it's not that i won't believe

sit here and shiver in the cold light
or: wind kissed shoulders at the top of landscapes
(cityscapes here; where we breathe)
living black and white frames for the colourblind
and goosebumps for those who've forgotten how to feel.

a world suited for the visionary;
a man without sight is
a man just the same but -
he dreams in the colour of skins faint convergence
and intercourse [beautiful!] is everything but pretty.
if we could hear as he hears,
the earth would sigh under the weight of our
great triumph|mistake|fuckingconquest

mercy for the executioner and for the persecuted
mercy for the wether lead awry by the wayward shepherd.

mercy for the cold jehovas whitness at my unanswered door.
it's not that i won't believe,
its just don't that i don't like talking to strangers.


-sunday, the second of december, two thousand and seven.

empty words, like glasses.
bullshit on the rocks,
with a twist. this time
i'm to blame and i'd rather
drink to lies then
the truth hiding at the
bottom of my glass.
this is the short path
to disarming me. lost
words found in toilets
around midnight.
wipe the vomit
from lips that spilled
and tongues that kissed;
betraying.

we're not alone here;
with mothers eyes and
fathers strong hands.
we laugh like friends,
but kiss like
no one
else

-------------------

can see us here.
at the end of wit,
'might as well be the
end of the world;
a spectacle for the ages,
or is this another
monday morning?

-------------------

and i'll rise for neither
god or no man.
pull the curtain,
take a bow, and
watch dreams fade
as tomorrow becomes
today and i lose all hope
for yesterday.

nothing|something|everything

in want of nothing
when nothing is something to be had
but can't.

sold out
wrapped up
and put away for tomorrow
or better yet

a time when
there is nothing to be had
and something
...anything
is everything

kiss me!
full on the lips.
because it's that
kind of day.

_______________________

mirrors for your vanity
and a window for the exhibition
of your better sides. oh the
things you prefer to keep
behind glass. you wish
your life a museum of
artifacts. little do you know,
it's become a mausoleum
for all the things that
were called great in you.

________________________

not a word. neither here nor there.
come as you please
but please, never leave.
this is not the time for conversation,
or sleeping under trees. in my dreams
we're holding hands, but my eyes
see things different in the dark.

________________________

there are no excuses here.
but i know now that i'll never know
why, or how the stars dance
behind your head while you
look down at me from
a branch, high up our
favourite climbing tree.

________________________

who needs
love when we've
got internet
communication
and electronic
reciprocation.

a short drive.

you are a place.
the red insides
of my grey car.
the green grassy
stretch where
we met. a long
road, a short drive
to absolutely
everywhere.

you are a house,
a home with
grey shingles and
a swimming pool
we never swam in.

you are everything
but a girl i knew,
and i wish to
heavens end
that you were just
simply that.

it's a long drop | smile on the way down

i want to blow out
the legs of this
pier i've been
standing on.

destroy the
foundation
of the 20
story building
i've called a life
and pick through
the rubble for
survivors.

anyone
got an
axe?

a poet; a musician

if i could do with music,
what you do with so
few words, women
would give up their
good sense and kiss me,
just to hear the sound
my lips make against theirs.

C add9

if only we were a chord,
a diminished 7th or
some other shape i know
by sound alone.
maybe then we could make music.
you could play me;
'fingerprints' on keys,
because even bach
wrote music between sheets.

no vacancy

space invader,
go back to
your planet.
although we're
lonely, no company
will fill the hours
between one dream
and the next.

black and blue

"write what you know!"
boy wonder thinks
he knows the universe,
so he writes pages
to fill up the spaces between
atoms and black holes,
instead of the empty places
behind his blue eyes.

do you keep telling yourself things, too?

i don't miss you
i don't miss you
i don't miss you.

make a left at the first right.

what if we stop driving down this old road,
will we forget the trees and signs
that said, "we're almost there..."?

--------------

stand up and
let the boat drive itself, because
we're making love to the wind
and kissing the last days
goodbye.

--------------

lakeway drive is exactly
two thousand, seven hundred
and fifty-one kilometers
from my hands,
and three inches
from my heart.

when you were done picking stars from the sky
you had the heavens on your bedroom ceiling
and I had the black night and a sky full of
holes I couldn’t see.
I waited forever and more for that light,
but you needed something to read by.

