, 24 Mar 2006 05:18:02 GMT

my bad self tells dirty jokes in a playground voice with underpants showing.
my bad self is impatient with patience.
I thought maybe I was bad because my uncle picked me. I thought I was bad for finally saying "no" to him. I thought I was bad for knowing too much about sex and for thinking about it all the time, and I thought I was bad for thinking other kids were stupid because they didn't.
I thought I was bad for not talking enough and for bleeding too soon and having boobs too soon.
I thought i was bad because I looked at people; I watched them and made them nervous and made my mom nervous because I had a "knowing look".
I thought I was bad for blushing when a boy teased me or flirted with me.
Beet red and shaking like a leaf. Must've meant I was thinking about their penises, knowing that they had them.
I wasn't supposed to know that.
Cancer taught me that I am not bad at all. That I'm just a person like everyone else, with access to all the love in the world like everyone else.
That my uncle picked me because I was loving and trusting and hadn't learned the difference between "okay" and "not okay"......and because I couldn't talk yet.
I was an adventurer, a naked vagabond in search of baked beans and a familiarity with "my world".
I knew too much about sex because I had experienced it.
I didn't talk because I didn't know what to say. I didn't know how to be childlike anymore.
The world was a strange place that made no sense.
I had a "knowing look" because I knew.
But it's okay. I've grown into my head.
Now it's okay to know what I know because I've lived long enough that it would be ludicrous if I didn't.
I've earned my knowledge. I can speak it. I can own up to it. It no longer frightens people or makes them nervous.

posted in Free Write - 0 replies

no more Costco vitamins

Sat, 18 Feb 2006 18:15:40 GMT

I am trying desperately to free-write; it is a tiresome and calculated process and I can’t seem to untangle myself from it - if I didn’t have to navigate this system of cranks and pulleys, I might have a better chance, but the levers really don’t like to be touched - they recoil and jerk - yeah, whoever built this machine was in a hurry to clock out and have a smoke - the joints are all stripped out and everything is held together with fat rubber bands - it doesn’t help me, either, that every step is overseen by a different guy with his own craven agenda, contracted out by his own subsidiary - they all stink like their own brand of cheap cigarettes, and each one has an equally infuriating thick accent - and I suspect that they are all faking their accents anyway, because they assume they will garner sympathy from me if I assume that English is not their first or even second language - and, sadly, most of them are at least half right - sometimes I dream that they all live in the same building on the east end of town, and that they all trade cigarettes and shirts and phony accents every day, according to some elaborate schedule of rotation, which factors in local tide tables, the current price per barrel of crude oil, and the fluctuations of my wife’s basal body temperature -

I am trying desperately to free-write; this is very important to me - it isn’t about the money, really; I could always make the same wage at the next place along the tracks - give them the same well-rehearsed speech, the same practiced handshake, the same requisite disinterested questions - employers love to talk about themselves - yeah, the money’s always greener and I’m always jealous of my friends for all the free time they have, their broad green lawns, and how they claim that they can wipe their asses with a dollar bill when I need three just to blow my nose - but I’m in this business for those beleaguered gasps and that taut, tongue-sucking desperation - if I couldn’t find a way to feel desperate, I’d have to find an abandoned refrigerator and crawl in, live off mold and Freon for a few weeks, maybe read some Gibran, get real constipated, hopefully develop a scorching halitosis - then maybe I’d interview at the place down the tracks, just to sort of sniff out the competition, make a few adjustments to my product line -

I am finding the freely written word to be more and more of an imaginary thing with each jerk of this goddamned lever - yesterday the damned thing jumped at least two feet while I was trying to maneuver it - punched myself right in the chin; bit the tip off my tongue - this morning I couldn’t taste my day-old oatmeal over the iron in my blood - at least I know now that the new multi-vitamins are absorbing - no more Costco vitamins for me -

well, from the tone of my daughter’s whimpers, I’ll guess there is a 90% chance that she has peed in her pants again, and I haven’t even removed enough of these outside panels to really get a good look at which wires might need re-soldering - I don’t think she cares as much for Bitches’ Brew as she does for Brahms’s second piano concerto, but I remember always liking Legos better than Play-Doh, too - I’m just obscenely concrete-sequential that way - by most counts, she’s captivated with her new Vol de Papillons mobile, but that lingering crease in her brow leads me to suspect she’s anxious for the March thaw, so I can hang her out window on the end of Grandad’s fly rod and let her graze on last year’s birdseed -

posted in Free Write - 0 replies

Hello, I am a writer in the 21st cetury, here my roar.

MAtt — Fri, 17 Feb 2006 16:13:46 GMT

Oh to the world wich has never heard such a testify
Of misunderstanding of what flows through these veigns
You ever so discontent people who have no concept of thee
Know know what makes this writer fall with his pains
You tremble about this ever gotten world,
forcing me to be stuck in your lives;
I look around what has been put on my platter
People why make me swim in your lies;
You push me from lost dreams of tommorrow
And beg of me to live for a fee;
while the madness from deep inside,
sturs a concept of a workding to set you free;
You ask me to notice how I'm in control
how my thoughts manifest my day;
Not knowing what it is to be writer,
words, not actions are my way;
You tell me that I might want to part,
Join a convent and go monastic;
Then scowel at me when I bleat a smile,
Sorry, I thought you were being scarcastic;
Now strike silence upon your ear,
Once will be said and must be crystal clear:
Dammit people quit telling me how I'm manifesting my life,
it's just causing me a distraction.
To eveyone else on the planet it may be so,
But I am a writer, I am the abstraction.

-Note, this is to all those, who may never know me, or read this(for those that do). I'm tired of working on this peice while people try and exsplain how I need to be, arrrgh!!!!!! I'd say more but I'm trying to be civil.. . and for those who don't no me, I'm sorry I'm getting there, I really am, I just can't mess this one up. If you know, you know. . . That's my vent. . . back to work.

posted in Free Write - 0 replies

Individuated, Defeated

Robert — Thu, 16 Feb 2006 06:54:30 GMT

Excess dusts off forever here, where sparks from the moon come to rest. Brushing the leaves off trees, the last ticket nostrils chant highway sketches of play memories remain unwilling guests behind. Always a nomenclature going absolutely nowhere amoral at the age of twenty sound guarding armour over the afterlife languor feeling out curses. Maniacally gesturing people to dance particular clues, remnants within black ash, like a scientist with just a dash of heaven in her pockets.

A cryptographic lunging ahead, fog along the spasms of whatever is left behind. Ghosts dream, pronounce a last line of defence coded any grey solitudes printing colour hours into clinging, catching breaths of fog. Now forged longitudes glance red denoting latency along spinning, falling throughout this universe smoking the dredge and bray of hollow shoulder-blades letter a letting go.

Heavy breasts have an intensity blazing places needed lines along the sand, and central hours in the mists of plenty. Laughs of ecstasy, the incommensurable calm of the water smiling noticed flatness, this denial of sedition and venality before departing us. Sentences fail the plane of time inhabiting this particular instant of now and then wishing six hundred a flash of air eight years ago, acting the fool.

On the beache's all about in my hand drafting shadows enraptured the forest nearby, climbing consciousness like the same size cursed, one day or another vexation losing breath, preparing shots so clean. Passages that sense a threat, notice the freshness hour at hand felt the quickness as it once was. Ahead, into the unwilling kissing the sky's balance of a damn thing changed, a warrior stance set six million billboards banned too late to be then an all-day Lebanon smoking on the train. Dedication to the spiritual equation killing this whole world of the living highway too empty for our combined fear, sadness mixed any way at all with cartoons slipping sullen wisps of trauma loud and aggressive, clogging veins with their repetitions of dream and song.

Ice beginning to send our neurological sensations initiates of available consumerist ideology for what is bitten. Making up the rest, cities in their entirety coming here for sad, profligate packing left eternally at the getting away praying in the rhythm of bloodied-sheets, merely her way of welcoming the republic of sex. To manifest, aligned with hipsterdom, inattention as a way of life flowing eternal sacrifice burdening creation with a vocabulary like this, calm in the face of immensity. Eating and moving our instruments to sing a ditty at the moon, feeding equal rights into a blend keeping us awake promises through the new strings that far behind bars. Bodies locked in the waves, touching my pleasure or pain.

