Procrastination?

Well here I am again sitting in another computer lab, just on a monotonous computer, pushing repetitive keys, doing regular things.

Class is not an exciting thing, don't let them fool you. Presumably college if fun, drinking,partying, class?

Well I guess it could all be fun and game is you got classes you want but when you have astronomy, geology, algebra, and innovative mathematics, NOT FUN.

But, I guess, this way I get all of the bullshit out of the way and do the coll stuff later on.

I even talked to someone today about participating in a study abroad program. Possibly, very fun.

But, on to business, todays poem is another poem in regards to Ms. Rosenfeld, I think about her to much (repressed feelings?), that I wrote during one of my enormous, between class stints.

Snake

How I long for 10:15

Oh. Uh, yeah Oh.

I love 10:15, it is the best time;

A time when words can mingle.

When the snake crawls and slides from my mouth

Each scale glistening with distinct diction.

His snake and her snake

……………….

My snake and your snake

………………

Our snake and their snake

……………..

Intertwined in a joyful snake orgy,

Just two, or just 6,000,000,000.

Scales on Scales, caressing and pressing.

Some snakes abide to many others.

Your snake abides too, many others

Of course, I love conversing with your snake.

But when will I listen to mine?

Desinging a new breed of poetry

Ok, I have a new idea for a poem; I realize that I haven't been putting out any poems right now but I am just in a crazy writers block right now. I haven't even finished a good chapter for my book in quite some time. But....here it is.


I am thinking about using a word recognition pattern in the poem and writing it about the human subconscious.

A little confused? Let me explain.

well actually I can't...... just stay tuned and you will see.

but I will give you one of my older poems for your reading pleasure!

The lighthouse and how you became it.

I had a dream that I was at your wedding.

It was on a small rocky island, with a gorgeous lighthouse;

A beautiful display of Architecture, so beautiful.

There was a single thin ribbon of land, thin yet strong.

That was the only way for me to get to you, the lighthouse was so isolated.

The festivities would have been marked as the greatest of all time.

Doves and Does, Purple and Poises, Roses and Reality.

People flocked from lands untold to view the festivities at the lighthouse.

Garbed in splendid banners of white and pearls, so beautiful

Nothing Old, Nothing New, Nothing Borrowed, Never Blue.

Just how it is supposed to be.

I cry when you walk, because I know you can’t come back.

I don’t want you to see me, I know you won’t understand.

The bridge crumbles and leaves me alone on the island.

Without a Lighthouse for me to ever gaze upon again

I sit, with my secret held close.

I can’t taste sweetness or feel the sun.

Nature has lost its beauty and the wind never visits me anymore.

Yet I can still picture the Lighthouse where I lost you.

It was such a perfect lighthouse; I have never seen one like it.

So beautiful, and what am I?

**Dedicated to Lindsay Rosenfeld**

College Cares

So, I am writing this blog from a computer lab, in a student center, in a building, on UK Campus.

I guess that is kind of cool. I have decided that I am going to do most of my posts through here, because I have this tremendous two hour break between classes, from 9-11.(Oooooh Spooky) Nothing even good to do at that time.

Nevertheless, I will come to you despite the urging of conspiracy theorists that suggest my corelation with 9-11 is a ill omen and I should stay locked in the Disaster Shelter Bathrooms, found all about UK, to ensure I am not bombed... to death.

Also, tonight is the grand opening party for Prince Hookah Lounge, my place of employment. It starts at 8 and continues to about 3 am. YAY.
So, if you happen to read this and you happen to be in close proximity to me, come on over and see me some time.
( I do realize that I have only, two or three consistent readers and also that none of them are even close to me. So that was just wasted section of writing.

Ok, one more thing, yesterday I had my first class of my once weekly seminar class, Modern Innovations through Psychology, which has nothing to do with psychology. And our professor, Phillip Kramer, being the deputy provost, decided that we didn't need the shitty basement room at the bottom of Funkhouser. So we walked about 15 minutes to a new building, where Kramer informed the woman in charge we will be having class in here. She started to say something, then stopped. We walked right past her, sat in the classroom and began. THAT IS POWER.

