they say that spinach is the mainstay
of the very brawny sailorman, Popeye.

so,
obviously i've got fuck all to say.

here blogger, blogger, blogger...
c'mon, here blogger, blogger, blogger!

schlaffzits
schlaffsitz

oh man, this humming is driving me insane!
always in the left ear.

good morning america

god is great

is it possible to do ascii art on a blog?
i made some sheep but they dissolve
after they are posted.

all praise to allah

betelnut beauty
motorcycles and rebels
and rebels all ways

can you hear winter
blanket and suffocating
way down the valley

* * *

solemn and serene
brook zig-zags stone and crevice
prodded by rainfall

* * *

sullen and serene
the goth hangs around archways
wait for excitement

fractured and un-innocent
the poverty stricken reek of grief
and yellow clothes
and heaven knows this was not
what was intended on that intimate
glorious morning made public
tolling from all towers
wooden, stone and glass
by the all knowing spectacle
of ribbon lies and promising rings
not what was meant by the proclamation
"and the cheek may apple the earth"
its now left broken only to be fixed
by what broke it
the destroyer of all things
the racing hand of seiko
and the measure of einstein.

i once knew this guy with skinny, bottomless legs
it was all we could do to hold him down
moreover with a spoon tightly capped to the lip
one lass referred to the boy as "pemmican pete"
and it stuck; tight and betwixt the legs!
ole lambchop, rosemary and thigh.

as you slide down the chairs and down the halls
and bannisters and up the walls
you stick to the ceiling your smile has never
been so wide

and as you wide out the door
and over the hill and down to the candystore
the shape on your lips is often mistaken for
happiness unjaded, crappiness and lonely faded
curtains you tied peering down
the halls and scare-crazy malls
glazed like basketballs feeling more like medicine balls

its your own way

as you slide down the halls and down the walls
and up the turnpike and left on the street
your in the middle of a pancake meeting
now there's a house full of swastikas
making a lonely mess of a good man's life
and everyone is crying out to your own way.

um,
now i can crumple up the paper page and throw it away.
one page a die.

werd.

back in the shadows of the lofty willow
when half its size
this camosun
place where camas is gathered
glass and metal edifice
was once a dreamy-dandelion lot
with swings and annexes
where the cripples once played
trapped, institute
unable to scale the cement walls
clamoured to morning glory
beneath the willow
that would allow a free child to frivolously
swing out, over
this silent orphaned dream
and back
to run, skip, two wheels
to tricycle away to broomed hills
one could gaze distant
to Baker
when she still burned bright.