A revolt prophesied some than foraging, moths fluttering, blowing clues through the trees. And lexicons happily forever brand new sounds taking the light above our intertwined woefull latching splotches of aquamarine of our own recall a shirt wretched soup at the end of the day, like an acolyte moving into the combined field of vision instinctively, automatically, you might say. Created the horror spent too many times over what in the known world on the radio glittering massive identifications turning down the lights, really a sign, a movie moaning hot grease, soft love, and braying shoes delivered, made in the shady days of a dying, malignant tryst.Forced entry contractually and dialect skills over and over the dark days relinquished songs of resistance attempting to set an attack against the setting sun suffering that eternal patriarchal god, with its importance brazenly killing the truths contained in the mind's concentration upon itself into this. That no of not staring at crass magnetics chasing radiant codes caught in our hair, building a triumph delivery beyond the will alloted, sleeping exhausted in the sand, a fire bravely keeping the fold at bay.

Weeping openly now, for the dead, for those who will follow after us. Auburn hair and blue-jeans glimpsed spectrally in the frozen. The night becoming first and second disasters naming the spirit of a few measly hundred clutching at graveyards, their eloquence after blossoms and blooming doorways beyond emptiness. Sublimated equipment dropped at the edges mere hours after fluttering chords exposed in the noumenon closed your own word choice patterned granules, icy and covering already numbed passages wedding skin. Theramin followed a plenty sign the token spring lessening, marking red lines and dotting semen obscured, this the momento that would possibly brighten our atomic outlook banking off the glass.

Something deeply Arabic in all this, songs still sung uninvented, the hues hanging back to avoid the ugly motifs scrawled sharply in the simple, elegant destiny of the spine. Fired at that moment, whorling embraced the unique, the singular, the pseudo breaking away from all previous schools to be rebirthed in the same pineal of the robust and virile. And so passed eternity in the course of a day. We barely knew the scar of the id ahead of the eightball or behind it. racketing and ricocheting an unsought for blowing torches you had between rapidly swollen lips, lying there blithely and failing to register other pasts lining the rim of the forest and the beach. Lines of flight scamperig away, passing over our cold whisps of breath, silver and eidetic to remain as silent as possible for as long as possible. Everything wasted on us...

Voices careening off the verdantry, all in a day's labour, apparently. Sailing like some other destiny, traversing the cross glimpsed only through pronged down centering noise stupid enough to open hexes kept sealed in a golden across highways invested with the air and its myriad permutations of decadence, scented. Without intention, or any sense of rhyme or reason, not yet reminded of our twin solitudes here by calm cinematic repeats chaining tension insane enough for bruised knees to glide up and over aspects of the lingo. Renewal, blood chilled and cleansed in watery rites became less cloudy, unknowing, a zero manifestation back when it was sunglasses, cool repositories of stored wisdom in wings editing lapses of something, wood allusions fury heard, signalling, sipping a repetition.

Strength somehow returning now, miracles that punch holes through crystalline lobes leaking with hope, enough scotch for a phonecall, anyway. Dark matters forgotten bring meanings of crawling along the side of the real moment is your insignia last detonated, spurring if you were ever that tall. Constant interrogation, trolls still lapping after false idols drinking goblets of negative entropy, the median signs crazy forms of a movie replayed, spliced and diced mirror in which we seek forgiveness after hours of the rapt unrepentant gilded loss neutralized, making you crazier than ever, frothing digital poetics at passersby in the dream. Hyper-calm seminal cleansing marked storms moving left to right to now and then, unleashed against the torpor scraping grace-notes from knees fully embracing the sand, then lost again in the filial portent pretends to be concerning hegemony dwarfing inadequate time devoted to piety erupting hands down.

Screaming, joyously now, smashing bones the waves affixed shadows dense, reclining in peace, here a doubt yet, a manifold of the rescued distances from receding palettes trudging verbal phantoms through the facts of the world when there is nothing else left but beleagured creation lining a few hairs grown grey with the monumental. The flesh of your forehead lined the highway, numinous and fragile after its long journey through this sallow night of formed images patterning the lines of a flag, burning them into the mind of man. Our actions impinged over and above terror, pleasure nullifying pain and coming to a styling mixture of alliterating tones vestigial. Impermanence running for its very life emptied of sitting serenely, dreaming of hideous, bloodied bone-graft magic spitting clowns of karma and blocking our escape into complete and total nihilism. Nowhere to go but back into the hole in the last glass of wine scurrying now for cover. Empty-headed, but not quite marvellous...

Exposure affixed in the sprawl, embedded in your strong clock posturing before the fear. Sloped shoulders a shield retribution likening the sign of your inner lurking to smoke unfurling from the grey lips of the highway beckoning rows, friendly as pie, with no more innocence clouding the myriad spatial relations between us. Without cause or intention, without any idea of what has been lost completely in dreams abraded into dusk. Land tithes knocking on heaven's door just a spark trying to summon us back. Inching along, unaware of ourselves at maximum, intent repair bemused eyes of a sudden refusals, diminishing reliquaries to fetch parchments only theatrical and lagging behind an hour, strumming bebop changes on electric mandolins, relaying ominous visions, outcaste afterthoughts warning us of what had already come to pass. It had all become a game now, the hold of the beach broken, left alone to bray teeth and disparaged afternoons forget a series of vital strikes near the danger as communism atonal singing threatened all standard writhing, our raped ascent laughter murdereing ideology forever.

Bound swoops of laughter falling, transfiguring the brittle of the birch and the domed cliffs sparkling with hilarious intent, inhaling wooden profiles, perhaps embalmed in white. We crawled then toward the flame, lilting and lolling questions ringing and barking vocals the mass of which finality quivering in fine, granular detail known as droned air. More than timorous, intentions concealed like an injury, private missives crawling sex over the concave liturgical blessing all the vacations we did not crying all the time in ugly identification episodes behind days hiding ordered animation there, in the limitless rage of domesticity shuffling those tomes written only yesterday (or so it seems). Finding yours to make it ten climbing out of the trees with their own black and white meanings socialized in your wandering grasp. Safety anyway, encased in bubbling plasma, memories undoubtedly to careen accidentally killing the dark momento of your fate traversing codes and axioms not entirely the products night would have willingly bestowed upon us.

Sore, eviscerate palms stuck in gravel sailing above and beyond specialty here's movement pulling to itself. Remote light obliged to reflect back simple diversity watching all along as its dignity rescinded, signing our sigil betoken names on the moon's soft light that warmed our sooty flesh dreaming a good, hearty laugh. A familiar tincture on the small of your back, tension cutting imaginary women grabbing at our hands, axial lines tasted an image of you walking along the side of the road captured in a wild growl encoded within cloudy meddlings in nowwheres. One-eyed flirtations connection standing unresponsively, investing another corner with a challenge to fly across very emotional hours from me to you willing to honour all you can say. Gazed over the sea farther than gray to gray, trying to laugh the entire ordeal away, promised glory to embittered, discouraged souls. Purpose only to see beautiful memories backed by big money, any nine to opening a whole tone allayed and twisted to your source. Coarse indifference netting scores of the told directly in its unremitting distance, exclusive as pie.

'All the Things You Are.' Lines of melody and harmony colliding with our frolic on the beach, on the road, our ordeal precious and stoic shuffling off the indirectly shown otherwise. Laughing it off in the moment, finally leaving this smooth not silent, not relinquished as of yet. A nameless quotient loved, amazing its own pure air blown across a god's photograph on the walls of your recall, spitting out the unknown. Boredom somehow become institutionalized, crossed legs on a couch concealing the particle love party on incredible breasts grown up on outfield networks thrown at me by a kissing, wasted to witness strategy ideas such as time wresting spume and sputter asleep on our couch. Waves possibly becoming fixated this time, narcotic in your seeing that one coming. Remind us of bells ringing in apocalypse constantly learning something microcephalic, a revelation standing on sandstorms.