3 a.m had never looked so beautiful
as it did by the light of those stars,
like the headlights of cars
guiding the way home.
for now, i'll drive in the dark.

you

you deserve more
than simile or metaphore.

my gift will never lend itself
to your description, so words
will never grace the form
and shape of your legs.

my music will never
break the silence
of your parted lips,
and the quiet glow
of my mind
will never shine
brighter than the light
of your eyes.

how could i hope to hold you
with a turn of phrase?

yours are words
i could never begin
to understand.

"supposin' three men were frozen.
one died. how many were left?"

"none. 'cos it was only supposin'."

un orchestre trempé

i'll write you a waltz,
but we won't dance;
no ballroom will hold
us. we'll listen from
your bed, and the rain
will be my song.

this is a long way from home.

run showers just to
hear the sound
of rain. this is tundra,
this is desert,
this is a long way from home.

shallow breaths as
the air runs out of you
in syllables; glass figures
you throw carelessly
to the floor.

now they're slivers
and shards, red footprints
in the snow: wounded elk,
a hunted beast.

i'm not your albatross,
no kiss of death or
otherwise impending doom.
your light in the dark
hangs by a cord,
and true love hides
between pages,
not sheets.

you, all wind and
hot air, go float with clouds
and airships. don't we look small
from that lofty peak?
can you make out
the sound and shape
of misery?

my great enemies stalk me in
puddles and polished mirrors.
this is what it means,
to be afraid of your own
shadow. this is what it means
to be ?

the sum of eighty-eight and six

the strings play my fingers;
callused instruments at
the will of
keys and ivory
chords.

Table Tennis.

are you a poet,
a writer by design?
your practiced craft
what did you call it,
a game?
with elaborate execution
you move your pieces;
rook and pawn
lips, eyes and your
unquestionably perfect hair.
well i have news
i forfeit.
conceited victory is sour on
your pursed lips,
isn't it?

this message edited for clarity.

brick wall and mortar

songs for empty rooms
and words for no one,
in particular. we are
dead poets and deaf
musicians. artists;
scribbled on paper
napkins in diners.

these were other peoples
words once. used for
love letters and
whispered nothing at midnight.
certificates of birth,
death and failure, and
poems to remember by.

you can keep your words,
and their hollow sounds.
head against plaster -
brick wall and mortar
keep banging and you'll
forget it ever hurt to wonder.

lebensraum

you keep your secrets like your friends,
what are you hiding, lonesome?

_____________________________________________________

whisper the truth when your voice can't bare the weight of it.
(no one listens when you talk,
no one listens when you open your mouth)
you're the boy who cried wolf! but it wasn't a game then, and
it's not a game now that he's eatin the better part of you.

_____________________________________________________

living space | lebensraum

living in space | leben im raum

living in outer-space | leben im weltraum

its the third reich, in space!

_____________________________________________________

regularely updated posts will continue after the winter break.thanksforyourlove

Trial and Tribulation

your words and their best intentions
cut sickle and thrown wide. spit
into the wind and taste the salt
of your wounds. the fruit of this failed
and barren womb treads long
across empty fields and anxious minds.
great seas that divide the 'chosen'
and their choicy armchair politiks.
welcome his children with open arms;
muslin draped muslims and evangelical
prayers for the dead. come close my child
and kiss the hand of god! a mighty papacy
in ignorant defiance of a peter, paul or mary?

oh his words and their best intentions,
how we've failed the love of an honest Man.

These are words.

I am an "empty sonnet".

Why, you might ask, are you an "empty sonnet" Andy? To that, I would reply: "I am an empty sonnet because I am structure and function without substance." I have a body, and a mind fixed and settled by my societal up-bringing. I am a framework of suburbanite existence. I am a law-abiding, educated citizen of this federation. Upon completion of my post-secondary training, I will enter the workforce as a highly skilled working machine, and I will succeed at waking upon the sound of an alarm every morning; 6 AM sharp.

God help me.

After 13 years of intensive education, I have yet to learn the subtleties of waking upon the sound of an alarm.

