the fertile octopus flew in the glassreed in inkish blood splendor, and i stood affixed,

attentive to the event with oldcrackled bathroomtile, gawking, palefaced as a child

when seeing mother with the milkman, but now in the bathroom was a stranger, angie,

and her scandalous groom was rigid in flesh, stemmed in the veinway, a foggy crucifixion

compounded with the harsh depth of halidemedicinecabinet light, insert religion here,

depart this small compound of reality. kris helped angie finish her peas, as the world

tilted to our sides, we all sought corrective footing in differing directions, angie circled

the globe the oranges the stars the toes the brains and all spilt milk of the week,

within the lungs she smiled, we smiled, mother secret was safely hidden again,

she thanked us for the world being underfoot once more, she drew letters with two fingers,

deeply-soaked swollen breath, i nod with lo-lying yield, i acknowledged her instant christmas,

her arm in eyeshot, her head rotates to fit my mouth, greylilting smileback, she says

'for santa has given his only begotten sleigh to perch on my arm, for reindeer have left a mark'

a stickly arm comes forth, palecratered bludgeoned moon and dried rivers,

i wince from the trail of hoofprints up to the elbowbend, as kris offers 'does anyone

want spaghetti?', and my mind darts to thoughts of my tomatos i just bought minutes before,

i had bought them across the street where eggplant and peppers were 36 cents a pound,

and where pot was sold next to the cantalope, but the lowest grade where it took two joints

just to help a man lift a smile. i offer up the tomatos for the meal, and kris retreats as angie

sinks back against a fullscale wallmirror like an unstrung jacket from the night,

kris clatters tentacles around in our twodrawered kitchen, and i am procrastinating

all occupancy of life by turning attentions to an umbilical of audiovisualembrace,

a two-dimensional crisis i fall into, manuvering isoceles triangleship from the strike

of infinite sherbet, the game of asteriods on the atari in its 30hertz blinking glory,

the sound of angie licking her lips, perhaps waiting for blood to return to her knees,

while kris, awaiting boiling water, ponders over a hefty stack of worn notebooks,

1000s of pages of his shorthand of midsentences, quickthoughts, to be expounded upon

later in times of solitude, illegible to the commonman, scrambled fledglings,

letters stretching to reveal their bellies wishing to be tickled with attentions,

kris looks lovingly at his pages, turning softly, then over across to amy and i with suspicion,

for we can, separately, offer him no resolution for his time spent with either of us,

the master of empty marvel, living to dig the dirt out from under other peoples nails,

and pricking up on the thorns in everyones crown. kris is a master at shaking peoples shoulders,

easily catching the spark of initial conversation, photomemorizing their flames

to later dissect, posture, and unravel all the knots in their personalities

and discount their beliefs whether myth, mystic, or mentored. kris attributes textbooks

to be in the cracks in sidewalks and shadows of clematis 4am, that lessons and manuals

are tattoed on the lips of those he meets. with these nets of knowledge he purges

his own existence out into a 16 page xeroxed benediction called 'the flo',

a hand-folded hailmary of a religion he has no license to teach, but to express

a predispositioned talent that noone could appreciate 'just yet', as we say.

angie begins to speak, one letter, one word, a junk mailer of feeble introduction,

neither kris nor i catch her ball, and she folds again into her unison heap of self,

her was lying a girl who not that long ago had such a strong drive, sometimes,

she would arch her back and scream at the sun to come dare move a little closer,

she would take the stars lattice and weave it such that it gave her a surrender and shelter.

kris stops the clock on this event by a quick upwards jerk and 'shit im late for work'

and by work he means specs, an open crater strewn with livid greyscale bodies

gyrating bombshocked to the rhythmic trance bombardment from 26 speakers in 24 sizes,

these soldiers of an american generation who fought no wars, kris weaves amongst them,

picking up their dripping and droppings with many 'excuses mes' and 'are you done's,

sometimes kris could talk longer than the actual event, about his times there,

a place he condemns but is addicted to, he studies the indulgences of body versus mind,

kris was a statistician of this war, charting the midnight battlefront, cleaning

the turbulent afterglows of sould who did not make it home before heaving up their internal gears.

