November 27, 2002 - 2:14 pm

seXify youR life

 

:||: alL i caN say is that i thought i ran over a little red bird the other day — i checked w/ the highbeaMs on the way hoMe that nite w/ no signs at alL of death — the little red bird must've flown out of the way — or — staid put in place while i drove by in the mist of mourning : & now — today — there is half a foot of snow where the red bird once stood : strange days are these :||:

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& theN on my way to lunchtiMe ::: i notice the little birds ::: the chickadees or soMe birds like thiS — fluttering about the bushes in the parkinglot of the workplace — betweeN alL the parked cars of the busy busy workers of the ominous brick building

 

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i know they aRe scurrying about iN the cold lookiNg for soMe foodstuffs iN the freeziNg cold ::: the wind whooshing about ::: occasionally they just play w/ each other i aM almost certaiN ::: but for the most part they aRe lookiNg for the food for lunchtiMe

 

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the birds keep oN flittiNg about — they barely make the noiSe — you know? — just the flittiNg of their wiNgs — occasional squeaky noiSes & such — veRy calM creatures aRe theSe

 

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i sit dowN to write for a bit & flip through aN old notebook of miNe ::: although it is freeziNg cold outside & i caN feeL the raw cold bite at my knuckles — i seNse this iS good tiMe to either write or reflect iN generaL — i doO not need food for now i guess & so — aS i flip through the notebook — i find this old poeM i wrote long ago

 

poeM begiNs heRe
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kate is a victim
of solstice

& onse again
it is shee

blinded & drawstring taut
folded & broken
a thick patina on thee wind
thee shush of thee faintest hisS

now it is shee
it is shee
& onse again

to sew thee wrists w/ threads of fire
to throw thee cliffs to fate
would bee to want for reason
or to trust hur desire

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poeM begiNs heRe

kate is a victiM - a mysterious poeM

 

i aM stilL not entirely suRe what thiS poeM meaNs — the significaNce elludes me to thiS day — but the words caMe to mee & they aRe purposefuL words that weaved about oN the page & amid my crumpled mind ::: >>>

 

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wheN we aRe childreN we play the cops & robbers & it seeMs so eaSy ::: the sticks aRe guNs & we chase each other around trees & through the sidewalks of the towN dowN alleyways & driveways into backyards behind garages & we yelL thiNgs like 'we've got you alL surrounded! you should just give it up now badguys!' — & theN it caN be cold out or perhaps midsummer the early eveNing or not ::: good & eviL play like everythiNg iS so simple & easily-defined ::: it is like the suN & the mooN nite & day lunch & dinner laverne & shirley sanford & the soN — you know who you aRe & you know that you have a disgusting innie bellybuttoN that accumulates lint like nobody's business ::: >>>

 

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& theN ::: you learN about americaN top 40 oN sundays w/ casie kasem ::: eveRy week you wait for maNy hours to hear that the best soNg wiNs & for severaL weeks iN a row soMetiMes the best soNg does wiN ::: but theN oN other dissappointing weeks you find that soMe other soNg that clearly cannot be the best soNg in the states wiNs the 40 contest ::: after alL those commerciaLs you realize that not only has goodness failed you — but you also coMe to realiZe that maybe everyoNe likes this bad soNgs ::: whatever the caSe may be — you know that casie is wrong — he has choseN frivilously — or — perhaps worse yet — maybe the music business guys slipped casie a fiver oN the side — you know? — behind the sceNes or soMethings — while the commerciaL is playing perhaps — while america is not listening ::: >>>

 

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but what caN you do? right?

 

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