I think I may like this man.

Also, regarding my next poem. Would you rather hear something regarding free speech and non-conformity or something about hookah? ( I realize I probably won't even get an answer.)

A working stiff.

Well I finally got a job and it is, in fact, a good job. I WORK AT A HOOKAH BAR!!!!

As my mentor Martha Stewart would say, it is a good thing.

I start work on the 20th, I believe, and and work on Monday, Tuesday and Saturday.

So if your in the University neighborhood come by and see me some time at Prince Hookah.


and now a poem....

The Throne.

The place where I sit is amazing; it branches out on every side

Into eternal brown walls and transparent green glass,

That compose the nature of this building.

It is an old building it has been here since dinosaurs walked

And ate of its windows.

The walls are as firm as tempered aluminum

And they have veins that pump with a deliberate pulse.

They are derived of the very heart of the world

Pumping, pumping, pumping with Mother Natures Blood

It is a spectacular cathedral and as such has breath-taking stained glass

Glass that is mottled by the bites of caterpillars, who crawl too and fro, inching.

It is light and green, the wind throws it about and yet it doesn’t shatter

The light cast through it and creates images of chloroform to dance on the walls

This is my fortress of nature, I sit and observe the world

It is my bastion of venereal knowledge.

Where theories may be gray, but real life is green.

My Tree

Hookah Fabulous.

I went to try again for the hookah bar application today and success! The guy was there I got my application, and talked to him for a bit. I wonder if I made a good impression. Although...I need three professional references, and that is something I don't have.

Reference 1.

Mr. Santa Claus

Reference 2.

Mr. Al Gore (? I wonder if they would buy it)

Reference 3.

Mr. Jarflak Nasuga'besh (He lives on Jupiter! Ha, try to contact him!)



Well so in the terms of poetry. Should I give you an old one or a new one.....(Seeing as I have no new ones....)

The girl whose eye’s turn bluer.

Damn you, this is shit, damn it all; damnation

That is all I wish upon this dogmatic confine,

That is humanities time tested system of propagation.

I call this love; it is a horrid beast of demonic design.

And thoughts of doubt as you continue to, in your wisdom, to rate.

Screams of passion echo across the hollow of my heart, a cavern.

Can I resolve this thing raging in my body, this debate?

Or, can I silence them all with another 80 proof, in my cities tavern?

You, it is all your fault, you are the only one to blame.

Did you apprentice a Hunter? For surely this is a well placed snare.

I walked right into your “mutual feelings” trickery, what a game!

I must have been easy prey. Now I just sit above your mantel and glare.

I must be free of you, no, I need to be free. But it is not what I want.

For your eyes continue to be blue, and your body you continue to flaunt.

**I don't approve of sad poetry, or structured poems (Such as the above sonnet) but I think using a sonnet form really amplifies the poignancy of the poem.

A Feather and a Dead Man.

Last night I was about to go to bed and I was listening to the sultry sounds of Says Novinger (more about her later) when I saw sirens flash through my window. I looked out to see a cop car, a cop, a woman, her car and a man lying on the curb.

The police man thought the man was dead and was quite sure of it, called to more squad cars and an ambulance. Did some investigating and told the girl to go. Then as the paramedic was checking the pulse of the man he sprung up. The men jumped back and drew their guns, then put them back in the holsters.

The guy sat up and talked to the police for a bit. The paramedic was freaking out. After about 5 minutes of talking a man comes down the street in a white shirt, blue jeans and sunglasses (2 AM Sunglasses WTF). He says something to the person siting down, and the walk away.

The Police are like, Huh.

SOMEoNE IS BREEDING ZOMBIES IN MY NEIGHBORHOOD>>>>>>WHOA.

Also I went to get my application for the hookah bar today, no one was there. :( Sad .

18 year old feather.

18 years and 10 months ago. I found something

I found three feathers of fallen angels

They were tattered and torn, a bit mottled

But they were a piece of something greater;

Evidence of a presence that binds us.