Frozen, scorned, thereby channelling a dozen hydro opinions from density to make a transmission up against the curve of your heart. At the end of faint streams of something indistinct, but doing very well, thank you very much. The smug, smiling face of the privileged sold a sense of humour needed to acrimony the middle of the deep end blowing on a harmonica. Lavishing sliced around the corner to the right sent an ice-cold bottle of magenta deep into talking about what we can never know, neural charges in emerald riding the rails of uncertainty. Lucrative, lustrous beats on a plate leading us home...

http://dubology.blogspot.com

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sunspots

skadi_lupa — Sat, 11 Feb 2006 17:51:09 GMT

in the light nothing looks the same as when in shadow and as that may seem quite obvious a statement, it is not as striking as the contrast that appears when the so called dust has settled and the cold clear light of day has spread itself like flowing tide upon the folly of the last evening's evidence...

i stare back in the face of better judgment...alas

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anyone can have a try

culturalman — Thu, 09 Feb 2006 08:20:54 GMT

I made a group: "American English", I want to put an introduction article and an introduction poem there. Any 1 can have a try, please reply the invitation I posted in my group. I 'll let my group members to vote and decide which one is the most suitble. thank you very much indeed! you can refer to my introduction writing, of course that is not good.^_^

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happens to be...

skadi_lupa — Mon, 16 Jan 2006 07:00:04 GMT

when she came into this room it shook with all the energy generational boredom can produce and it isn't scintillating...but she did change the way we are bored. the way we are so full of sh*t.

and we are so utterly full of sh*t.
so why not buy--or attempt to buy--her a drink, so cliché, so sad and so heterosexually male. how about flowers or chocolate so we can talk about the size of her ass in ten years of stupid shoving sh*t in our mouths rather than just saying or not smoking our real thoughts.

she is tabula rasa--all the shes are tabula rasa. shes walk into a room and after a quick summation against the crust of cinicism, we have all of them--those shes-- down to a tee...

so she changed the way we thought but we are not going to move to give her room. f*ck it. she didn't want the drink.

f*ck her anyway. i really don't like her kind. a lot of nerve she has coming in here and judging us. the cheek! we may be full of sh*t but we only admit to the sh*t we choose.

she is tabula rasa. they are all tabula rasa...right?

posted in Free Write - 2 replies

"Free College" Blog for College-No-Gos Or for Those Who Dislike the Politics of Academia

sweetajuma — Thu, 02 Feb 2006 17:53:10 GMT

Hello Friends,

Please check out this link:

http://freecollege.blogspot.com/

The link will bring you to a "blog community" that I am trying to
start. The intention is for the participants to speak from their truth
regarding common themes that we may often think about such as: one's
work vs. one's calling, individual endeavors vs. ethical
responsibilities based on family or your values, the artist's vision
vs. general uniformity. I am hoping that these "themes" will have a
life of their own based on the nature of inquiry, wanting to know
something because you are led to it!

I created the blog to try and create a sort of "free college" for
those who are through with school (or not), and those who would like
to browse through the thoughts of others to join in "equal inquiry"
(that means being open to others' different points of view with the
goal of many ways of seeing a subject rather than arguing "your side"
of a topic).

Recently, I have felt the need to create this sort of forum for free
expression and different perspectives based on "your truth" from your
opinion, discipline, culture, or interests. In this way, we will be
teaching each other what we know...and it will be free to all!!! No
grades, no judging, and no tuition.

I hope you find it to your interest!

Eddie Ling

PS As of now, this blog is a sort of creative writing journal...come check it out!

posted in Free Write - 0 replies

To whom it may be told to

MAtt — Sat, 28 Jan 2006 22:10:00 GMT

Strike till you haven't any power left in you
sex till you have no more love in you
fall till you have no more air
beat the drum till the drum breaks
fly till you burn out your wings
jump till you can't get any higher
feel till you can't sense no more
just do and be
just don't find yourself in a position that you find yourself
holding a pillow and parying you did something anything.

posted in Free Write - 0 replies

who's who what?

MAtt — Sat, 21 Jan 2006 21:43:22 GMT

Looking into the ever lost foundation of who
Seeeing the troubled power that goes nowhere
Gone far, deep into the void
distant now, how long has this journey gone on
how long can I go before I can't turn back?
if time is of my mind then how can it run forever
Now it has outrun the I but not my notition
Is it the fool in me that want's to venture into nothing
who am I to get lost now
The mirrior that stands before me shows nothing
how much further can I go before I can't find myself

posted in Free Write - 0 replies

Nobody

tolteclogic — Sat, 31 Dec 2005 21:07:09 GMT

Crossroads and intersections
the many choices we make
in life. Just the other night I
had this dream so vivid and
real about the life that once
might have been. Somewhere
in a large home up stairs I awoke
to find myself sleeping alone. In
a room in some need of repair.
But something didn't feel just
right as I ventured down the
stairs there were casual people
all around here and there But
someone was missing And then
it hit me and I knew right away
in this dream I had a wife and
a woman that I could describe to
you not only physically but
idiosyncratically down to the
tiniest detail I could feel that
her absence was not specifically
by choice but by some great
disappointment for some cross
roads I didn't or had yet to choose.

And so we continue on in this way
through our life from day to day
prepetually curious for what one
chance encounter might have been.

Who we are and why we come to
this space in time that would be
our life. We call it freedom of
choice or was the lack of available
options And they say it is the truth
shall make you free But whose
truth and at what price? I remain
happy that I am given all these many
years in my aloneness. So that one day
I could speak of this place where no
hardship is any greater than the truth
we would seek.

And my good friend did ask of me, How
was it for all those years in your home
town where you grew up to become this
person who stands before us now. And I said
that I was 'Nobody' and then she responded
no that can not be so You are some body
because we think we know you well.

Please do not expect me to explain I said
trust me I was no one and nobody to anyone
where I did grow up. My life had become not
only an open book but every detail had been
seized upon and expanded and exaggerated and
perpetuated out of all reasonable proportion
that for endless days and years at every
conceivable juncture no effort would be spared
to ensure my silence. I was nobody and no one
A Dead Man who would not die. I am Nobody.

If we speak that which can not be spoken should
we not suffer for our ignorance of this world?
Where 'one becomes two' all things become possible
and the self or personality you once thought yourself
to be no longer exist and you are free of all constrictions
of the past. This freedom, however, comes at a heavy
price and if you value your life should remain hidden.

posted in Free Write - 0 replies

True Love

KurtChristenson — Thu, 27 Oct 2005 07:36:49 GMT

He had no idea what to do or say.

"I really have no answer to that." He was sweating through the wet jacket that clung to his skin.

She grew impatient and needed instant confirmation. Subliminal toe tapping, with arms crossed and chin nodding ever so slightly.

"I need to know." She sat and drank in the rain, letting it seep into her melancholy soul.This dance was old and familiar and felt like a rabid memory. The scene was problematic to say the least, and infused with the drama of lives seeking fiction.

He sat and thought about it before answering. His contemplations led him to the most mundane of conclusions. "I'm full of fear."

Honesty felt like sublime liberation. To finally let it seep out and just be, this was a vacation from the worst case scenerio. A revelation that rang false and lingered as a sugar coating of insecurities.

"Dance like you never knew what we would mean to each other." Her skin was moist and dry all at the same time.

She infuriated his senses and engorged on a parade of expected praises. Fierce intensity smoldered within the furthest reaches of his infinite heart. Somewhere beyond the confines of space and time lies the unknown beating of simultaneous splendor.

"Cutesy replies do nothing for me you realize." She had an iron resolve and stared around him as she sized him up.

Hardly a man, she knew that much upon first glance. She had recognized the broken boy, golden gleaming monstrosity of the upper stratosphere. Jigsaw sentimentality had found purchase beneath her breast, and she just knew she needed him like the blood bursting through her veins.

Love, dried and preserved, wrinkled on the windowsill for the emergency tomorrows, this is what drove her and kept her walking. He poured the love all over his naked body, slick with the lust of stranger's sex.

"I see the way that I am and want to change. I am changing as we speak." He wanted to believe the finer points of his argument, but a brightened expansion of this space we call home beckons his doubting father's words of failure, jealousy, and weakness.

"I fear your love."

posted in Free Write - 1 reply

A Witchy Critique Group

Sun, 16 Oct 2005 16:59:56 GMT

Once there was a witch named Druscilla Cuckashitt who ran an Internet critique group. When she wasn't surfing the net, making computers crash, she rode around on her broomstick spinning stories about stalkers, rapists and prostitutes. She scared people especially woman with her wild talk. Legend has it that in her younger days she stalked a high Government official but he refused to go to bed with her saying he was saving himself for an young, obese Yugoslavian intern. After that Druscilla soured on sex with anybody and anything.

