olympiad, olympiad.
how can an artist sexualize the sky?
colonialism, colonialism.
is it possible to spit backwards?
space exploration,
the investigation of past or future?

if i had to pick a favourite poet
it would be william carlos williams.

tommorrow we unleash the lotus
leaves a blazing trail
of smoked oysters and coconut shells.

blasphemy!

i got to git something down.
i mean done.
same thing.

• • •

i have forgiven all my sins.

 
J @ 06:52 am on June 22, 2003
well what you just posted could have been a log entry.
crucial indeed!

christian @ 06:49 am on June 22, 2003
it will grow.
i have nothing to blog.
captains blog.

 J @ 06:48 am on June 22, 2003
duly noted kind sir.
i trust and value your opinion.
if it looks bad, i blame you.
and maybe bonnie - can't really blame betty.
now, go update your log so i can spy on you.

 christian @ 04:43 am on June 22, 2003
hey bonnie's hot.
she looks like you.
go for the bangs.

i love avocadoes
evidence of perfection in nature
make me regret not residing in climes
where they fall ripe to the garden lawn
in time for lunch.

* * *

i rated Cat Power's He War 5 stars in my music thingy.
its got to be one of the greatest rock songs written.

born to heal.
we are.
i recite this as i put yet anuther
hot teabag on my sty.
horrible.
sexy.
all the above.
if the compress is hot enough,
it turns my cornea white.
forever.

she walks into a yellow saloon
"can you tell me how to get to dryland,
so i can lay down and sleep?"

she don't know which way to sober
she doesn't know which way is over

she walks outside for a breath of fresh air
"behold" she gasps,
"there's flowers in the city streets and peoples sidewalks!"

she don't know which way to sober
she doesn't know which way is over
she can't decide where to sit on the sofa
to dream, dream, dream of The Irish Rovers

she lay's her hands on the shoulders
of a girl of five or six and tries to tell her
"listen to your friends, when you find a lover"

she don't know which way to sober
she doesn't know which way is over

somewhere in the sands of tome,
shifts a marionette,
head full of putty,
eyes coloured stone,
it casts a large silhouette,
broad, angular, arachnine,
on a pinhole plane,
and dreams,
dreary, terminal epitomes,
of what we thought destiny.

the weather here is very hot
unusual for Victoria this time of year
32 degrees!!
my grandparents new place is very hot
and that is not good
i hope they consider a small AC unit.
fresh local strawberries today!
my mother is refusing her supplements.

it is june first
and i am listening to deftones
i am in town for a few days
the place is a mess
cactus is blooming
that time of year

i have rented a guitar
it is green
and grows resonating
import and fret-buzz between
and with each
strum-uttered phrase
cycling down through spring night's
chirp-laden maze
it sings,
"take me home, country road"
and i think of spurning it.

today i am making kimchee
it has been five years

i have taken to preparing dal again
lately as well
and it turns out quite delicious and aromatic
and is as good if not better than at east is east.

an onion fell
and rolled down the hall
leaving its paper brown shavings
a trail of crackled laughter
they tear and trickle
up the woman's throat
as she races

still melting crystals
drop in quickening passage
begin to head home

stream
of
thought



* * *

wonderful!

a shout
out
and thanks to diddy.

moon sticks astronaughts used to eat

a post for the night.

someone is listening.
thank-you.

now, does anyone know where are
those moon sticks astronaughts used to eat?

could things be better?
sure.
but things could be worse.

just ants underfoot
conscious of an existance
they race to preserve