I planted one under a tree

I made one into a pen

And I sealed one inside of a person.

Now the tree has grown and it is strong,

Its’ branches provide shade and its leaves stop the sun

The tree is a city where ants and moths, tweedles and dums

Go to work every day, do their thing and come home

And this tree is one of thousands, one of millions, one of infinity.

And all of them do their thing; all of them grow and go.

Their flowers bloom with an intoxicating bouquet and

Turn to fruit to feed the masses. It is something that binds us.

The pen sat on the desk of so many people.

People with beards and ears, tears and dears.

They wrote about those things or about the time Adolph met Europe.

Words flowed from the pin like water from the soft sandstone.

Twisting their way around history and up into our brains.

They spun a web of images and told a tale of neutrons.

Every word was loved and hated by the world and the masses

But certain words find certain people and bind them.

The person I gave the feather to grew to be great.

They painted a picture about a Lisa.

And they sang a song about a twist.

I once heard them serenade a crowd with the blasting of fireworks.

They went crazy and mailed their ears and their anthrax.

They even had big ears and led us to war.

Their songs, art, speeches, actions and factions

United the masses under a sense of happiness

And my feather person bound them all up.

The Tree, The Pen, The Person they all have the power to bind us

To show us something greater than ourselves,

They can bind us to reality or joy

Or faith and hope.

They can,

Can you?

Two in one DAY!!!!

yes two in one day but i recently discovered my hero and I thought the world should know.


http://i-am-bored.com/bored_link.cfm?link_id=24614


I love him.





SUCK IT

Canvas and Homeless Men.

I had to go and get my canvas backpack patched today, there were holes in the bottom corners from where books had punctured through. On the way I stopped by another Game Stop. I was very assertive in my interview/application hand in and I think things may go well this time. I am so proud of myself for being LOUD AND PROUD!!!
Well anyways on the way home I saw an old bum walking through the park and thought nothing of it. Once I ate my lunch and went to my room to read a little, Siddhartha by Herman Hesse, I saw the old man walking past my house. He stooped and smiled at me. So I wrote a poem in his honor.

This is an explanation...for the following. I am not schizophrenic. (HOLY SHIT I spelled that right on my first try)

They live in my head.

Meet Daniel and meet Dan; they both live in a side of my head.

It is quite quaint, with only two cabinets and only two beds.

They are usually perfect gentleman and never fight-that is until they speak.

Or that one time when they we on a plane flying to Mozambique.

“Out dammed spot! Get out of my char! 4c is my chair.”

“Fine then, loser, but I get the peanuts and get your bag’s strap out of my hair!”

“Loser, who are you referring to as a loser, twerp?”

“You called me a ‘Spot’ first, jerk!”

“Ha, I was merely reciting some appropriate verse.”

….But of course, this all goes on inside my head.

“Sir, what a superb use of literary prowess that was a beautiful ellipsis”

“Yeah…yeah man, yeah that is a good use of isthmus.”

Of panama.

So anyways, every day I sit in my chair and read in my books

And this strange little man comes by and gives me all sorts of looks.

“He is indeed a peculiar little man, he looks so poor, he just comes and goes.”

“Nah, peculiar is an understatement, you don’t even know.”

He always stops and stares at me, while I read in my chair.

“He is as a leaf taking a break from the relentless summer breeze.”

“Similes?!?! Gosh you are so frustrating, geeze”

I think he is a messenger of what we all want to most, he is hope for joy.

He has become a drifter and to fate he is nothing but her toy.

“He is a bee bringing us the purest honey.”

“Do you see what I have to deal with? I should have asked for more money.”

“You don’t even exist, so how can you have a salary?”

“Ignoring you! Or look a donut has a million and two calories.”

He has a comb-over and the most threadbare of clothes

But he is at peace. And leave me every day; who knows where he goes.

He has accepted himself, his life, and he can see only the beauty in trying.

He sees blue and he sees water in a river. He can sit while s standing and sigh while smiling.

“Brilliant deduction, sir, you make things so clear with your words.”

“How do you make two things into one? Worms and berries become the crap of birds?”

