The sense of rage and half-felt futility is

exactly what I want to feel and is

Exactly how I thought being this half-way drunk (which is

what prevents me from giving a single goddamn which is

something I don't really believe can happen anymore) and is

the way I thought that things should go, but things are

different from how I thought they should be and are

far more complicated although (and I know what we are

Is precisely the reason that my consciousnesses are

those things again precisely which) we are

alone, but we were

together and what we were

and what (to move the tenses, which were

restricted to the singular, then plural, but were

perfect for capturing) what we were.

I was sixteen words in to my first thought

when I realized that I had forgotten the first fifteen

In hoping that this would be anonymous &

I wonder why I have the things on my keyboard which is now mad at me

the buttons I don't use and I wonder

how those things connect to how

I can type thoughts better than I can write them by hand and I wonder

How I should explain my own self-righteous hatred of people who wonder

How their own self-righteous hatred of writing on a computer

Could possibly be so stupid as to be nothing more than an

object of wonder.

Found poem

I dreamed this morning that

my alarm clock would not go off

+ my basement was full of bodies

+ I awoke to find it wasn't true

but now I won't go down into the basement

so I won't have to see

the dream I had tied to a chair

and beaten to death for lying.

The continuation of a project:

The continuation of a project for a friend, to whom I promised poems or short stories.

Or that I promised so much more, to this friend,

A friend for whom I promised so much, more than word games, but no more (than the games or the time?)

Whether, for example, this stream of not-conscious resides in my body but not at all, it is an extension of what is going on and by extension, what I promised.

Things I have seen this morning, as recollected no less than an hour afterwards

A late alarm clock, a pot of french press half-full, the fact that pubic hair grows faster than it should, the yellow of phlegm, the grass protruding from sheathelike snow, two construction workers pushing the homosocial boundary without touching, myself looking at them, and the number of papers I go through in class, obscene.

Waxwings and I

I am not any sort of waxwing. I am the monogamous frog:
http://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2010/03/100311192933.htm

What happens on a Thursday...

Having watched a few (read, about fifteen) episodes of Sayuiki with Rachael and Marcus (who is more doing taxes than anything else) I decided I should justify the existence of this blog somehow. I haven't yet decided on a form, or on a motif, or what I'll talk about. I'm hoping some theme will emerge, some time, as I'm becoming increasingly interested in the idea of found art...