MAGAZINE ARTICLE, CLOSING OF FOUNDATIONS CLUB

there is a coming of age thats been forced upon the darker side of punk/hardcore elements in west palm beach, now that their main house of worship has been sealed for last, though not first, time, after serving 4 years to a faithful community that has interbred in its halls. foundations is a second story club within a delapidated shoppingstrip center, featuring a parkinglot with potholes big enough to drive a car into and get stuck. this sloping building houses a failing bootstore and liquorshop below, and patrons for the club must climb up a staircase to reach the club itself. the february 4th flyer i obtained from taking off someones windshield wiper announces, on hi-liter-yellow paper, that three bands will be playing tonight for the final act. the names of dogset, madball, and dog eat dog, and there will be a giveaway of posters, cds, and drinks. there is no mention or even hint of any demise, and i pack up my pocket-sized belongings to begint he ascent up to watch this generational staple fade with a bang. for maybe seven years, this club was the open-arms for teenagers who had no id, and where else could one watch intoxicated 14 year old girls dancing circles around 26 year old shirtless tattos with men on them? as i look up the staircase waiting to pay, i think back and realize most of the stories i heard out of this place were chairbreaking bottletoothing bloodgushing volleys of babble, streaming down and then out onto sidewalks and hoods. so many tag marks from so many gangs in knifecuts and pen and spray adorn the walls, a dank arena for the years of unclaimed angry kids throwing blood and glass out from the litterbox. i took two benadryls in the car, to make the night more relaxing as i am about to be swallowed up by oversensories, and with open mind and fresh 3200iso film, wedge my way past the gravediggers, there is one bouncer tonight, and past him i bounce my way up the archtectural gangrene bandaged with candy machines and gutted out videogame machine husks. along the doublewide concrete steps are sitting little groups of people, all grading you as you go, atop the steps is an old couch of tattered old gold chenille, and 3 girls in countryslang are bitching about the men in their lives, 3 people wait in line for an oldworld cigarette machine, and theres two bathrooms with zero doors. theres doubledoors propped open, and therein lies the adventure, and theres also a long darkened hallway, and from this comes bill, the owner himself, in black tshirts and black jeans, and long browngrey ruffled hair askew from many nervous handcombs, his expression is of sublime indifference, 'take all the pictures you want, just none of me', he says personally hed wish i just take photos and let that speak for the story, and write nothing. i dont blame the man for trying to be avoidant of publicity, for the only public news from here is negative, and yet bill himself has the same demeanor of someone who was running a beach resort, not a condemned ulcer. i m not going to ask any questions of him, like wasnt there a suicide in the parking lot last year, rape? racism? riots? bills a great gardener but he does lean to denial of the weeds which sprung around his garden. i move through the smoke and into the bunker, four solid concrete walls painted possibly one night by patrons when given acrylic dayglo paints depicting various stages of destruction of an atom, or perhaps nuclear, bomb, there are melting faces, falling structures, and general brooding dark images which throw themselves at you in blacklight. no windows, only one door out, and the only airflow is propelled by 500 lungs exhaling nicotine and pot. the walls, the ceiling, every surface i set eyes upon is glistening in darkness by high condensation, i feel like im at a disney ride and have just been taken to the adventure of 'mr toads wild smoking bronchial'. so much humidity in fact that it fogs up my camera, and the gymclass smell fogs my sinuses. there are tables and people, but they are standing around them, there's no chairs, perhaps thats fodder for fighting later on. beer is in plastic cups only, the first band preps with 'test test test' and quick drum rolls and short guitar riffs screaling off. i try to catch one smiling face, one sparkly eye, but alas none, for you come hear to dance and drink until you drop, or until you get dropped by someone else. the first semblance of an audience begins milling near the front, waiting to pounce upon live music, and before anything starts i quickly walk the full length of all four walls, in one corner is a small dismantled bar, theres a styrofoam cooler on the floor and a girl is offering bud beer for $3 or a lipton tea for $1. red spotlights behind to revolve, illiminating just how thick the smoke was only a foot above our heads already, thunderheads were forming above