Despite this brilliantly engineered framework, I have failed my masters design. I am nothing but a silly boy.

With love,
Andy.

__________________________________________________

speak up! but keep it quiet,
we're trying to listen

__________________________________________________

from conversation:
enophile - a lover of wine.

purple lips
brazen kiss
is this rapture?
or the rape of
one mind
by the grape
of another.
_________________________________________________

who needs clark kent when we've got Superman?
_________________________________________________

from conversation:
stolen!?

flashing screens for empty heads
fill lonely nights with sleepless beds

we'll rest our tired eyes
we'll calm our anxious minds
tomorrow.

words, words everwhere and not a verb to speak

bare & waste left for those
who have yet to know
their fate or simple inexistence

how little they matter
until they are the sons of daughters;
the children of the damned

________________________________________


harpsichord! play us a song
for the dead on your distinguished-
extinguished keys! we'll listen close
for the plucking sounds as your ivory
is poached and plundered. and oh how
the sound of your dead symphonies
is keeping us awake.

________________________________________


spirited, nonsensical banter
spit out like a bitter taste
we'd rather not have at our
lips; this natural anthem,
this unfounded-ungrounded
parade of power kegs
and headless legs....
we are soldiers
fighting for fightings sake
along the 49th parallel.
we've been run through
by the invisible line that divides
this continental, situational irony.

a silver halide holdup

he stole her soul
with click and shutter
and it's there she'll stay:
six by nine in black and white
forever
______________________

fear and watch it grow
a self made man|machine
______________________

words to no end, with
invisible ink by the
invisible hand. a letter
for the dead, but it's
the living that He
writes for.
______________________

i could hide in these headphones
from awkward gaze and putrid stare
living amoungst symphony, song, and orchestra
played out in the space between my ears
i could hide from my life and all that it entails

i could hide in these headphones
from quiet smile and sidelong glance
lost opportunity and possibility
played out in the world before me
i could hide from my life and all that it entails

An Inconveniece.

i want to break the laws of
thermodynamics with your
hairdryer.


i want to make love
out of the fabric of your
jeans.


let's roll around on the floor
because the electric blanket
just caught on fire
(stop drop and roll!!!)

Filler.

a stranger to you and yours alone;
you won't find me in the dark
corners of a room, the places in
your mind reserved. such stark
walls we've painted with our
dreams, and how the colours
run and the shadows fall
just so.

_________________________________

i, you, am, i, not, me
you, are, i, am, not, me
am, you, not, i, but me?
i, not, you, am, i, me?
not, me, but, you, are
me, am, not, i, but, are

________________________________

we are the victims of opportunity.

________________________________

why is it that the sum and difference of
dreams vs. reality must never equal?
i want to live my simple hopes;
bring colour to these grey skies.
and on windswept plains and in
eyes as blue as the ocean that i've left
will i find you?

3 more poems.

where do you find room to breathe?
these trees and their chemical equations
are keeping us alive.
(the rain falls and we fall with it)

_______________________________________

stand tall and cast a shadow
they'll see from office windows
and penthouse suites. blot out the sky
so they can read by flint and florecent light.
_______________________________________

A proposed solution to the American Government
concerning civil disturbance and disobedience:

it's not a protest if they've got
nothing left to fight for.

3 poems

pink noise

speak now or forever hold your peace.
but we have no peace, we have not
a quiet night to call our own.

____________________________

the dollar

she married george washington
i married benjamin franklin
jackson was the minister
and jefferson was the best man

and when they murdered the loon
we made wedding cake.
till death do us part
____________________________

white dress, black boquet

you may kiss the bride
with open mouth and
broken jaw. tongue tied
behind clenched teeth
"i would kill for her"

The birth of death

there is no end; no start to begin with
it just was.is.and shall be
so why are we so worried. (you should be worried)

E/T(AC) ≠ (infinity)

where:
E= existence
T= time
AC= advancement of civilization

--------------------------------------------------

im a liar / a thief!
with your treasure in hand
our gift as a culture
is lost in the sands
of utah and baghdad
the shores of great lakes

from under your nose
you've been duped, you've been faked.

im a teacher, a professor
of truth and goodwill
a figure, a leader
did you know i could kill?

