this is by devendra banhart. it makes the listner feel like energy, and fiction. these are just the words:

when they come
from over the mountain
we will run
right around them
we’ve got no guns
no we don’t have any weapons
just our cornmeal and our children

dust drowns the dark clouds
but not us

while we pay
for mistakes with no meaning
all your gifts
and all your peace is deceiving
and still our pain
dissolves with believing
that peace comes

now that our bones
lay buried below us
just like stones
pressed into the earth
well we ain’t known
by no one before us
and we begin
with this one little birth
that grows on,
that moves on

crippled crow
say something for our grieving
where do we go
once we start leaving
close that wound
or else keep on bleeding
and change your tune
it’s got no meaning

.

For now Prince Rupert's tears of glass, make saffron sabbath eyelids bleed, scar the sacred tablet of wax, on which the lizards feed.

this afternoon was the first time that something unexpected happened in the last eight months.

the unexpected thing was that a lizard was on my windshield, for the drive back to the office, from lunch. peter and dave were in the car with me, observing everything that i observed. i was driving. and observing.

we had enjoyed our sandwiches, we had bitched about work as we ate, we were walking back to the car, everything was normal and boring.

but as i backed the car out of its parking space, and disengaged reverse and engaged drive, we noticed that a lizard was sitting on the drivers side windshield wiper. it was giving me an evil eye, because i was disturbing it.

i did not appreciate the evil eye, especially from some non-mammalian piece of shit honkey. that fucker was going to pay.

i was tempted to activate the wipers, and make a very quick end to the stand-off, but then i thought better of it, and i glared back at the lizard's evil eye as i began to accelerate.

that is when the lizard's eyes got wide and i think he may have shitted.

i was driving fast down the road, and the lizard began peeling up the windshield towards the roof, because of his proximity to the surface of the aerodynamics action, which his tiny little lizard frame was attempting to withstand.

inside the car, we were hollering and making jokes: "hang on! you'll make it! just hang on, for christ's sake hang on!"

stupid bastard lizard, giving me the evil eye.

the lizard was three-quarters of the way up the windshield, and the wind was about to rip its grip away, and send him rolling back along the roof and then he would have dropped onto the road, and he would have been pulverized by traffic, simultaneously becoming one with the asphalt and the rubber tire, simultaneously i says, but then there was a stop light.

the lizard ran back to take its place behind a windshield wiper. it gulped and collected itself. it was no longer giving me an evil eye, and actually its eyes were closed. the lizard looked more scared than i have ever seen a lizard look ever before.

i began to take pity upon the lizard.

plus, we knew that the lizard was never going to see its family or friends again, because we were driving a long way through suburbs, which are dastardly.

eventually we arrived at our workplace, and exited the car, and we assessed the lizards condition. it seemed to be petrified and exhausted. i thought about taking the lizard by the tail and placing him into the grass, but i thought it might be the needle in the haystack that broke the camels back and gave the lizard an attack of the heart, which was probably less than a millimeter long, if lizards even have hearts, and i think they do, except that it has been a long time since biology class.

we left the lizard to himself and went back to work. when i came back out to go home, the lizard had left a note.

it said: "that's just the way my eyes are, dumbass. they have no articulation, beyond opening and shutting."

well, they sure looked evil to me, but maybe that says a lot about the hang-ups i never thought i had, about other species and things. maybe i am not the open-minded and colorblind folk that i thought that i was.

maybe it is my eyes, that are evil.

hmm, i said.

sixty degrees

i thought that hurricanes were supposed to be tropical monsters, but

by four o'clock the skies were blue, there was a breeze, it was sixty degrees. i almost fell in love with the world.

i ran twice around the lake, like i usually do, except i did not sweat, because it was sixty degrees.

there were no nasty geckos running around, because it was sixty degrees.

ditto, bugs.

the nauxious smells of the city were lessened, because it was sixty degrees.

everyone was out in the parks, walking their dogs and babies and jackets.

i had a dumb smile on my face. i was reveling in sixty degrees with sunny blue skies and some breezes. i almost got sentimental. i almost developed crushes. i almost said hi to strangers. i almost petted wandering dogs.

in my heaven, it is sixty degrees all of the time. it is never not sixty degrees. sixty degrees is what it is, always. there is no place on the earth that even stays close to sixty degrees all of the time.

that is such bullshit. but i will try to keep a positive about this.

a hurricane just delivered one day of autumn. it was my first autumn day in longs of time. that was sweet of wilma.

but what wasnt sweet was the thing about the mayan riviera. i was sorry to hear about playa del carmen.