the stage, i bought a beer to feel politically correct for the time and place, and leaned against the darkest wall, ready to record into pen and mind what the night would unravel. the first group, i know i saw them in beavis and butthead, i remember seeing them in a video that b&b were commenting on, im no reviewer of music so i cannot say much in description, but if you like heavy drums just poundingpoundingpoundingpounding while guitars and bass just ripprippripprippripp and the lead singer jumps and runs and slides across a plywood floor while switching between yellrap and howlinggutteral, then this was the concerto you missed! once the first band was over, the second band starts right in without a tuneup, tables are empty, cups are empty, everyones crowded around the show, and not the show on the stage, but the upfront floorshow where meaty giant men do this frantic neutron dance, a primordial mindtrance of propelled boots and forearms, clucking and winging, heads cocked and blurred, moving in tight circles on the floor until they befall another neutrinos path and then smash upon displaced shoulderblades. at first it seems random and ridiculous, but after watching for an hour one begins to see the nature of the social beast, the encapsulated dances of no escape, while those outside the firering ensure the possessed do not step out of the circle of motion, the dancer breathe heavy as bears, bleed upon each others leathers, a continuance of slinging fists and feets always opposite to the rhythm, where there is nothing to judge because there is nothing to love, just the smash of frustrations from one song to the next, all is fair in dance and war. i take a few photos, constantly clearing the fog from my lens, im afraid of my flash upsetting someone whos out on probation, times moves from 11pm right to 130am and the last band is winding down, which i know because they begin to start sing-preaching about protecting the earth, protecting animals, and the crowd is dumbfounded on how to react, but once the band announces its time for the final song, everyone goes absolutely wild when they say the title, as if its what theyve waited for all these hours 'more beer'. i dont want to get caught for copyirght infringement but if i remember correctly heres a bit from the tune 'more beer......more beer......more beeer......morebeer......more beeeeeeyyyyyyaaaaahhrr!!! more beeeeeeyyyhhaaahrrr!!! morebeermorebeer!'. there are plastic cups flying and beer sloshing up and over everyone in the audience, and leadsingerman stops to say 'this ones for all our straightedge friends out there!' and they continue with 'more rootbeer...more rootbeer...more roooooooootbeeeeeeeehhhrrr!', the crowd ever more worked up gets ahold of the microphone and they pass it around, each person quickly saying something illegible and crackling, it causes feedback but it doesnt matter, those kids are enjoying a crazy swingin' time. time took no consequences in the last nights of rites within dantes shoebox, bill was showing signs of impatience wanting to already get the night closed for once, for forever, he was ready to head out west back to his residence in the woods, and here in the city was his monster off its leash, a final clash of bloodpissbeervenom and tears of goodbye between friends. bill paced the halls, smoking, peering, waiting out and praying that his chemistry set doesnt break before he can get it out to the trash. his dream came true, no deaths, no broken bones, only someone who literally smashed the porcelain tiolet down to the floor, so that sewage and water both poured forth, filling the doorless bathroom, and out into the hallway, a flotsam of cig butts, applecores, tickets, scabs, and wrappers. when the band finished the lights came on in the same stroke, and they begin filling out, and down the stairs, a fe stop to shake bills hand, his gravelly voice parroting 'thanks glad ya liked it', a couple groups stay in the hall, telling drughaloed drunkloose stories of all their formative years here, everyone seemed talking and noone was listening. another group was talking of their theories as to why exactly foundations was closing, code enforcement? lawsuit? bills moving? no insurance? but just looking at bill now i see that the only reason needed was that i could tell he was leaving a burden, not a strength, and as his creation just by will alone could it be put to sleep. i said my goodbyes and went out to my car, where small huddles of blackknitted nightcrawlers were philosophizing about their next new haunt, and i said a small prayer for rodney, owner of the downtowns biggest club, for now his own crowd will be a bit larger, a bit louder, a bit more brazen, for now a generational frankenstein has left its rusted hinges and is heading downtown. the last great florida outback has closed, and now the eye of the hurricane heads east to clematis.