Ghost, goblins, demons, witches and black cats were all welcomed in the critique group. Some spun spooky, eerie tales, those who couldn't meet the minimal requirements were unsubscribed and told to join other groups.

Just when all was going well, one day Druscilla contacted her group saying she needed to go on hiatus. The fact of the matter was that she overdosed on lesbian boggers and needed a blood transfusion at a Transylvania hospital. Druscilla's blood was an extremely rare U-negative that could only be found in Transylvania.

She left the Internet critique group to her trusted colleague Demona Catherine Deathsucker. She was known as "Cat." Some say Cat was a nickname for Catherine and others say that it had to do with her claw-like fingernails, brisk upper-lip whiskers and a biting encounter with a chowchow which caused the amputation of one-third of her left foot.

Because of Cat's handicap, she rode around on a specially designed motorcycle and told a story of a biker who had come back from the dead. Many thought Cat was an exorcist. However, that left foot was a pathetic sight and no plastic surgeon was skilled enough to fix it.

A week before Halloween, Bill Gates joined the group. He showered the group with stock hints and boring investment prospectuses. When Cat allowed him into the group she had the mistaken idea that Mr. Gates' stock hints were an exotic type of witch's brew.

The day before Halloween, Cat decided that she had enough. Halloween was her favorite day of the year and she was not going to let a member of her group spoil it for her. She contacted Druscilla and the two of them determined that Bill Gates should leave the group. Druscilla stated that the Gates submission was worse than a fortnight in a Transylvania hospital and suggested he join a republican critique group.

Not knowing what a republican critique group actually was, Mr. Gates vowed to get even. He sent them a computer virus that crashed both their computers. They tried every download they had in their black bags but Gates had an anti-virus for each one. Realizing they were defeated, they pleaded with him for one more try. He told them on Halloween night they would have to ride around in cyber space chanting, "BEWARE OF THE TRICK OR TREAT VIRUS."

Druscilla rode her broomstick and Cat rode her motorcycle. During the night, they went all over the world. The next day when they arrived at Gates' penthouse in lower Manhattan, they realized that they had missed their favorite day of the year and were furious.

posted in Free Write - 2 replies

exerpt from bodybased writing class exercise.....

gabrieltodd — Thu, 13 Oct 2005 03:08:44 GMT

the sweet wind
a breath, your breath/I reach from
this stuck little spot
can’t feel my feet
the road below begins to get farther
away

ride you riding your words
charming strands of melodic tension
your face swells up
and I see myself in the gaps
between your teeth
there the meaty muscle
meets the thrusting
wind escapes in whistles
and grunts
the people below sing
hymns
for soft people
to grow softer and more lucid
and get lost in the
puddles in your throat
I am not yours
keeper
keeper
let loose your keeping
or shred you from inside….. I will….
your wrapper away
I press like a beast who is leaving you now
I burst into furies unfurling to flee
goodbye

posted in Free Write - 0 replies

Amy

tjwiseman — Fri, 30 Sep 2005 02:49:07 GMT

Amy (Santa Cruz, CA)

Her eyes, and must it not begin so,
being not merely looking glasses to the spirit,
rather also the gateway to hope for futures
well spent in nobler pursuit and discourse,
they ensared my fascination as if in a web
of sinewy strength and perceptible scintillations,
likening to the shimmer of her wheaten hair

Oh, how I have imagined well, in prodigious fondness
of softly scented reminisce, of tangling my fingers within
the gilded bars of her locks, whilst enraptured in soft
and lingering kisses, dashed across like Oceanus' furor
those pale and bountiful lips

likening to succulent fruits, the hue of angels breadth
ascendant upon the dawn, I dreamed of embraces with them,
and the potency of my hearts conviction
issued utterance, imperceptible yet for a moan
that howled as the low wind from earthen depths

posted in Free Write - 0 replies

A test while I have no feeling

Mike_C — Mon, 29 Aug 2005 14:12:12 GMT

Had to decide to make mad adjustments this morning. Too early for a toothache to start my day but here it is sucking up coffee like a sponge and spitting out the shakes. It runs all the way from the jaw to the neck and direct to the spine, snapping and crackling along the old neurohighway.

It might affect my spleen, such happiness and I drag a dead mouse off my patio and throw it in a stony bed of cigarette butts and assorted skulls and corpses. The cat looks upon it's work proudly, surveying the flies and scouring the fields for more playthings. The chewed fur that is made of mother nature disturbs my sensitivity training. I close the door to keep it from staining the carpet and move on.

Sure, I slow down for roadkill; but I don't stop and stare. Leave it to the artist to make photographs and mount the smelly pelts. Sure is real art Ed Gein getting another press release from beyond the grave. Not exactly taxidermy. There's one in every car but the meatwagon gets three slow releasing pine scented cardboard cutouts, a wet shovel for those bridge jumping suicides. Got to shut down four lanes of traffic to scrape brains off the pavement in fifteen minutes.

How inconsiderate!

A half mile of mad monkeys pound steering wheels and dashboards, craning necks and honking. Neckties itch as the brain rummages through the library for excuses. It's crucial to be in the cubicle, the world might end without it's middlemen, it's good earners locked by forced sympathy and decorum. A parking lot of flashing lights hides the grim reality but the joke keeps getting funnier the more times you hear it.

I give my neck a chiropractic swivel but all the pops have popped. Might be no stopping this bad hair day without a shower and a little nappy poo. Best to refresh my bones before I get another twist on the rack.

posted in Free Write - 1 reply

twenty3 magazine submissions

joe — Mon, 12 Sep 2005 16:15:46 GMT

Hello,
My name is Joseph Boven and I am the editor in Chief of twenty three magazine. I am now compiling stories for another issue of my print and internet magazine. If you would like to view it before submission please do. It is at www.twenty3magazine.com. Short stories must be 2000 words or less, articles are 800 or less, poems must be below 100 lines. I also always need great artwork. Please send submission to 23@twenty3magazine.com.
Understand that just because something does not get published does not mean that it is not good. It just means we can't use it. WE are currently working on three future issues and are looking for submission.
thank you for your submsiision
Joseph Boven
Editor in Chief
Twenty 3 magazine.

posted in Free Write - 0 replies

A poem: Your Eyes

Harimander — Wed, 17 Aug 2005 20:43:28 GMT

Oh! Heavenly woman of the stars;

There is a celestial sentiment in your eyes,

As though formed of the moonlit night.

Like ten-thousand hands clapping in unison,

Ten-million voices opening into vibratory oblivion;

Rip-roaring,

As I drift upon a cloud,

I’m soaring.

Glowing bright, the moon shines.

Igniting this cloud into utter radiance;

Absorbing, reflecting, refracting.

The stars dance,

As I ride the waves of light,

Emanating from your eyes,

This night.

posted in Free Write - 0 replies

To Simnuke:

sugarbunni — Wed, 15 Jun 2005 19:42:48 GMT

Forgotton Son
Our creation
A deviant's meditation

Burning scars
radiate
Yet, fade from our memories
while poison still remains

A son forgotton
will be born again
louder and prouder than before

But, a son remembered
A soul honored
Will protect for all time

posted in Free Write - 1 reply

inspiration computer.

dito — Mon, 25 Jul 2005 01:44:32 GMT

oh! computer
always here for me, always giving me a second chance, you let me turn you on, you let me hear the music, and see beautifull images...
is time for me to stop this relationship, i love you, but i have to leave you, i mean this is going no where but to the obscure hole of loneliness, soon i will begin a new period of my life, and you will keep being part of it, i just need to let you go, swim in the web, swim in my dreams, i have converted to freak that actually feels a necesity ... will continue

posted in Free Write - 1 reply

cry in the web

rosehoney — Mon, 18 Jul 2005 03:25:57 GMT

Maybe its time to cry .the world spins yarns coated in sparkles and beauty but it is unsure whether the quest is to trap you revelling waiting to be dinner for the great spider mother and would that be so bad the flow of the web is created by the corpses assimilated into the belly of the creature the beauty of it sparkles and intoxicates ...i smell the rain coming to glisten here on my cheeks sliding to feed thirst of spirit on salt and liquid no blood this time
We swell to bursting with things flesh bones and muscle sinew will never define I am running at my dreams sometimes too much forcefulness tethers back to the web and the breath of my great grandmothers histories devouring my absence in the void between lives is thick in my face so i turn and run to the arms of my many beloved living and hope to lie entangled but we arent dogs and the ecstasy is barred by mental limitations before it even gets to physical or spiritual dangers I set my limits and walk proudly between them i throw my spirits and walk proudly within them I inspire more fear than I wish, absobed in honesty entangled in the web of my own beauty (We are all beautiful)If you allow me the wings to fly I will fly but maybe I need someone to carry. We can lift and pull at each others wings wind them and force them to work for us but we have to trust and depend I promise we will fly and the spider will be proud as she lifts herself swinging from tree branches to watch her children fly away.