--------------------------------------------------

what do you hide
in your dusty hat boxes?
where do you keep your gun,
and is it loaded?

your canvas is empty,
and it's not for lack of inspiration.
this tape is blank and his hearts gone cold

pray, do play us a song,
from behind bedroom doors
and static filled speakers.
we will listen

The hand of God.

Will I believe?
god, goddess, or Man alive

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

There was an end.

An end not unlike those that occur every day, in places just like this one.

Someone living, becomes not-living at the hand of another. Or maybe that someone is just unlucky.

They weren't unlucky though. They were living, and they died at the hand of someone who stopped living long before them.

They were in the wrong place at the wrong time, or the right place at the wrong time.

Some combination of the above mentioned.

Women and children first. That's what he said. "Get out". Is there a place for chivalry in murder?

Quiet God fearing people struck down by one of Gods' children. The irony is thick and we're drowning alive.

My Grandmother tells me that we all have a place. She tells me with such assurance.

Their place was a barickaded school house, at the hand of Gods' child.

Do bullets have a place too? Do they belong in the heads of children, where there were dreams once?

There was an end, and some will never forget it.

The rest? Well, we have our own dreams; we have our own ends.

------------------------------------------------------------------

-Sudden Valley

Sailing alone around the world.

where do we find the beginning to this story?
in the pages of a first book; the folds of a dream?
written on walls, or carved into stone..
lost and all but forgotten to our father time

and when we find that beginning, will that be our end?
to remain forever in the pages of a book,
and the folds of a dream.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

you and i, we're so much alike
a taste, and a smell to remember by,
blue eyes to hide behind,
and a place to remind us.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

i wrote you a melody, and there it stayed
amongst pictures and people and pieces of eternity.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

you without me, is still you
and me without you, is still me

-----------------------------------------------------------------

where do we find the end to this story?
last breath, final thought.
how will we know?
how we will know.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

This is the more permanent side of "temporary loss of cabin pressure"

this is the more permanent side of "temporary loss of cabin pressure"
and maybe i don't want to swim today. that orange vest won't keep
our hopes afloat - swim for the sharks, sink for the treasure
at the bottom of the sea.

and when they come in great machines;
downdraft making waves amongst the dead, will we cry?
our salty tears to the salty ocean

------------------------------------------------------------

I wanted you to call me again
I wanted to kiss you
Kissing you gave me butterflies
in my tummy

I would have fed you peach melba and ginger bread men

I would have played Chopin for you
by candlelight

But you didn't call

So

The gingerbread men will eat
the peach melba

Chopin will blow out the candles

and I

will kiss butterflies

in the dark

- l. c. lanoway

---------------------------------------------------------

There were grounds for a parade.

---------------------------------------------------------------

there were grounds for a parade
ticker tape and a presidential wave
from behind bunkers and shelters
men in grey suits grinned and paved the way
for tomorrow and the next day.

---------------------------------------------------------------

Tick-Tock Tick-Tock

It's been awhile, but I think it's time to write again.

Can you hear the click-clicking of keys; a desperate and last minute
attempt at garnering your attention. Well hear this: time is up.
My train has come and gone, and there you stand on the platform
as I wave my white hankerchief in your general direction.
Can you make out my shape amoungst the masses? The silent screams
from my parted lips... But you can't see them now anyway.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

You're a star over these grey skies and it's the wrong time of day.
Keep shining and we'll all wait for nightfall.
*
You're a stranger in your own home: empty mirrors, quiet phone
Close your eyes and listen for the sound of footsteps(only silence)
*
Keep still and keep quiet. They're watching and we're waiting for
the End.
*
We're casual observers at this weeks genocide(pass the popcorn)
Why can't we feel through screens and typeface?


---------------------------------------------------------------------------

to find words fit for such a figure
(with lines drawn slight as breath)
would be a gift.
she is the shape and colour of sound,
with heaven as her conductor.
an immortal image amongst the art of man.
but without soul she is only an icon,
so bare witness to her living spirit.
make a home in her arms,
and a life of her moments (and failures.)
till the end of time,
she will be my symphony - my end.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future,
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable.
What might have been is an abstraction
Remaining a perpetual possibility
Only in a world of speculation.
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened..."