---

i have listened to nothing but bob dylan for many many days. i guess this is the sort of mood you have when nothing else quite fits. that is very unusual for me.

i have nasty shin splints. i think i am moving my legs incorrectly.

wilma, you bitch

apparently, there is a hurricane on the way. i havent really noticed.

everyone keeps asking me when i plan to evacuate, when i am procuring bottled water and canned goods, how many trees are at how many of my windows, am i worried, why always on the weekends, la la la, dee da dee dum.

let it get to within three hundred goddamn miles first, aight? it's going eight miles per fucking hour, for christs sake.

then, i can decide what i will do.

if this thing tracks for orlando, then i will take twenty minutes to get precious things within my nin hundred square feet off of the floor, up on shelves and in cabinets, then i will pack a bag, make a sandwich and drive north. twenty minutes of preparation and i can leave for three months, if i need to.

stop jabbering! figure it out, homeowner! realize that i have no real estate on the line! i am indifferent to the wiping out of the state, if it comes to this! i can fit my necessities in the backseat, on my way the fuck out of dodge!

god!

there are lots of reasons not to live in florida. one more is hurricanes, and one after that is impending victim mentality.

it's going to be white sox and astros. i will pick the white sox.

prior to the ten million dilutions

acoatofarms, aliberty inbrackets, like: { }

rest assured, some day i am going farther away, to rest, to unwind my spine my twisted back, of ribs and curled expectations, to weep leviathan, like dragons might try, tempered, canvassing their eternal wicked fires, hot inside skeletons unmeasurable, heat like we might try to harness, so much younger, untired, scrambling, limitless, for all we know, romeo has something to say, would have been worth saying, if only a million would listen, then there would be nothing to be ashamed of, some swallowing the facts in spite of the ideals, growed enough to get over the nonsense, be fair, what should be enough, rest assured,

hiccups and hiccups an hiccups

a swallow of water, upside down,

and then the humming, the black magic, the displacement, the unknown.

visions come, and visions they done gone.

(if you read youll judge)

incidentally.

it is a purple stitch
holding royal heart to
penitent
sleeve.

lost cities

if you listen to it knowing that they are modest mouse songs, then of course they sound edgeless and emasculated.

they are excellent if you forget that they are modest mouse songs.

sun kil moon is mark kozelek was red house painters, we have our softspots.

purges of banquets.

i am not an philosopher, with my quill or
gooseneck desk lamp
i am not loved for me mind
(or bodies
or style
and not even my standoffish
natures)
unexpressed via speech
i would ask if my lips were gates
whose posts dug beneath the
sands of the sahara
or one of many deserts
short on breath
longing to remind us
of ten thousand years ago
as if green and wet
were the only fortunes
worthing envy

who knows.

on friday night me & ken went to the social, because acid mothers temple was playing. they played the same the same groove over and over again for thirty minutes while the guitar soloist just made insane runs up and down his fretboard. it was awesome. i was deaf. i am serious.

that's the way it is.

acid mothers temple are from japan, and they are the shadiest japanese dudes i have ever seen. usually, if i were to pass by some japanese folks in a dark alley, i would not be scared. but these guys...

a band called 'the occasion' opened. they are one of my new favorites. i am unable to compare them to anyone else, except that they did have spooky tape loops like the black heart procession, who we miss like no tomorrow. anyway, they alternated between spooky and groovy and trippy and flooring, and the bass player even got worked up enough to smash his instrument into the stage, over and over and over again, before going away. it was the only genuine smashing of instruments i have ever seen, because i never saw nirvana. except on television.

the concert was filled with sharply dressed hipsters, and girls in dresses. i have no clue.