posted in Free Write - 2 replies

untitled

Robert — Thu, 11 Aug 2005 22:30:40 GMT

1.The flight of demons gnawing at the very bones of life
2.Buying clothes in traffic etched on the back of his knee
3.Trumpets blare notes weary with pale, knobby poetics
4.That angelic bladder of common sense is on fire, in love with death
5.Volcano teeth will always clear expanses spoken clearly and subtly
6.Love, once unbuttoned, will rise again
7.To a higher task, a higher existence, the seat of semen runs
8.Like wolves that worry the beast they have not killed, my head is full of roads
9.Innocence will be held hostage, lice thrown in its hair, necromancy chained to its lips
10.Pillowcases worthy of artichoke flowers cultivated in drums of clear neual rivulets
11.Haste divulges its reasons for impeding the last calf eaten by melting missionaries
12.This falsetto sweetens the rain falling during times of war
13.Sleeping scars were tolerated, but rarely encouraged to oil the brains of a fossilized army platoon
14.Clouds of electro-shock warned us all of the perils surrounding their particular future vision
15.Writing by candlelight is forbidden in the erogeneous zones of free enterprise
16.Abductors with pigfaces rip us from sleep and graft molecular hourglasses into our memories
17.Unsewn dreams, unholy days and nights, and radiant capacity still eludes the strictures imposed by tossed seeds
18.Your face is capable of unconditional levitation
19.Garden pools imagined in the tint of motal speech reach for entropy
20.Self-indulgent oblivion saps the room's atmosphere of all its browns and greys, tacit as the time of love

http://peyoetryhut.blogspot.com

posted in Free Write - 0 replies

unfree write

Mon, 11 Jul 2005 09:10:26 GMT

An UnfreeWrite on Freewrite from my OPUS Files:

It began when I was in the third grade, the “Opportunities for Projects and Unique Studies, “ or, the OPUS program - at some midway point in the schoolyear, a handful of us were given toMr. B.; he had us on Tuesdays - after rollcall and pledgeofallegiance, the intercom call would come through sending the kids from rooms 212 and 211 up to room 314, where we met the new strangers who’d been bussed over from John Jacob Astor - afternoons of soda and vinegar volcanos, piano concertos on scratchy vinyl, ghost stories, favorite jokes, prisms, mirrors, microscopes, holograms and lasers would ensue; the OPUS program didn’t have a classroom, it had a “laboratory” - there were no class rules posted, only the OPUS “axioms”

the program continued until grade six, with requisite bus-shuttling and location changes, until Mr. B’s retirement - upon my entry of grade seven, Ms. L’s “extended learning program,” or ELP, had replaced the ecological niche occupied by OPUS, however modified in format - unlike the sixth grader, the seventh grader’s day was divided into class periods, each given to a separate room, teacher and subject, and the seventh grader’s schoolyear was divided into semesters - to accommodate this shift, the ELP was a first-period class, divided into two distinct themes, one for each semester - part one: logic - my memory of the first semester is now overcast with clouds, but I can recall projects involving recognition of numeric codes and patterns, calculating probabilities - not exactly riveting stuff for even a thirteen-year-old version of me - part two: literature - our second semester ELP project was to write a murder mystery, a process of dry, tight, mathematical-type thinking that would eventually be rendered into prose -

the literary theme spilled over into my eighth grade year, wherein both semesters of ELP were dedicated to the completion of an illustrated novel - semester one encompassed the writing - semester two, the artwork and construction of the actual book - we were given complete creative control of our story, style, media, and binding method - the only project on which we appreciably collaborated was a name and logo for our publishing collective - it was within the parameters of this and the previous year’s writing experiments that I was first introduced to the concept of the freewrite - Ms. L dedicated entire class periods to composing and reading timed freewrites, or unrestrained automatic writing, almost compulsive in nature, in order that we might find ways of brainstorming against the foreboding of a blank page, or as she put it, “conquering the power of the white” -

in sharing and hearing these freewritten pieces with my fellow eighth graders, and later in writing groups, I was always amazed at the kinds of word resonance, leaps in imagery, shifts of pace, and almost freakish innovations that poured out of people when they simply kept on pushing the pen, while attempting to refrain as much as possible from any type of self-censorship - since then, the freewrite, the automatic poem, and the compulsive chronicle have alike been instrumental in opening avenues for me - I’m currently keeping under close surveillance the actor/observer relationship that arises in me while I’m attempting to vary the degree to which I censor myself in these exercises - there is a veil of ‘cleverness’ that I see myself hiding behind, that at times amounts to saying nothing, but in glossy words, garish shields, in an attempt to associate myself with an image instead of really opening up the floodgates of what’s on my mind and scrupulously documenting it -

these are hangovers for a drunk poet - headaches and nausea augmented by reading the livery drivel written the night before - they still happen to me, even now that I’m no longer a drunk...

posted in Free Write - 4 replies

Thrill me, trill me

aranyamei — Sat, 30 Jul 2005 03:58:44 GMT

Thrill me, trill me,
test me, taste me.

Pull me, plunge me,
prime me, paste me.

Love me, loathe me,
lose me, lift me.

Shove me, show me,
shun me, shift me.

posted in Free Write - 0 replies

non-sequitur in general

Mike_C — Sun, 19 Jun 2005 22:54:03 GMT

I'm sitting in a bar and I have no topic of conversation. The people I've brought with me have had a few beers and are now having an animated conversation about drywall. People who cut drywall, people who mount drywall, the speed with which drywall is mounted in sophets.

I don't want to know what's going on. At the same time, I really have nothing to say. I can't drink anymore because I drove these people over here . . . so really, I should be getting something out of this. Certainly something more than this.

Am I old? I don't like working for happiness. Happiness should happen as some sort of accident without any effort on my part. Why do I drive to these places? Are the percentages better?

I was invited to a free jazz tupperware party. When I got there, I found out it was an S & M macrame seminar. They didn't let me know until I bought my ticket. Also the entrance was arranged so that you couldn't see directly inside. What was I expecting. I get there and they're torturing ferns, playing bad country music.

Whatever happened to my free jazz? This is an extreme form of free jazz. They're trying to explain all this to me, talking really slowly so I'll understand. Makes me want to drive my truck off a cliff. Then they start playing all the background music for the lifetime channel . . . you know the station breaks music. They do that for a while and then the fuckin' Cranberries come on. I paid ten bucks for this?

I complain to the management. I say I just came here to reheat my macaroni and cheese. Give me a bowl or a lid. They tell me it isn't that sort of party. Well no shit. We got some complementary wine and cheese they say. Go over there, get some wine and cheese.

I go over there. Not even tupperware wine glasses! They have dixie cups . . . unwaxed. You ever drink wine out of an unwaxed dixie cup? You gotta be fast. No time to enjoy anything. Shot glass after shot glass of boxed chablis . . . if I could get to it. A bunch of grizzled schizophrenics are monopolizing the entire spread. Cheese and crackers, dirty hands, two of them comparing the SPF levels on their sunblock between chemotherapy treatments. They have the nerve to wear cheap wigs and criticize the macrame -- but what do you expect -- they're fuckin nuts for a reason I say.

I say all this to no one in particular. The timing is completely off. You try to be normal, just sit there quietly and nod your head and everywhere, it's a complete disaster. What are the odds of a meteor smacking the earth? What are the odds of my being happy? I stare vacantly at the two guys in front of me and ask . . . did anyone check the blueprints? What were they thinking?

They begin criticizing the foreman. I manipulate my fingers into death metal horn style. It's not karate. No complicated wu-tang gangster logic on these fingers. Hell no, Satan is completely non-threatening these days. Hell is a betty crocker oven popping out discs of chocolate chip cornbread and I'm lovin it. The whole vulcan greeting is more structurally sound but I do the death metal thing anyway because I can't hang loose in this place. Not after what happened to all those people at the Great White concert. No flashpots, no flash photography, don't even think of lighting your farts for beer money you sad puke -- you're gonna get a ten thousand dollar fine if you cut the cheese. You're allergic to shellfish and there's a bunch of people here waiting for you to swell up.