-T.S. Elliot

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

goondight.. :)

You're a nickel and dime a dozen roses.

kiss close eyed so she can't see
closed mouth so she can't feel
do you beg | do you starve?

________________________________________________________


i quit living for that smile / quit living for a while

________________________________________________________


roll me over,
out of bed!
"you're a dreamer
a faker
a nuisance"

dress the part
act the show
such pretty shoes
and pretty lace

dim the lights
strike a match
watch this place burn
alive


__________________________________________________________



I'm living in the future
to pass the present time
(wind your watch a minute fast)


__________________________________________________________


to many words
without a thought
keep still and keep quiet

__________________________________________________________


where do you get off?
(really)
what makes you (w)ri(gh)t(e)

__________________________________________________________


pleasure while they pain
10,000 miles away
and they've never been
farther (while the ground shakes)
6,234 reasons to stop and count your days

__________________________________________________________


will i believe?
god, goddess, or man alive

__________________________________________________________



you're a nickel and dime a dozen roses
a faith - a sin
a real horror-show


__________________________________________________________

stars vs. cars and streetlamps

you call to talk but forget the words to say (you'd practiced at length)
shake hands with names, small talk with faces
chit chat. pretty cat. excellent weather we're having

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

the music we would make; if only they could hear!
(ears full of words and wisdom)
what if. if only. keep trying!
you'll make it someday.

we regret to inform you
we regret to inform you
whose we and why is your gun so big?

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

you say you want to live in another city
with different weather(maybe the sky's a different shade of [insert colour])

i want to be made from something else(whos favourite element is carbon?)

just how big does that smile get?

how wide are those eyes?
do you dare close them to the day?(blink and you'll miss it)

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

how i love the lights!
the bright city and its fight
stars vs. cars and street lamps

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

(we're all reading the stars, and they're wrong)

don't talk so loud, i can hear you from here. 100 kilometers away and we've never been closer.

how much love can one fit on a web page? if i made the font bigger? what if this room wasn't empty? if it was red.

is love red? is it blue?

if a thousand voices called out your name.

if just one just spoke?

does it mean less at 100,000 pixels than it does at 25?

does love mean anything in pixels?

what about voices?

words?

what if your deaf?

how do you know?

do you read a lovers lips?

what if your blind?

do you feel for their touch?

if your numb?

are you even real?

do you wait for them to awake?

or do you say it while the world sleeps?

do you mention it in conversation?

or between eyes halfway accross a room?

legs crossed, or arms folded?

do you dare smile?

return a kindly favour?

what if you close your eyes?

sleep.

Love

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The times.

What trying times these are! My tea is too hot, and my stomach is turning itself inside-out in protest. In protest of what you say?

WAR!

The war between microwaveable foods and my insides. The war between the sum of energy contained in the herbal infused water I am drinking and the inside of my mouth. WAR. YAR. Pirates.

Good day.

Up-Up and Away!!!

-Banksy

We built walls 'round those we hate, to keep them out; built walls 'round those we love, to keep them in.

WRITING WRITING WRITING WRITING WRITING WRITING WRITING WRITING WRITING WRITING

There was writing here. It's not here anymore. This is just to remind you that writing goes here. That's all really. Have a nice day.

I have eatin' 15 brains.

My alter ego Pinocio has managed to devour 15 brains. What an accomplishment. Was one of them yours?

The beauty in Lo-Fi

I'm listening to an mp3, that was ripped from vinyl, recorded at a concert 4000 miles away, in a country that speaks a language I don't understand. I can hear the imperfections in that vinyl, the hissing and popping as the needle winds its way steadily across this much revered petroleum based product. I can hear the breath of the singer. I can hear the barely whispers of the audience as they listen, afraid to breathe. Clearly, this isn't an ideal listening situation. Free from the sterility of big budget studios, and the perfection of pro-tools; take after take, edited and cut and pasted and polished, striving for auditory perfection. But somehow,the lack of that polish doesn't matter. After all the compression and signal degradation between that singers lips, his fingers, and my ears, I can still hear his might. The message is translated across these mediums, across land, sea, and time. I understand.