that is it for the show. ken wants to get together to play guitars. i told him to give me ten more years, because i only know chords C, A, Am, G, E, Em, F, D, Dm, and some susses and adds, but he said that's good enough.

on saturday i went with mike and his wife and three of his wife's friends to epcot center. it was the first time i have ever been to an orlando attraction. it was expensive as fuck. sixty dollars to get in, and outrageous prices on food and bevvies. luckily, i have the ability to completely disregard outrageous pricing. i am not frugal. i sold out my life for five years, so i can afford six dollar beers.

we did a ride called mission space, i think. i thought i would throw up, because i get vertigo and motion sickness now. i almost threw up, but i did not. i felt queazy. it was a shame, because it was fun. i love rides. especially roller coasters. i have not tried to ride a roller coaster since i started getting motion sickness. i should try.

this is my new life as a pansy.

a pansy is a nice flower.

the lines at epcot were long. we twisted around lines that weaved back and forth. at one point we had stood in line for a span of fifteen minutes and we had reached a point where we were adjacent to a point we were at fifteen minutes before. mike said "three feet, as the crow flies." i said "i don't think even a crow would bother to fly for that much."

it was funny. i make jokes, sometimes.

we drank beers from around the world, and had food from around the world. i had mexican, german, italian, american, japanese, indian, french, and british, in that order. it was magnificent to be so fat.

that is pretty much all that i did this weekend. i desperately need to leave this town for a weekend, because i am tired of it.

i have been trying to change my mind set, because my mind has been too set. i need to be looser, more freewheeling, more open, more careless, less inhibited, less bothered. less angry, less bitter, more at ease. y'know, like beck, or john depp.

my first step, is a hot shower.

my new evil girlfriend .

you must initiate yourself to something every so often, because life gets stale and boring. as far as i am concerned, it gets boring.

i am initiating myself to bob dylan, which for some reason has never really happened. even though he is an icon and all of that. i dont know.

i have always had the respect necessary.

he's a reason why eclectic folks are tolerated past 1963 and in the year 2005.

i took my pendant away . it is on the shelf. it symbolizes growth and harmony, i think. i'm not sure because my head is maligned and slanted inconsequential. bob dylan would not approve of my frame of mind. it is trapped and does not allow itself

.

its a hard rains a-gonna fall.

storms and focus. tribulations for peace.

no fear. no envy. no meanness.

(i was wiser, maybe many years ago. )

these feet shall cause me to progress!

{the postscript]

oh, how i
should have wandered.

but, how should
i have wandered
?

[usthed}

suddenly,
affect.

gulps
or rips

open,
the
effect.

Ehn Aich Elle

Woah.

Hockey is Good. Like edge-of-seat good. And it's only the fourth game of the season.

I got the digital cable package that lets me see forty hockey games per week, if I would like. I am glad that I got the digital cable package.

It's even exciting when the Leafs get scored on, which I never used to enjoy at all.

The only thing is, I am still sad about Doug Gilmour, and March 13, 2003.

Colombus Day

something that i still have since elementary school is the mound of hardened skin on the last knuckle of the fourth finger on my right hand, which is from years of writing day after day with ultra-rough pencil tips rubbing up against it mercilessly.

i don't know if everyone has it, because i think i held my pencils differently from all of the other boys and girls.

this is how i have always held my pencil. it is the reason for my knub of skin on the last knuckle of my fourth finger on my right hand.



the knub used to be a lot more pronounced. i guess because my use of traditional wooden pencils has scaled off, in almost parabolic fashion (!). i only really write with pens anymore. pens tend not to chafe.

maybe in another twenty years, it will be like a normal, everyday sort of knuckle. ununique in all kinds of ways. how terribly ordinary.

this is the new sort of blog entries i will make.

poem #1, ever. dated 10-october-2005

it 's true;
i am a fan
of innocents,
meaning: children
and cats,
and most dogs,
and not really
anything else.
the end.

thanks! you're the best!

