[011]
12/11/2006 12:20 a.m.
So the other day, I answered my phone, and was surprised to find myself talking with God on the other line.
And God says to me, he says "Hello. Is this 305 666 8280?"
"Sorry," I says to him, "This is 305 666 8082."
And God says to me, he says "Oh. Sorry."
And God hung up.
I am currently Affectionate

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Ee!
09/29/2006 08:41 p.m.
I was nominated for NFAA under the poetry category!

(Graphic Design too, and first and foremost, but also poetry!)
I am currently Cheerful

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[10]
08/10/2006 03:50 a.m.


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[9]
06/08/2006 12:53 a.m.
What to do with my life?

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[8]
05/08/2006 01:42 a.m.
I've dismissed organized religion as a complete nuisance.

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[7] Scraps.
05/02/2006 12:12 a.m.

I believe in the unborn skin beneath fingernails.

I met a boy this once,
A caricature of six different cities,
Who personified red-neck rock’n’roll
And cheap flea-market tattoos.

I write everything on legal pads and breathe the heat of the sun.
I am systematically addicted. I know you better than you think.

How many times have you been frightened that there wasn’t enough blood running through your veins? This emptiness, this hollowness, do you feel fragile?
Do you believe in the steady collapse of every capillary? Do you believe in this ultimate defeat?

In these past days I’ve made a friend. The way I always make just the one friend. The way the world startles me.
He is over twice my age. We get along.
I like to define myself as human with this pen, with this script. Who is granted this absolute from me?

I feel better, and I can aim a gun. Really, I don’t think I would mind dying.
This is a matter of great public importance. I grew up in the arms of Miami and never looked back. I demand war crimes. Past and Present.

It is in the evenings that I lose my tolerance to the throes of sleep and loss. I once met a girl who smelled like clove cigarettes, and I bet her lips tasted like sugar. For eons I’ve tried to be gay and it just hasn’t worked. I want to write poetry but I’ve run out of cohesive subjects. I am musty with delusions of grandeur.

And nobody can tolerate anybody just being a good person anymore. I want liquid movement without static noise. White noise?
I need this tolerance. I need this rock of calm and suffering more than I need anything in the world.

I have come to this mute decision.
This clarification comes with the lowest and dirtiest peak of this slump.
I believe deeply in words like ostentatious. I believe in bad spelling.

It is constant, the way my skin blisters and bruises. Along with my soul, I gave blood the other day, and passed out with my head in a red-plastic bag.
I couldn’t understand breathing.
And I find my weakness funny, ironic.
That I should be so audacious as to offer these minor heroics, no.
The smell of cigarettes permeates.
And the whole of me shakes and shudders.
If she dies, she’ll be a martyr. But I’d rather she were dead and a martyr, than alive to bother me. We have to earn the answers to the unanswerable, and my belly burns.

Currently, the greatest lamentation of my life is being so trapped by material things.

I am currently Affectionate

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[6]
04/29/2006 05:37 p.m.
This is me, and I am awkward.
I have tried for eons and days to write.
I have wanted to write.
And I have been found wonting.

In the mirror I suck in my stomach muscles,
To make myself look skinnier mostly.
(in belly-dancing, they call this a ‘stomach contraction,’
and it serves a much greater purpose than that).
Secretly I think I look beautiful chubby,
But there are very few who agree.

I want to see me, whole and simple,
Without make up or corsets,
High heels or straight hair,
And fall in love with it. I want the world to fall in love with it.
And I want to be content with weighing one-hundred and twenty-one pounds
And stop having to care so much.

And that’s all.

P.S. Dear Jon, give me a little while longer.

I am currently Unsure

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[5]
04/27/2006 09:32 a.m.
Jon Kary is one of my favorite souls!

And not just because he's the only one that reads this.

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[4]
04/17/2006 04:24 p.m.
How many times in your life have you been frightened that there wasn't enough blood running through your veins?
I am currently Anxious

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[3]
03/29/2006 10:23 p.m.
He hates his teeth, but I love them. Sometimes I peel back his lips like a show-dog and look at the imperfections, his purple-egypt gums and the crookedness, and I love him more for it, for women's lips and bees wax hair. My show dog.

"it hurts, love is this way."

it saddens me
that one can only write
when on is
discontent.

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