The recording in question is a collection of songs by Phil Elverum.
The place was Copenhagen.

The next time you listen to a record, cd, or tape, listen to the way that energy was captured. Can you hear reflections from the room a voice was recorded in? Can you detect the force of a cymbal after it's been struck, or has it been snipped and edited short by a big budget studio. Can you hear the singers feet, tapping in time to a song he used to translate his own energy?

There is something very special about listening to recordings that were made by real people, instead of engineers. Recordings that leave room to be human. In recordings of Glenn Gould made twenty years ago, you can hear him humming and stomping his feet as he plays through the goldberg variations. Try as the recording engineers might, they couldn't get the man to quiet for the studio, and so a bit of humanity was captured along with his brilliant playing. His passion, and his unique spirit. You almost feel as though he is still alive and breathing in the that very room with his piano.

That is the beauty of recording that is so often ignored or neglected. The ability to capture not only sound as energy, but human spirit. Energy, waves of various lengths and frequencies, is captured by a microphone and converted into an electrical impulse. That impulse is saved by a magnet, or as a series of ones and zeroes, and then converted back into an electrical impluse in a speaker. Somehow, despite all these tranformations, human spirit is retained. It triumphs over technology, and you embrace it in that favourite recording. That spirit that is impossible to describe in words.

Don your headphones. Turn on your stereo. Put on your favourite record and listen for the sounds of a human being.

If you're feeling extra adventures, come on over. I'll help you capture the sound of your spirit in a microphone.

A question.

I ask you this,

How would you feel about a privatized internet. An internet controlled by telecommunications companys. All internet media would be regulated, with internet traffic directed into designated lanes of bandwith. Access to the internet would be multi-tier, with those paying the most having the greatest access. Every email, blog, and file would be controlled and charged. Unwanted communications such as Peer-to-Peer, could be shut down. Companies would keep track of every website you visited, log every email and its content, and charge you. Free information like Wikipedia and Google would be reduced, charged, or even shut down. Would you sit idly by as one our greatest accomplishment as a society was taken over by the mighty-dollar?

Is this for real?

The Gillette Fusion.

Are you one of the few crazy enough to think this was actually going to happen? Or are you sane enough to not actually care. When Gillette came out with the three blade mach3, I figured hey, more of a good thing. If two cuts along my tender cheeks weren't enough, three would definitely suffice. But no. The modern man was not content to have his face subject to cruel and inhumane torture with just three blades, he wants more. Much more.

Next came the Schick Quatro. Like an Audi, but with razorblades for wheels. Clipping apex's and carving out es's on chins across Canada. People all over the land rejoiced at the newfound joy they had in removing skin from their faces, and it was good. But was this enough? Could the Modern Man finally be contented with shaving technology? NO! Not a chance. Not with Gillette loosing precious market share to Schick's new Quatro.

They have now unveiled the Supercar of the shaving world. The Cadillac of trimming. Enter, the Gillette FUSION. Five blood hungry blades, surrounded by "moisturizing aloe strips". Somehow these seem superfluous to me. Once that blitzkrieg of blades crosses it's battlefield, how much skin can reasonably be left to moisturize? But that's not all. They've even included a sixth blade, strategically positioned on the flank to do battle with nose whiskers and side-burns. It's plastic surgery on a stick. It's a nuclear war on your face. Then there's the pulsing heart of the beast. The bloody thing is powered by a battery. Why? Because. That's why.

Well North-America, smile. Be glad for this new breakthrough in shaving technology. Be glad and be thankful, that the utter genius's at the helm of these great companies dare to dream of a better tomorrow. A tomorrow where no man is safe. A future where every sink shall be bathed in the blood of John Doe and Joe Nobody-Because-He-Bled-To-Death-Shaving. That is a future to look forward to.