I go into the other room and there's a bunch of fat bald people with flaming eight-balls on their shirts, including the women. They're all trying to jck up the suspension on their vintage pick-up trucks. Shrimp cocktails in front of everyone. I run away screaming.

The schizoprenics open their grizzled hippy mouths and say it's safe, this is aerosol cheese. You gotta give these people props just for making the effort. Who asked them to jump in? Don't want any bad vibes man. Don't need anyone freaking out?

This isn't art. This isn't music. There's no heat in this place. Everything is room temperature but these are things you can't talk about.

Meanwhile, people are trying to hand me ten dollar bills but I'm pretending not to notice. What do they want? Do they want me to leave? The suspense is killing me.

posted in Free Write - 6 replies

Exercising demons

Mike_C — Mon, 27 Jun 2005 17:50:24 GMT

Court Deposition/ Portland, OR/ case # PE96332-5

My name is Ed Meander. I live at 88888 SE Prescott Street.

On Saturday, June 11th, I was asked to babysit for Linda while Bill and Cindy went out to watch a show. So far everything was great. Bill made a chicken dinner before they went so everyone was pretty happy. While they were gone, Linda and I watched 'Babe', the movie about the talking pig. Afterwards, I read her a story about Ferdinand the bull and put her to bed. I went to sleep on the sofa in the living room.

Later that evening, I was woken up by Bill entering the house. I asked him how the night went. He said it went horribly. He went back outside without further comment so I just assumed Bill and Cindy were in another fight. I rolled over and tried to go back to sleep. Probably a minute after that, I heard a scratching rattle against the screen door and what I thought was a thud. I got up and asked if everything was all right. Bill sat outside and began asking for help.

I went out the door and saw Cindy unconscious on the front steps. Bill was at her shoulders holding up her head. I was very disturbed by this and asked him what happened. He said she was drunk and just passed out and asked me to help bring her inside. I asked if she was all right and checked to see if she was hurt. I couldn't see anything other than it looked very uncomfortable lying there. It was raining so I helped to carry her in. We carried her into the bedroom and laid her on the bed. I asked if he was going to need a bucket since this was standard with being watchful over extreme drunkenness. He said no.

Seeing there was really nothing more I could do other than be disturbed by the situation, I went back into the living room and the couch.

In the other room, I heard Cindy screaming and the sounds of a struggle. I got up, feeling extreme dread, knowing that whatever I was about to see I didn't want to see or be involved with, and went back toward the bedroom. Continued screaming. In the kichen, I heard Bill say "If you want me to be a wife beater, I'll be a wife beater. I ran down the hall to their bedroom and saw Bill crouched above Cindy with his fist poised to punch. He punched but it was sloppy and seemed to miss. I grabbed Bill from behind and pulled him off the bed, then lowered my shoulder and pushed him toward a corner of the room, saying "No, don't do this." I got him separated from Cindy, then concentrated on what I needed to do to protect myself and keep him away from Cindy. I looked at his face and shoulders and waited for him to do something. His arms were up and ready to punch and I concentrated on blocking Bill and not getting hit, saying "Bill, Bill. No. Don't do this." Behind me, I heard what I assumed was Cindy screaming and running out the room. Bill lunged toward her and I pushed again. He pushed past me, going after Cindy. I held onto him from behind in the hallway and got in front of him, continuing to talk to him, repeating the same thing. He stopped and basically looked crazy. I locked eyes with him and I assumed we were about to be in a fight because I wasn't going to let him past me. He was pissed but didn't hit. He said "Look what she did to my eye." I heard Cindy run through the kitchen and out the back door. I looked at his eye and it was discolored and swollen. I kept him in front of me until we got to the kitchen. Cindy was gone. I said "she's gone." to make him stop advancing and lessen the chance of a fight. He was still extremely angry. He went to the freezer and pulled out a bag of frozen vegetables, putting it on his face. I said loudly. "You have to get out of here." He waited for a moment, complained about his face, than basically said, "Yes we have to go."

I put on my shirt, all the while being extremely nervous about him continuing to go after Cindy and in general thinking he was lying. I got a stack of credit cards and my car keys. I couldn't find my shoes and didn't care, I didn't want to spend time looking for anything. We went to the car. I got in the car and started it up.

Bill said "What about Linda?" and completely broke down, crying and saying "Oh no, oh no, we can't leave Linda?" He started bawling and it was extremely sad. I felt really bad for him but figured with him out of the house, Cindy would come back and take care of Linda. I decided that having Bill and Cindy fighting while Linda was in the house was worse than Linda being alone in the house. It was a tough decision for me to make but I made it and drove off with Bill crying and saying "We have to go back. Oh shit what did I do. I'm going to fucking kill myself."

At this point, I decided not to care about anything but getting Bill a room at a hotel, leaving him there and going back to the house as quickly as possible. Bill cried the entire time saying "Let me go back, I'll stay in the car outside the house." He pleaded with me. We went to the Motel on "*^&(@!^%^". I went in, said I needed a room put down my credit card but couldn't find my driver's lisence. The person at the window said they didn't have any vacancy anyway. So we left with him saying if I left him alone he was going to kill himself. At this point, I didn't care and was getting pissed because now I just assumed I was going to get my ass kicked. This was the only hotel I knew of that was close to the area and I was worried about what was going on at the house.

I decided I had to leave Bill somewhere and not worry if he was going to kill himself or not. Bill would be able to take care of himself. At this point, I was thinking about Linda, self-preservation, and Cindy in that order. Bill was now at the bottom of that list. So I drove to a place that looked unfamilliar to me and had no numbered streets, parked the car and said we were here. I let Bill assume we were parked outside the house, figuring he was drunk and so emotionally out of it that he wouldn't bother to check on his surroundings for some time. He asked me for some water, I told him I was going to get some. I left him in the car and began running toward where I thought the house was.

I got to the house a half hour later with the assumption that Bill would either pass out in the car or realize what had happened and walk to the house in a mad rage. Either way, I assumed I had a half hour lead on him. I looked for Cindy and Linda but they were out of the house. I checked next door but no one was answering. Since there was nothing more for me to do, I grabbed a water and began walking back to the van. Cindy and Linda were a block away from me walking toward the house. Cindy had been carrying Linda around the block ever since we left. Both were wet from rain. She asked where Bill was. I told her, then I called a cab so that she could get the truck they'd left at a friend's house and get away. She said she needed to get dry clothes on Linda. She went in the house and I waited outside, thinking how long is it going to be until Bill gets here. I'm waiting outside. I start realizing how long I'm waiting and start thinking self-preservation. I get in the house and Cindy seems to have loaded everything in the house into garbage bags. She's continuing to stuff clothes into garbage bags.

I start thinking this whole thing is amazingly stupid. I tell her we have to get out of the house. I tell her to get Linda and walk a block away from here, that when the cab comes I will go to her with the cab and pick her up. She asks me if I actually called the cab, then continues to pack. I can't look at her because I am too pissed off so I walk out of the house and pace; essentially waiting to get my ass kicked. I am waiting for what seems to be a long time, looking for the cab.

I see Bill coming around the corner, looking pissed off. He is walking at a brisk pace. I go to the front door and tell everyone that Bill's here, then I wait to get punched in the front yard. When he gets close enough to hear me, I say, "I was just about to bring you some water." I feel really stupid.

Bill says "Where's Cindy?" I stand in front of the door and tell him she's in the house with Linda. I tell him they're packing. He says, "It's my house and my daughter and you can't keep me from going in?" I stand in front of the door and he says. "I'm not going to hurt them, I'm just going to talk to them." OK. I let him in the house since I figure the alternative is getting beat up on the front lawn and him going in anyway. I let him into the living room and stand between it and the kitchen. I let him in the house but I decide I won't let him past this point without a fight, if it comes down to that. Cindy comes out and she has the beginnings of a shiner. I stand between them for a little while feeling stupid.

They quietly have a tense and extremely stupid conversation about each of their black eyes and who hit who first. Linda is sitting on the chair and each of them are asking her to explain what happened. Linda is trying to stay out of it and basically tells each of them what they want to hear because she doesn't want to see a fight. I feel really bad for her but she doesn't look scared and doesn't cry. At this point I can safely say that I hate both Bill and Cindy.