at midnight i put on my rollerblades and made my way to the intracoastal,

winding my way through the wednesday night club rush,

spiraling into and away from drunken driver and drunken walkers,

i flash past urban spectators going face to face with each,

a full moon promotes its halo, pushing out the strength of any stars,

i sit by the water and throw the timepiece to the ground,

i unwind the springs, but i found nothing but lazy metallic spirals,

no magic, just form and function.

today is the last day of the first month of every new year, i go out the backdoor,

down glaringgreen plywood steps

to dig for some clean soil off the side of the street for my newlybrought englishivy pot,

past brokenglass and straydog

i find a patch of oily dirt, and scoop it up to pull out beercanpoptabs,

off in the abandonedgarage nextdoor lies robert,

a homelessman who moves about in the night, away from his rug stained with vomitandpiss.

here in my unnerved downtown painted thick with daily routines, a neutralzone to action,

a void to reaction, a wind always like fresh compost,

i scoop my four ounces and return upstairs,

to where i will watch this ivy grow in the smallest possible increments.

i sit on a dock in inverness florida, sipping limeaid from a plastic cup, wearing two-day-old khaki shorts. the limeaid i bought from a dollar store, those fleamarkets-in-a-shell popping up all along stripmalls. in LA you see the competitive flourescent banners all fighting for space, so much so now theres '99 cents' next to a competiting '98 cents' store, and all the way down to a '95 cents' store which promised all the same goods youd expect to pay 99 cents for. 3rd world industrial byproducts, plastic babies and wax flowers, walls thick with steel kitchenry, the soldiers of canopeners poptops eggstrainers babychews, aisles of foods with their expirations blotted out and ingredients in foreignese, poundcakes from belize, greycloudy chocolates from israel, cardboardbox crackers in arabic scrawls. americas imported pride can give you change back for your dollar. you can stand there in an aisle, watch little old women cover their open mouths in disbelief as they whisper to their friends 'you know this is at target for $4' or 'i could use it just for the holidays and throw away'.

so here i am in inverness, a swamp gulch that desoto mustve crossed off his map of things to do, for this isnt land meant for foundations, perhaps a tented site for a month, but marshes and moss grip and swallow all the paved roads and buildings mankind tries to stamp on this soft pudding. oaks are so still around me, not even lifting a leaf of hello, black glassyeyed waters dont reveal either one inch or ten feet, there are skeletons all around my chair of dead leaves, the innerear conch that i hear reminds me all is still, all is silent. i am sitting amongst farspread trailerhomes that looked formed by an errant glacier, the asphalt which binds them together itself is sprung up with weeds from every vein. it is a sunday afternoon, and in the distance i hear a door creak open and two women walk down 3 steps and into their backyard which is just an open field, they are debating ingredients to a dish, they decide theres a subway meatball sandwhich in the fridge. across the swamp i see another family come down to the waterfront, they are setting a fire to a leafpile theyd collected all weekend, another near trailier lets off the sound of sizzling and jumping oil in a pan. motorboats, buggies, trucks, frogs, children, they all fall quickly in and out of earshot, a dog goes by curious of the same holes he was the last time he waddled by. sunday in inverness, and i am alone, aware, waiting for the next chapter of my life to annouce itself from the fogs.

i lay for hours in bed, great mysteries of symmetries unravelling, separating fears from chatter,

jumping each cloud down to the half-hearted weight of realities unfettered ropes, definitions arise

like loose marbles amused, a spirit separating god from his politics, knitpicking loves threads,

overstretched canvas, so thin and sensitive everythings captured. digging information on the outside

to fill the itching holes within, until the buzzsaw whine of sunlight creeps upon sleeping cheeks,

and eyes open as unbalanced tires wobbling down a slow hill, another day which runs in all directions

of nonthought, and time passes as easily, intoxicated with ideas that defy times fluid and creep

upon the shore of dimension, meditating behind a locked door, resting place that five senses cant reach.

her eyes handcarved bullets, starstudded lids, thunder-spoked long crystals of ecstasy

dropping out from the diary of emotional entries, 'if you need anything' and wavers a hollow hand

still dripping substance, still weakly pulsing from tickling gods knees, her skin a hood of dents,

her consciousness as flat as peasants shot in back of the farmhouse, a low symphony of unstrung nerves,

singing around the neuroplush and stroking a feathered belly, muted coo of a cosmic dove

careening about the universe looking for a branch worth perching. almighty hug or alldo and nothingdone,

unhinged jaw reaching the blush of a faint heart, barely beating as a vegetarians hunger.