(I don't actually use these by the way, I like the hairs on my face PULLED out by a vintage Remco)

I want my own nuclear weapon

Not a big one; lets not be foolish here. I just want one big enough to be in control of my own fate. Is that so much to ask? Sure I could use more...subtle means for my cause, but let's face reality here. When I'm up against the 10,650 nuclear weapons deployed today in the US, never mind the estimated 20,000 deployed by "allies" of the west, I need a fighting chance. They could blow us into oblivion 100 times over before the atoms we're made of ceased to exist, and they'd still have enough left to keep the martians from Alpha-Beta 305 away (so much for my nightmares of alien abduction). Did I mention the fact that despite the passing of the cold war, the U.S. still has its arsenal on hair-trigger alert, aimed at the heart of every nation signed to the nuclear non-proliferation treaty. Oh horray!

Oh joyess joy!

But me, I wouldn't even bother with that nonsense. I'd aim mine at the center of the universe. Blow a hole in the space time continuum so big even Marty Mcfly would shit his pants. After the worm hole opens up, I'd travel back to the Garden of Eden and warn that happy couple about the consequences of their actions. Give them a shpeal on sexually transmitted diseases and the genetic deficiencies their inbred children will harbour for the thousands of years they exist before blowing themselves into infinity. They'd crawl back into whatever primordial soup Darwin had envisioned and our earth would be given a second chance. Perhaps it would be inherited by small insects and crustaceans.

Or even banjo playing sloth's, with over-alls. And a straw hat. You seen goofy movie? There's a fun-loving classic from my childhood. What banjo-playing sloth would bring harm to this green planet.

Anyway, the point is, we don't deserve the power to destroy this planet. We didn't make it, and as long as we don't destroy it ourselves, we won't be around when the biggest nuclear bomb of them all envelopes our blue-green globe, taking the remnants of our existence with it. There are greater powers then mans will for destruction. There are wiser men yet, then those who do buisness from an oval office.




"The world owes you nothing. It was here first." - Mark Twain

Human Accomplishment.

I know a lot about human accomplishment; I get out of bed every morning. I brush my teeth. I don't have to, but I choose to. Every morning, I am taking one step to bettering myself by deciding that remaining in bed for the course of the day is not a productive plan of action and I make for the kitchen. A banana and bowl-of-fiber-rich-cereal later, and I'm already onto my next set of goals and accomplishments: Making my way back upstairs. Now, who in their right mind would want to go all the way back up those stairs. Not me. And if you've been to my house, you know what a struggle those stairs are. All 8 of them. They're fucking right steep and my back is not what it used to be. At 18. Seriously. Safeway, hard labour. You know the story. So I make my way up and make for the highlight of my day: The Shower. After standing under a scalding hot stream of water for 45 minutes, I then decide that the now cold water has healed my blistered back and attempt to remove myself from the blissfull state of sedation that showering brings about in my over-stressed mind. "Pff...over-stressed..." you mutter. You might be right.

What stresses could I possibly endure on a day to day basis. I am no longer gainfully employed, and higher education is still 8 months off. My stresses include ill-prepared corned beef sandwiches, pulpy orange juice, and soggy carrots. This is my diet by the way, besides the beformentioned fiber rich cereal and banana. This is how I keep my positively perfect form. Hah. Positively perfect.


In other words, I cannot wait for school. A job. Anything really. The stresses of the unemployed are far to great for my meager mind. I fear I won't last in these conditions. Please send help, Valium, Prozac. Whatever. Just send help, and a properly prepared corn beef sandwich if you don't mind.. Extra mustard. Hold the butter...and if you have a good pickle.... Ah forget it.

Anyway, if you're feeling stressed with whatever it is you do, just remember that an idle mind is the devils playground. I am literally going mad, and I invite you to join me when you've finished doing whatever it is you do. Which I promise you, is a thousand times better than the nothing that currently occupies the space in my life between going down the stairs and back up. As long as you're not cleaning toilets or something. Although......

Hello. Bonjour. здравствулте こんにちは Ciao

Welcome! This is a 'beginning'. For awhile, some stuff will take the place of a 'Middle'. Later, there will be an 'End', and that will be all. Maybe you'll stay awhile. Maybe you won't. If you do choose to stay, you will be subjected to this, my first attempt at letting you in on the voices and thoughts that keep me up at night. My first attempt at joining the 'revolution'. Anyway, it's 'cyberspace'. This isn't real, and neither are my thoughts. So in reality, I don't have to worry about anyone not reading!

Stay awhile. Leave comments. Harass me.
I enjoy that sort of thing.