...& from the vault:

Because I feel like it:

Thursday, October 23rd, 2008:

"i am my only profile views"

"which means that i am the only one reading this and wondering what the author is like.

"I have refrained from drinking beer/liquor all night. It's difficult to do, especially when one is tired, frustrated, and quite surrounded by suicidal bottles/cans/handles/etcetera. But, at this rate I will not be getting sleep for some time, and I do not believe the temptation would improve the present so much as quite possibly numb the future. Maybe I'll bring some along to my class. The first begins at eleven (i will be five minutes late); the last ends at three (I wouldn't mind leaving five minutes early). four-hundred and twenty minutes from now is that three. It will mark twenty-four hours of uninterrupted wake, a habit I believe I am getting too intimate with.

"I have refrained from drinking beer/liquor all night. I have not refrained from reading tedious, mediocre poetry, or making vague use of haughty intellectualism. actually i will leave the poet-women alone, for reasons. one: they obviously enjoy word play, and i admire this. I am assigned to read, : they are two lady writers who seem to understand each other's unique incoherency. Incoherency? A word? dunno.

"ah...yes, quite obvious that they enjoy chewing on obscure words and assorted magnet sentences like wads of sticky bubblegum, and pop thin, bloated bubbles onto whatever is growing out of the typewriter. the more bubblicious they pack the greater the hole they punch. More ammunition, mr. master general joe! i'm bleeding through the ghosts of scabs I've picked off my back.

"She used to write poetry and She told me her secret once. The poem didn't make any sense but it was impossible to interpret reasonably so everybody assumed it was great and she took me aside and told me exactly what it meant and I've realized since then that you can pluck the smallest detail or most unlikely image out of your head and turn it into an impossible glittering mountain of wordery and wondery and nobody has to understand, not even you, and even if you do at the time it doesn't matter if you forget 'cause I guarantee she wouldn't remember the poem now if I asked her about it; or she would hate it; in the end the reader takes what he takes from the readed whether the words really matter or not and that's really the secret now, is't? If it matters to you in the instant, and somebody else thinks it beautiful, what does it matter once the instant is over excepting that that it's yours and not theirs even though they may adopt it as the most meaningful thing they've ever clung to and all you've done is spit it out to stick it to some tiny choking tree you've passed on the street?

"I think this is how Bob Dylan used to work. I think this is how these lady-poets work now, but they try too hard to be visceral. i saw nothing immortal in the words they gave to me."




and guess who just found his old livejournal account?