i look away outside, noticing streetlights searing wayward flesh downstairs, wings burnt off bodies,

no glory being a post-caterpillar who fends off death with communication and religion,

faiths which crush the shell of responsible consequences, and i turn back to lifes carcass

slumped upon the floor, crumpled amongst chewed gumsticks and fallen lipsticks,

a fishhook mouth out of water catching random notes in darkness.

uncork a finer reserve of mystery, a fermented state of thought, bliss of babbling baby lamb,

times template removed from decisions, an ego which blurs to unfocused perceptions,

lifes subtle curves and delicate meanings, squashed by motives and calculated profits,

the whispers upon walls and sidewalks, catching plots on discarded napkins,

the split of priority in past vs present vs future, how to weigh this balance,

what greater vanity than to believe one is ever finished education, to master the ratios,

for here with my close circle of friends bedside, tablefan, nosespray, radio,

i see life without equation, tho we cement formulas onto our surroundings,

the man who claims to have the most future plans is the one crowned winner usually,

the calculations a man makes to save time takes more time than the time saved,

the formulas a man makes to figure his worth are those options which take more than give,

and when the cosmos pupil retracts and the nearest black hole reduces us all to one pinhead,

there are only these here-and-now of time and its possessions which let men keep some sanity.

DIARY, ROADTRIP

phil pulls up in his buick, well, not his buick but his friends sisters buick. she bought it for $1300 and what a shiny yellow creampuff it was, as we were on the sidewalk a mountain girl of a woman walks by, shes got some redpop and funyuns in hand and she exchanges hellos with her deep tomboy flair. her small eyes always dart over your shoulders as she talks to you, as if a car were about to run you down. she asks for a quick ride around the corner since we had the car doors open, phil says sure hop in, and i go in the back to be along for the ride for the two blocks. once we are moving she says wait, she realized she needed to pick something up fro a friend first who is 1/2 mile away, and if we could stop there first. phil again says yes and

we turn a corner, and 2 minutes later we now head into the neighborhood of vices, while she profusely thanks us over and over and how its saving her the taxi ride, and how she hates to walk after sunset. in such a short distance she covered so many topics, her life and relationships this year, living on the streets for two months, california parties, her sisters baby, the weather in ohio, and slow down, she says, and asks if we wanted any pot, well, since we were suddenly here anyways, so phil and i split 20 and give to her, and she quietly opens the door as we are off the roadside and she disappears into the amber streetlight darkness. we drive off because she'd told us to go around the block, which is just suspicious looking stuff to me, and phil tells me from the front seat about wow, how this week has started with so much happening, plus we were also going with someone spur-of-the-moment up to tallahassee the next day, and now at least we'd have some pot for up there. we complete the block and shes walking back out from the darkness all puffed up with bullfrog pride, she gets in with a slow smile and assuredness, much quieter than before, and continues with 4 more thank yous, and phil nods to every one. as we drive she pulls the pot from her pocket and drops it right on phils lap, and then from the opposite pocket pulls out a bag with brown in it, much smaller bag. shes playing with the bag as she goes on stumbling slowly about her current chain of events, her life was on the upswing, she had a new nice girlfriend who was a stripper, she gave her $50 a day so she could have her habit peacefully. we pull back onto clematis, and the girl asks if she could borrow the bathroom, and i reply, yeayea, probably not giving it as much thought as i should have, but hey i was two months younger then. i unlock my door, and the whole time shes a gush of so many thankyous you just turned it out, my roommates talking on the phone and he didnt notice her ducking into the bathroom, he turns right as she closes the door and nods a hello to phil and i, as he is talking about a future photoshoot. phil then go to the kitchen and just shuffle around. my roommate begins rummaging around his shoeboxes filled with collections of ideas, pulling out a bunch of business cards from the business shoebox, a couple pics from the photoshoebox, and a notebook scrap from the idea shoebox, he fidgets them on the desk, moving in and out of order, until a collage of his liking focuses in. phil borrows the phone and his voice rises and falls as hes talking his mom and brothers out from under some home drama, as his conversation kept shifting tones as they kept passing the phone around with his as mediator. his forehead wrinkles paternally and eyes scan an empty remote distance beyond the wall as he kept switching modes. my roommate pulls out his $15 thriftstore bike from the closet, and shoves a mess of papers in his pocket. shes a long time in the bathroom by now, so i get a mr pibb from the fridge, i look out the window and think about the last time i was in tallahassee, and coincidently i was with phil then too, we were coming from los angeles the 2500 miles to west palm, and the greyhound we were on was stopping for a break in talla.