"When rain come, they run, hide heads", said Chief Joseph, who had sought Past Masters Volume 2 for as long as he could remember.

i have been working too much. i have been taking up slack for others, who are stupid and terrible. it is atrocious that i care to take up slack for others, and it is atrocious that i care that they are stupid and terrible.

last night i did not have to take the "on-call" phone. the "on-call" phone is the phone that everyone calls for any kind of problems at all sorts of hours of the day, and autumn is the busy season. i am glad to have not had the "on-call" phone again last night.

me and ken walked to orange street to see a band called mono. mono are exactly like explosions in the sky, except that they are japanese. i think that mono and eits are laboratory amalgams of mogwai and godspeed you black emperor!, who are the preeminents. no one cares what i think about anything.

the other day we were coming back from lunch and there was a homeless man with a cardboard sign with a long message on it. i made a joke about the man affording a sharpie. i don't think it was a tasteful joke.

yesterday at lunch, dan was talking about hunting boars with knives. i made a joke and the line was "squeal like a boy, pig!". that is a line from a movie, except i switched the last two nouns around. i also used a ridiculous southern accent.

my friends at work only like hunting and talking about buying houses and guns and building cars from scratch. my friend outside of work only really likes computers and heavy metal and tennis. no one has a weird sense of humor. it is a lonely place. someday i will leave. in the meantime i will shut myself in like robert johnson, i will emerge with blues emanating from fingers and throat. except i am white and bourgeoise, so the blues will actually be yellows. or greens.

the other day i left chivalry in the car, with the windows rolled up. it was empowering, because i like to be a piss-ant sometimes, and a lot of chivalry just to avoid giving a bad impression of your character seems more and more pointless.

i miss my cat, but i am very masculine.

pituitary

the weight in my pituitary means that there is a collection of heavy
indifferences, and they are gathered from all of the over. everyone does not
know how much gravity is involved with their lack of an opinion in this
direction or that.

i would measure and plot versus time. i would cross my fingers for a parabola.
a hyperbola. anything but linear.

anything but linear.

it is too early to know. the indications are not promising.

i think that i fear that i may have been missing for too long. there must be a
presence in order to keep up the counting. the counting is the most effort of
all.

i think about whelms, in versions of both over and under. there have been too
many whelms. i think that you can only count so many whelms, and then you are
done for, or you need to completely refresh, or become brand new. i am not sure
how to refresh from all of the whelms. i wonder if that means that 'done for'
was the right one.

it is overwhelming, the amounts of counting that you miss. it is also
overwhelming, the things that you are paid to worry about. i would like to get
paid to not worry about anything, but nobody gets paid not to worry about
anything. they get paid to worry as much as possible about as many things as
possible.

it is underwhelming, the unstorylikeness of going by. some people are able to
summon colours. i wonder if my colours miss the light, or miss the dark, or
miss a summons. some people like to say that they are colouring by saying the
word "melodrama". there are times that those people have the torches of
justification over their pointy shoulders, but there are other times that those
people can go and fuck themselves, because we have never owed a certain type of
observation to anybody at all.

but anyway, linear would be underwhelming.

eeposterity

hey do you miss the freak outs? like i used to hunch over the computer like a
kid with only dignity to lose and would carve cryptic thisnthat into etrees and
eeebooks, fueled by some sonic mighty empowering something, licking at the
white blood cells and platelets from the eecutting that i would hobby into and
out of, there was plenty and plenty of time for hobbies, how additives are
addictions, promote use of forearms, indict proliferation of false socialisms,
hypocrites spend time too, too much needling for less feels, purposely
underestimating because you do not want your stiffling image to ssuffer, fuck
no, never that.

but no. i will not comply again, or i will but you have to walk away first and
not notice.

on the shelf are five keys.

one is for locked bitters.

one is for locked blocks of memry, because life is like tetris.

one is for locked uninhibitions.

one is for jesus, when he comes home. we had left it under the mat, but then we
decided he would not, and plus we were having problems with the mat getting
frozen to the walk, what with the frost.

one is for who knows what, because that particular box has been unlocked and
the labels have been de-applied. the key was returned anonymously, and has
mysteriously been stamped with the phrase "I AM 35". we are going to try to
molten it, because we have been experimenting with fires that can get that hot.

there are only twenty-four teeth on that key.

eleven is the difference.

gary leeman was the prophet. but no one noticed and now he is forgotten.