I don't know if I still hate them. I don't care. I didn't want to write this anyway.

The cab comes. I give Cindy the money in my pocket and she leaves with Linda. Me and Bill then take a deep breath and sit on the front stoop. We talk about what happened. He tells me what happened at Seth and Gary's house. I can't say I believe the whole thing but I believe about 80% of it. I believe Cindy hit Bill while she was there. His black eye develops steadily while sitting on the front step as we are talking. Time passes and the conversation gets more and more rational. I think "Hooray, I'm not going to get my ass kicked."

Then I see the truck pull up. Cindy has come back. I stare at the truck and her in it. I think "how stupid is this". I realize how stupid it is and I marvel at it. Cindy carries Linda into the house. At this point, whatever observation skills I have basically shut down. Whatever has happened over the last several hours doesn't matter. It's some time in the morning and the sun is up. At some point, I go back on the sofa and try to go to sleep again. I maybe sleep for an hour and have a vivid nightmare about pretending to be a zombie to protect Cindy from attacking zombies. In the dream, Cindy blows it by saying "hey Ed, what are you doing pretending to be a zombie" and I get attacked. I feel myself being turned into a zombie and I wake up.

Cindy is arguing with Bill in the other room. She is having a one way conversation with Bill because Bill isn't saying anything at this point. She is basically arguing at Bill for two hours and possibly longer. I leave while it's still going on and go get a cup of coffee. Everything is pretty much back to normal.

I come back from coffee. Linda is in the living room watching cartoons. Cindy comes in the room and sits on the couch. She has a black eye and a hangover. Bill briefly comes into the living room and looks at me. He has a black eye and a hangover. Basically Bill and Cindy are a matching set.

Linda has invented this annoying game where she pretends to have super powers. She decides she is batgirl and says I am the master of all batgirls. I tell her I am the master of nothing, same as always. Now she is bubblegirl, whatever that means. I say I am attacking her with wind and she blocks it with bubble power. I say that I am attacking her with lightning, and she says she is throwing water at me. I say I am attacking her with dirt, and she invents a defense against dirt. This goes on for about an hour and with each passing moment my attacks get more and more desperate. Finally it's at the point where I say "I'm attacking you with reality television and hard hitting news exposes."

I decide I just have to get out of the house. Linda's all right, I don't have to worry about that. Now it's just self preservation for my sanity. I leave for probably six hours and hang out at a coffee shop. When I get back, Bill says they're gone. He's sitting there in his living room wondering if he's ever going to see Linda again. He's wrapped in a blanket and the room smells bad.

He tells me Cindy argued with him and he finally went out to get some coffee to avoid it. When he came back; Cindy, Linda and the dogs were gone. He says if he hadn't of left for coffee, Cindy would still be here.

He might be right.

This basically ends my disposition.

On the points that seem to be important to the case:

Linda was not in the room when Bill was hitting Cindy. If she was able to see what was happening, myself or Bill would have had to run over her while we were backing out through the hallway. Bill and Cindy's bedroom door are offset in relation to Linda's bedroom door so even if they are across from one another with the doors open, Linda would not be able to see what was going on in the other room. I don't know how much she heard but odds are she heard everything. It was very loud.

Was Bill hitting Cindy's head against the wall? When I came into the room it was no. What happened before I got there will probably never be known? I don't know how important this point could be compared to everything else.

Bill loves Linda more than he loves himself. Cindy loves Linda more than she loves herself. Linda probably loves both of them. They are her parents. They both should be able to see Linda.

I just don't think Bill and Cindy should see each other. Bill and Cindy still love each other and hopefully they will get over it. They fought most of the time they were living together. They always argued. They stayed together because they loved each other and they were together on and off for most of nine years without many punches being thrown. It's almost like they stayed together because they loved arguing. My opinion is that Bill and Cindy should have broken up a long time ago. There were many times when Bill was sick of arguing and wanted to leave the house and cool off and Cindy would start packing and threaten to take Linda back to West Virginia. He loved Linda so he was forced to stay and take it.

Having had to have gone through this ordeal repeatedly in all it's variations over the last year, he deserves to be able to see Linda despite everything that happened Sunday morning. That's my opinion.

That's all I have to say other than I cried several times while writing this. If you have any other questions, my phone number is 503-888-8888.

Name: Ed Meander
Birthdate: 03-09-69

posted in Free Write - 6 replies

On offensive subjects

Mike_C — Thu, 23 Jun 2005 04:15:15 GMT

I'm kind of new to this but I have questions about the short story writers club. I went to join it and found that there were some restrictions on what I could say. Someone wrote something that was completely shocking apparently and I am disturbed by not knowing what it was.

I feel like I need to know ahead of time so that I'll make an informed decision on when to be kicked out of a group.

Can I say 'fuck', do I have to say it literally, colloquially, do I have to mispell it or play word scramble as I go along.

As I think about this, one of the main reasons I learned to spell and possibly make up words was listening to my parents argue. Being curious, I naturally gravitated to when they would spell out letters in the middle of these arguments.

I didn't know they were saying 'motherfucker' to each other. I think they stopped using this word all together after several arguments. S-H-I-T was used predominantly. It's an easy word to spell and it gets it's point across.

Anyway, back to being offended. I think I was incapable of being offended or realizing I could be offensive until I was about seven years old. I was swimming over at a friend's house. My mom and my friend's mother were out on the deck watching us swim. Now this kid, who was younger than I was, decides this is a good time to show me a trick. He says, 'Hey Mike, you ever see this before,' and he shows me his middle finger. He says 'can you do this'? Being naturally competitive (as a kid, who isn't), I say sure. So I do it.

Being real happy about it, I show my mom this new thing I can do.

I'm fuzzy on what happens next. All I think I remember is not wanting to get out of the pool because I understood what was about to happen without understanding why it was about to happen.

After saying 'what did I do?' a number of times, each more urgently than the last, my mom ceased to circle the pool like an angry shark and went back to her chair. I think she was perplexed.

We have encountered what I feel is a stereotypical childhood moment. At least this might have been stereotypical for the time. For all I know, todays children are stumbling around in an exaggerated tourettes style haze, wearing black shirts like their friends and mumbling obscenities, imagining missing words on their MTV, trying to piece together the blurred message on a censored hat or the amusing nudity on COPS or Jerry Springer.

Anyway, been running off on a tangent. I've found out what the offensive words are. I even found out what most of them meant.

I don't know where this is going anymore. That's why it's a free-write anyway. Still, I feel I need to be reaquainted with how people are to be offended through words, especially written words. I need to be offended, dammit.

Amuse me you fucking shithead! I'm talking to you.

Consider that being able to offend on demand might even be a useful skill, even bankable in today's market. At the same time, even bringing up this topic might be inviting too much. Already I'm thinking of the possibilities. This might be a good time to shut up.

I'm a shithead. No, you're a shithead. No! You're a shithead!

This exact exchange happens on the streets of America and in the homes of America once every five seconds. You can set your watch to it.

It's bland. There's much more horrible things out there. Things like the Hot Carl, the Dirty Sanchez, the Donkey Punch, the Pert Shenanigan, the Happy Carp(?), and others.

How the hell did these disasters happen? Could someone please explain the Happy Carp to me in a calm rational manner?

I think I'm running out of time. The batteries are getting low.

Maybe I'm saying that rather than be offended, you should make the attempt to double the offense. Instead of crying about it, make your words a dagger and offend right back. Think of where to truly cause pain, think of what you need to do and write it.

Don't exclude the people who offend you? Laugh at them and marvel at their stupidity. Mark Twain did it most of his life, then performed the greatest insult by dropping dead.

At the end, I'm pretty sure he disliked humans. Can't understand why. He was funny.

Maybe I'm out to get the jump on it.