it was our fifth day crossing the country by bus, our pores sealed shut with dialy diesel and greases and peoples exhalations and perspirations and other fluids the backseaters were leaking. after a 3rd night on a bus you realize you will never sleep through those 45minute constant stops at every possible podunk city in the midwest. the first night outside of cali, it was like 5am and finally i was in a deep sleep, then i feel us braking and i slowly open my eyes to the still-darkness, seeing distant oilrigs and stars matching each other in size and brightness, there was a light ahead though which began illuminating the road around us as we reached it, and the drive then turns on the blazing bright lights, causing various forms of groans and complaints, i can now make out a seven lane tollbooth outside, red and green and orange lights all blinking out of order, the mixed blend of the bus-clients breath now fill the dense air, ankles and elbows and feet all stretching and moving about. a final pneumatic pump and we have stopped to the side of the road, noones saying anything as the front doors open, and a huge monster of a mexican man with a texas state uniform comes onboard, all darkgreen pressed uniform with various sizes of american flasg stiched onto his outfit, and his single badge looked overpolished, almost 3d against his own flat colors. he has a swinging gun as he starts from the front of the bus and is talking lowly to each person, i glance to phil, hes one of only 3 people who are still sleeping now, hes wrapped up like mother theresa in his favorite blanket, i call his name, his slitted pink eyes look my way, then close and back to his inside open space. the sheriff, or whatever his title, still going row by row, saying something, and people nod and say yes, and so on. im nervous without even a reason, and finally he gets to me, he looks me from foot to head and locks his eyes to mine and says 'are you an american citizen', and i agree, and he nods. simple. now he eyes phil though, and phils all wrapped up paying no heed to anything. 'are you an american citizen' he says a bit louder rigth above phils head. phil opens his pink slats and look up at the sheriffs face, then down to his belly, and then he nods saying 'uhhh....si....siii..' weakly. and the texan moves on as i grinned. the sheriff covers three more rows and then we all get to get out, theres a govt office here in the midst of nowhere and a mcdonalds. we are here for 30 minutes for processing, so i go out and get a $2.20 pancake platter. sugar n syrups, pepper n gristle, spuncircles of saturated fats, absorb in 5 minutes and cramps for two hours, i dont want the threat of using a greyhound toilet by force. the bus eventually made it to talla a day later, somewhere in the depths of alabama our last driver, we watched him pull off into a closed greyhound stations, and then we got out quietly, got in a car, and drove off. we sat there in a dark empty bus at 3am, and after an hour, people began going out and using payphones to call greyhound and relatives and complain. there was no venilation in the bus, no electric or light, just darkness, so dozens of us sat out on the curb, looking into the lockedup greyhound station with its taunting bathrooms and vending machines. there was one backwoods redneck kid who came up to me and said 'i got a joint on me, how bout we split it', so we walked off around the corner and it was nice of him, we sat quietly finishing it off, he talked about his own lifes shared of the woes and blessings, the family and jobs, it was so much more of a reality experience, taking the bus to travel, as opposed to anything on a plane, where everything is neatly tucked into orderly fashions. never any unexpected moments doesnt translate well into memories i think. but a busstation, there everyone shares the same papercup, and therein drank the magic.

i look around my room physical items all stacked upon the other,

my own psychological dust and mildrews rising,

i try to think of the best design of a compass to make my own sense of direction, god may be magic,

but that doesnt mean he will ever reveal a trick to me. my possessions, each with a price, and a purpose,

none with merit separate from my ownership, just all shovels in various form, useful to all men equally,

nothing comes to life until i breathe into it, i make sure my list of objects are the ones for the worlds end,

untapped time left like wires poking from the machine,

soft electrocutions, reminders to always take stock in limitations,

here i swing on internal hinges, awaiting the next step of the end of the world,

hoping i dont starve away till then.