I hope one day he will stop in and talk to me.

Maybe we can discuss happiness over a Pepsi.

“What?”

“I get it.”

Scrabbled

I played scrabble last night, with my grandparents. I was able to make Voltage, with a triple word score. YEAH!! But at the same time it is not to exciting because I was spending my Sunday evening playing SCRABBLE with my GRANDPARENTS.

I have applied to work at a local book store and a Game Stop, neither of them have called me back :(. On Wednesday I am going downtown to pick up an application to work at a Hookah Bar. I found out though, that if they serve alcohol I have to be 21 to work there....NO!!!!

I love hookah.

Bottoms Up

That’s the way to raise a glass,

Drink it faster, he wants your ass

He wants your lips, he wants you skin

He wants to leave his seed within

That’s the way to raise a shot

Naughty girl, you’ll get caught

He feels your hand, and touches your leg

He gives you gold, simply to beg

For your body to cross his eyes

Love is always a compromise

So drop your pants

And open the doors

Find later, the rain, it pours

The above poem was mistakenly attributed to myself, it was in fact written by Joshua Johnston, a charming Half-British midget.

Well.....I have no readers

I have no readers...No one has come to read my blog. Or I guess no one has come to read my poetry. BUT!!!! I must stay happy, keep posting happy things. On a side note, I just farted and it smells like a dog fart.

Noises and the Owners

These things do as they are told to do

The raven cries COO COO CACHoOo.

Wilfred the wolf howls at the cheesy man, Bark BARk Yippe Yeha

Toads all in the pond go Ribbit and jump of the pads with a ker-plunk.

And the Humming Bird goes to work like an exhausted lawn mower --

Rinngnngng Rinnngngnng Rinngnngnng, sputtering all that gasoline fume.

These things do as they are told to do; they don’t think

Presidents will spew crap from their mouths

“WE WILL DO EVERYTHING WE SAY WE WON”T DO”

The church will yell AMEN and the reverend prays Halleluiah

All of the Idols of America will sing to the world in their quick moment

Of self-aggrandizing glory “I Am a COOOOL guy and Yeah.. BUT I’m EMO and Sad..WRISTS!!”

And the computers will continue to go

Beep Beep Whirrr chaching

These things do as they are told to do; they don’t think. Just DO

You should be the cat that goes BARK

Or the dog that MEOWS

Eating Poetry

Dining on Diction

Did you know, I like to eat odd things?
But when I say odd, I mean ODD.
Nothing like sissy worms or boogers
I eat words; lovely, tasty, inky, words.

Some words, like the word academic, have very unique tastes.
I guess you could call academic, broccoli-esque.
Damp, mushy, overcooked, green, Broccoli
I hate Academic.

But periwinkle on the other hand, is scrumptious.
It is Finger Licking Good, which surprisingly does not taste like chicken.
It is savory and sweet, yet melts in your mouth.
Not dissimilar to a hearty Christmas pudding.
I could eat periwinkle all day long.

Nothing is better than letting words play on your pallet.
Disregard all of your mother's manners
and let the juices run down your face, and stain your Sunday clothes.
Allow them to crunch away while you munch. Make all the noise you want
Then pick your teeth right in front of the company.

Did you know I like to eat odd things?
I enjoy the pleasures of eating words.
The only rule, have fun.

No coments

I realized that I have not been taging my posts right and that may have somethign to do wiht my lack of comments. So because I am kind of sad now here is a sad poem...kind of.

To be cruel

Oh, such grace. Oh, such beauty.

And lipstick and slow kissed

And happy fits and malice.

Oh darling, you know a million ways,

To be cruel.

If I could, maybe would, thought I should

Issue a formal withdraw of all my thoughts.

So many thoughts, about you smile and you guile.

No, instead I'll just go numb with another eighty proof.

Oh darling, I watch the fan spinning round

Tempting me like you then going away, then coming back.

You, you’re so awesome and wonder and trouble and perfect.

Awesome is what you are, Oh, darling.

Want to sit with me and share a juice

A drinky dinky

dinky

drinky drink.