Cynicism is my inspiration to show the blind the color of life... the cynical the hope, the raging the peace... I don't think that's too much for these times.  I think that's just what we need.  i used to complain... now it's my purpose to do.

There's nothing like the flies, a sprained ankle, and the forest to remind a person where we all came from and how far we have to go to get back there.  The rest of the forest was uninhibited.  It knew what to do to survive there.  We didn't.  We had to carry fifty pound packs and water pumps and food.  We wouldn't have known poison from sustainence(sp?).   But something reminded me there of that summer in the back of the car with apples and berries in North Carolina... it reminded me of growing up in the woods at a nature station and showing people poison ivy vs. greenbriar, both of which the deer would eat... it reminded me of a time when we were all innocent.  Call it the Garden of Eden if you have to, I'll just call it fun.  This is why I hold my own.  This is why I'm searching for a sustainable life.

Until yesterday my relationship with money was less than deep... I felt as though it was a cage keeping me from my ideal home... my ideal life... I spent over an hour hashing out the subject and came to the conclusion that money was deeply rooted in my family relationships... that, because there seemed never to be enough when I was growing up, i'd developed an avoidance of the concept alltogether.  I called it the root of all evils.  I called it unjust power.  But without personal issues and corruption, it can also be a tool.  it can be empowerment. 

Ok... It looks a little strange that all of my blogs are posted today... but they were written on myspace over a period of about a month and a half... so much has happened that hasn't been said... I wish I could write more about work, but most of that's confidential... social ethics... I love the people I work with though... warm hearts... you can see their spirits shining through their senility... I still miss mike (old boyfriend) despite his stains... oh well... life goes on and we'll be friends.  I'm going camping for a few days with some friends at Griffin Lake (I think that's what it's called)... enjoying something is one of the first steps toward saving it... and there's so much enjoyment here in Vermont.  

Went for a walk in the rain today. Washed off a bit of work, of the dark rooms, the tired bodies, the restless minds constantly searching... cooked some fiddleheads but they were too bitter... too old when i picked them, i think... but they're looking... and one of them, constantly... "Help me! Please, Help me!" and numbers... five... thirty four... twenty eight... I think his favorite was nine... tipping over his walker and kneeling down... "help me!... help me!" and we couldn't do anything... or so the rest of the people thought... i sat down with him... "tell me about the big fish... the salmon."... "It wasn't worth cooking..." "but the best tasting fish you've ever cought..." " a smaller salmon." whta about your wife... did she cook it?" "yes."... it's as simple as that... conversation minus the frantic yulps of his name.but he's gone now... gone to a better place... down the road... he told me I was the best thing to happen to him... I think about someone else... he'll be that way when he gets older... consuming time and space with his wanderings... the only room there is is his. I don't blame him though. He's scared and he doesn't know it... he wants a safe friend.

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Flower Power making soldiers isn't easy on Mothers' Day but you gave me the impression that that wasn't what you wanted you told me that, rather than shrink like the sand dunes and break like shards of broken glass I could grow a flower  like the flowers in the desert that smell good, the colors that make company in the endlessly empty potential the ones that dance in the raindrops and thrive on the puddles and any darkness that might have been left behind you told me that, unlike Alice's bunch, they shouldn't lift up people's skirts to see what kind they are because normally I shouldn't care you told me that even though I'm not a flower, I could learn to act like one like the blossom, the leaf, the stem always giving, always breathing, always being nourished you taught me that there's more than one one that attract butterflies only to watch them fly away one that stretches into the earth, through the grass looking the one that nobody can get rid of  the one that's learned to stink before it shows its beauty and the one that shrivels up before it blooms, the one that was only an idea the one that was drawn on a pre-school paper and the one that will never be you set me up to see with my own eyes how they relate, and how they destroy learning that they could some day give nourishment smile, and even stop block the barrel of a gun. 8:11 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment - Edit - Remove

hold me like warm mud holds a shoe

like when we were picking grapes and you hit the snake with the paddle and it didn't move

it just stared

like warm mud bubbling holds a dirty, tired, old shoe that's still too big for the foot.

hypnotic moccasin cotton mouth in a polluted river filled with gar

and tires

you hold me like I'm home

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smog, like yesterday were some kind of joke. 

I tasted your threat on the tip of my tongue when we kissed

and somehow, misdirected, I swallowed you whole

bitter with a tinge of sweet

you rolled around in my mouth, down my esophagus, into my tired stomach 

and somehow made it through to my brain

you nourished me, trashed my living room

and left a rotten taste in the question of how much i had lost in what i'd left behind when I was full.

One name

as though the poetry would speak for its self. 
as though tomorrow in the forest we might be pure
but nobody knew anything about what might happen when paradise was paved
when you lit your first cigarette

it was a good night... I don't know... maybe it was all the looks we got walking down the street... maybe it was running into old friends... walking by the lake... being late to the parking meter and not having a ticket... being DONE with school... Being in a city that looks like a city... Dancing in a place filled with refreshingly open and let-it-all-hang-out people... to music that makes your head spin even before you're being spun...  I've got dirt in my nose from all the dust that was kicked up... getting home when most of the city is sleeping... it's all so sickly sentimental... but it was fun.  heh...   

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two lovers became famous for the tenderness of their lives

while Populus A,

enamored by the little folios filled with pictures

of

a lady

there

with a man at her chest...

attempted to feel her

hair,

stretched out and

gnarled in

rough piles around

her face

while he,

eyes closed,

tastes her throat

a sketchy,

out of proportion,

child-like portrayal of a

spirit,

boobies and body implied,

experienced by many only through the lens of a camera and their best friends' lies

only as a suggestion that such strange and other-worldly behavior could be a part of

lay-man life

needless to say the picture was a favorite,

prosperous and adored at the hands of the masses

who boxed it up and

passed it around,

seeing only their faces

superimposed.

but of course, the artist

thought



he


was great.


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