junkyard ideas, filling up time, kicking singularities around, poking universal order

and arguing political equity, paranoias that someone else might know us better than ourselves,

the blueprints of individualism, internal tinkering of the concepts outside,

footprints following fantasies, the construction of empty vessels to fill,

locked doors which fit an overabundance of keys, trying to keep education in life,

i as the lesson, the statistic of too many charts and workflows, happiness as a future tense,

it always begins at home, its just a matter of which key fits to get in.

a large office meeting, small huddled street conversations, everyones shards make the plate,

copper token thrown down the well just to hear the echoes, an island of commonground,

i split to two characters, the reality of current position, and the reality of my sleep,

as months pass, i feel the two begin to drift apart, i fear they might forget each other,

am i forgetting some sacrifices to thrown upon the stone? my patience found nothing to hurry,

so many tools, so much faith, but too many divisions of unresolved past items,

what is forgotten becomes the weight of consciousness, i want no regrets,

i want no false intentions, i want to double the man every year, and pause at no detours,

not an addiction of winning, just trying, and preserving the heirloom seeds of truth,

there is no time frame in creation, but the artist is on a short leash,

and no matter what the meeting, the group, or conversation, every mans rank begins alone.

the energy flew around the core, eating muscles and chewing up fingers, passions crammed

into active verbs and dense adjectives, purple-tantrum backgrounds, children in shackles,

lozenged english massages, passing the hat of ideaology, heel to heel and ears unpeeled,

spreading the spores of contemplative conversation, figurative and numeric expressions of existence,

peer-reviewed flesh draped across spiritual bones, greytones of perpetual emotions,

such a tall construction of negotiations that it blocks all other attentions,

if there is a winner, does it matter how much they won by, and does a loser regret

more than the measure of loss? the foam rabbit everyone races around the track,

attentions so glued that noone catches on that it only moves one route,

one person alone is called a decisions, two or more and its a statistic,

but only decisions keep a man alive. learning the meaning of every word

yet not knowing the flow of creating a sentence.

must keep the hands busy, must turn lifes slick glossy pages, must pursue the 'it'ness,

must keeping walking backwards until you can see the whole stage and audience without turning,

too much space between fingers, not math to count the jobs, relationships, hiccups, or years,

must push off from senseless shores and remain on the tempest of truths,

must avoid those who speak in action verbs yet acts out only passive terms,

filmmakers who run around the set, professing their memory as the camera,

be keep busy in the future positive projects to avoid drowning in the past negatives.

INITIAL PERSONAL WEBSITE TEXT ENTRY

so whats the point to release an anonymous personal homepage on the internet, who really will give it more than a glance or two, other than some friends and family, and then they'll comment oh yes thats nice....well, i have a theory, more a harmless gamble, for here we are falling headfirst and quickly into the great leap in mankind, possible more than fire, electric, and the wheel, an overnight cropping up of unfettered freedom with no limits of distance, to use communications of test, sounds, and videos, one man can serve to the world for a couple thousand dollars, independant of local laws or religious restrictions. just a decade ago it took many men, and much more money, to reach a small limited extent of people in certain sections of a community, not to mention the regulations and taxations. even the concept alone, knowing its come to pass now, is of absolute fascination to me, for at least another year.

its a resource thatll be one of 'use it or lose it', if we dont encompass the net as individuals who want to work together, then it will be gobbled up, hobbled, and reigned in restrictions as governments and corporate interests instead of urging on humans to communicate freely together and share information. i dont want it so that in a decade and onwards, we talk of the net like the days of the old pioneers heading west, when there was soooo much open free land, and people could set up home anywhere.

governments will start building fences, walls, hedges, checkpoints, and internet providers will begin increasing ads, forcing them, larger ads, less info, start charging the surcharges for internet, until the internet becomes as limp-wristed as top40 radio in all its generic ineffectiveness. until then, the internet is overtaken by my personal use, for shopping, studying, peer review forums, music, ethnic insights into countries id never think twice about, the internet is a great way to get where you going, but not a final destination in itself.