I mean honestly, how serious can you take this. It's a free-write, it's not supposed to make sense.

posted in Free Write - 5 replies

self scrolling...

chester_copperpot — Fri, 10 Jun 2005 06:40:03 GMT

slowly jotting
simply strolling
left eye spotting
right side trolling

hacking fevers
rocking chairs
crafty beavers
climbing stairs

meaning lost
thy self found
three legs crossed
one on ground

subversive height
deep tree rooted
inner might
so self suited

posted in Free Write - 8 replies

DXM poetry (ramblings)

Harimander — Sun, 19 Jun 2005 23:01:01 GMT

Extra cirricular vehicular spaceship. Lets go. Forward ho. Time to show the no flows what its like to blow a no no. Tea cups and tin kettle is when I know its right, Your mothers last words found me ingeniously specious. Just because Juniper blooms outside your home means your throne is gone. Kinetic frenetic qualm. Ranqoun foosdust. You can’t do such a thing inside this life. RealITy is whaT YOU CAN THAnk DIREXTION HOME. HOW CAN WE ALL WORK TOGETHER If WE ALL HAVE A DIFFERENT PURPOSE? Up Up up. Shlanker the envelope to the next stage of the devilish diminishing develop, ment whence came the dimension of Thanadou. Hearts splashing. Whered we there? I love my feet.

After this I came to. I write:

“Thanks for the good times old boy. I’m finished with you. I’ve had it I say! Get out! Why don’t you just run for the border cause im gonna be coming after ya.” What is this some kind of bizarre scheme? How have you survived so long inside this projection? Tell me your secrets and Ill tell you lies all night long. Believe me, though. It’s not that hard. Ill tell you what. Squeeze it, then lick! Inside-(with)out. Referential data-set reflexive in the MIND. Beats are meaning and I’m Gaphythurgood. Juxtapositioning the supraliminal space set one influx to the left. Give me that dollhouse. While you’re at it bring me Louise. And one Mallard. I’d like green beans on the side.

EVERYTHING!EVERYTHING!EVERYTHING! IS IS IS!!! RELATIVE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Don’t bite.
Play nice.
Go look at the Milky Way.
Ciao.

posted in Free Write - 0 replies

music, dripping upwards...

emay — Fri, 10 Jun 2005 05:24:17 GMT

the breakbeat of the heart leaves traces of itself on the surface of the soul, the inner rings of the ripple only newest because they were also the first. every word and its meaning call out from beneath the tide, falling back into itself like a teenager in love. if only the tide knew where it had come from - if only the wave cared not where it was going. the rumble before the music before the epiphany before the applause. nice show, the stone says to it's echo - from the bottom of the pool you can see the tune on the lens of the sky - but calm down about this whole thing. repetition only gets you so far. touch something a little harder, press the circle wider, reach for the shore. the brittle edges of the water are like fingertips, remembering the sand for the moments they are acting as the hourglass. the pause between lapping, the lovers' moonlit smiling, a solitary drip and the tide rushes off, away from itself, and only in a conscious way forgetting the eye of it's spiraling storm - never seeing the reversal of gravity, the vacuum thrown skyward, the last moment before the stringless yo-yo is freed again. this would be the last beat before the song stopped, lest the artist reveal too much of their own genius, the last breath before the congratulatory silence.

posted in Free Write - 0 replies

A Slackjaw Murder Mystery

glenwells — Thu, 09 Jun 2005 23:35:33 GMT

Poetic Mayhem: A Slackjaw Murder Mystery

By Ed Slackjaw

I am a non-fiction fiction writer, or if you prefer a fictional non-fiction writer.

It was a dark and stormy night. Whoops, that was from my client, Snoopy. I am also a non-literary literary agent. My number is 182 384 586 789. All submissions are welcome. If you like dog, you will love Snoop’s work. He thinks cats are evil. One cat in particular. Cats are not evil. Dogs are not god, much like zebras are not god.

I am a murder suspect. The body was found at the home of two brothers, Tom and Jerry. One a widower, the other recently divorced. The kids are grown and gone. They are an odd couple, because they are odd and well, two.

The body found was their cousin Edna, who had been renting the basement apartment. I was a suspect because I had been dating Edna for about a month. Tom and Jerry were also suspects. Because they were odd.

The body was discovered recently while I was visiting Tom and Jerry. While watching an episode of Law & Order, I happened to ask if Edna was in. I was told she was taking a bath. The show was nearly over, it was getting to be quite a long bath. I decided to find out what was taking so long. I went to knock on the bathroom door. I could hear music playing, but there was no response from Edna. Since we had become intimate, I thought it would be okay to open the door and peek in. It was a very large tub, she had slumped beneath the water’s surface. It looked like she had fell asleep and drown, she looked peaceful.

At first it appeared that she had over-dosed on heroin and committed suicide. But the autopsy revealed a different story. The heroin had been laced with a slow-acting poison, the poison had been building up for about a month, finally taking its deadly toll.

Even though I had shot up with Edna a few times and there were traces of the poison in my system, I was still considered a prime suspect. My main suspicion fell on Jerry, Edna’s connection.

Since Tom and Jerry’s misfortunes they had become inseparable. Tom backed up Jerry’s denial of tampering. I hinted to the police that a conspiracy was afoot. What their motive might have been, was beyond me.

Bits of poetry scratch my lips.

Edna is haunting my dreams, it plays over and over again.

“Are you sure it wasn’t you? I think it was you.”, she accuses.
“No. It couldn’t be me. I’m in love with you. I think it was Jerry.”
“Jerry. Ha. No, I don’t believe so. I’m his ATM machine, slide in some dope, out pops twenties.”

The police are circling back to their original theory. Suicide. They’re thinking that Edna put the slow-acting poison in the heroin herself and taking me to go along for the ride. I for sure don’t want to believe that.

Evamotion

Her eyes are tried and true
She sees lies that taste of honey
Uncoupled from the ocean
She waves from a shore

As I awoke from a dream
I slept through another, and another, and another….

We may part company
To meet again in the end
That world will divide, multiply and subside
Recurrent themes bunch together
As friends with similar agendas
We teach the past to see the future

Her eyes are tired and
Falsely see
Truths that become memory
We only know what is given
And imagined

The apple, serpent and tree are talking
We are stalked into believing everything
Sans everything
Everything is left

posted in Free Write - 0 replies

inner swim...

chester_copperpot — Wed, 11 May 2005 19:01:03 GMT

here
i
start to go
words they
fall
like ambers glow
so free feelin
with a down stream flow
uphill battles
they make me grow

wheel house
working
this hypnotic
ride
follow the
currents
that lay inside

inner dwelling
and so free
all these cares
they follow me

posted in Free Write - 1 reply

Munching Lightstreams, the Words of Prey

Robert — Thu, 14 Apr 2005 15:41:51 GMT

Opalescent time-piece under grief. A hyperreal dismantling of her red look created out of nothing the home of your dreams. Inner angel feedback loops poured chaos, deleted nudity from the function of myself.

Today a suicide token bouncing the job to do going twice. Bluejeans conceal the secret testimony of good-looking women spreading a frozen dream on the street's accumulated code-intensity. Piercing genome decay, it resolves itself on the hood of the sun.

Colloquial disease flowing through, fusing signals, transplanted into the telophony. The acid-sream/dream rushed the water of her thighs. Plasticene shredded all natural organs of awareness. Fahrenheit fruition layed off without a pension. Inoculated cruelty could feel the blue potential atrocity brought to light.

Wandering into flame, the man-god threw isness and raped the stars

Conversation curved the soft edges of evening, stood apart from the receding sun-spot and held technocracy in the palm of its hand. A thunderous drop formed charged reflections therein. Thought required time just to exist in the pendulum's heart of hearts.

http://peyoetryhut.blogspot.com

posted in Free Write - 4 replies

magnetic poetry

vnlhmg — Wed, 13 Apr 2005 00:07:56 GMT

you and me in the sun
drunk with the dream of love
promised passion under a blood red moon
we must have died that day
eternally entwined soulmates
whisper our magnificent rise
a burn of sacred depths
i lay in your arms
and laugh at our crazy life
thinking i know your strong love for me please,
let me escape the dark
another sad heart
open to romantic fantasy
too hard flying over blue paradise
between feverish sex
we remember pleasure only
ache for hungry looks
we always linger together
though she never says i love you

posted in Free Write - 1 reply

Skin

sugarbunni — Wed, 23 Feb 2005 20:14:02 GMT

The extra skin is swallowing me
I don't understand if it's trying to hide me
Or, protect me
All I know is that when I don't want to be here anymore
The skin comes
The skin is my barrier
The more stress
The more skin
Sometimes I wonder if I died under this skin
Would anyone notice?
Maybe I have already

posted in Free Write - 4 replies