i think a homepage should be the mirror and resume of a lifetime thus far, an electric epitaph entombed along miles of copper and satellite reflections, millions of miles travelled just to reach a anonymous hello, even after the body passes. i have no ads to sell, just a collage of lifes mixed medias, solo angle on humanity, a biography without fame, fortunes, or directions, willing to be dissected online by critics, and more interactive than me in real life perhaps. i know most websites are templates from microsoft word or frontpage, and clipart is then dropped in, but the perfectionist in me says 'why not do it yourself', so ill use no template or clipart or things not created by me, and i wont feel bad that its rough around the edges, since thats what homemade is about. so heres my homefront, a shack with a satellite out, intertwined entertainments, a digital diary to compare notes by, a self-potrait in infinite xerox.

SECOND REWRITE

ok, so who might really care beyond the family and friends who will comment, ' yup...neat...gary made himself a personal webpage'. well heres my theory, or gamble, harmless gamble, for i believe that we are right on that lip of the crater and peering into the greastest leap for mankind since fire, the wheel, and electricity. a sudden universal freedom just erupted from nothing and nowhere less than five years ago, the means of communication with texts and photos and audio and video, and all easy to serve out, and all easy to gobble up. what cost millions to serve audio or video to just a limited handful of people, and involved many people, many laws and regulations and taxes, now all that can be done for a couple thousand dollars, and has no restrictions and no borders or limits on who it can serve, and doesnt need too many people to get involved since it can all happen within one computer and not a whole structure. that massive shift and the trickle down afterwards into all roles of life and business will take a couple decades to unravel its new flag for the evolution of man.

this is one resource that will demand a 'use it or lose it' attitude, if we dont encompass and caretake the internet as individuals seeking a common course of open communications, then it will be quickly dismantled and restructured by governments and commercialism, all which serve the opposite end of the spectrum, not encouraging people to relate one-on-one directly, but they will create side-detours and roadblocks and gates, all to pull and push us as herds, the internet will only be a road from stable 1 to stable 2, and our generation will be left in 50 years talking to little ones of how the internet was like the pioneers of the mid-1800s, when there was so much unlimited land, that anyone could setup their homestead just by cutting a tree or planting a flagpole. if we dont quickly create a set of laws, ethics, morals, of this upcoming 'virtual' world, just as we have done with the 'reality' world (of which the same blueprints cannot survive in the virtual world), then we will see more ads, more surcharges, more limits, until finally the internet is drained grey of any character as an open road ahead, and is just another limp outlet like top40 vapid radio or fox network gabbling chaff, just filling in empty space as if that is all that is needed to keep mankind maintaining a forward course.

so its good to take initiative and use it effectively for personal tasks, and education, research, curiousities, shopping, and always be used as a good vessel but not a final destination. a homepage should be a mirror of a mans experience, a way into his heart through traversing 100s of miles of wiring and endpoints, for surely there is something gleaned every day in life, something worth sharing with others so that we can build a foundation and netting around our common interests, and each man can create his own collage of medias and mediums, portraying every man with equal weight, he does not need to be famous or rich or a saint to reach out with grounded footing, he only needs to stake his little spot and spread the seeds from there. so here is where i will plant myself, and create from scratch in notepad, not with templates, or clipart, or html programs, my foundation. i would rather have missing parts in my homepage than to portray myself through just bits and pieces taken from others. so here a digital diary starts, intertwining and somewhat entertaining, a self-portrait that should inspire others to begin their own road to creation, and we can come back and compare notes, and using the internet, build on strengths and learn from weaknesses and let human evolution not only leap suddenly in a decade, but do so by a total restructuring of what is important to all humans on earth, regardless of location or patriotism to any group or nation.

ADDITION

i hope the internet drives people in the direction of not just with the economy, social, and retail, but in the unregulated way we can research the way we desire, without restrictions, and reach out to any other person in any other country or way of thought within some online community. anyone who does any type of research with lives around them can see that we are all held by some forms of propaganda by the various organizations we are in, and that ultimately it is up to us to form our belief system which is not going to perfectly match those above us, whether govt or career or family or church. the best strength of the internet now is the fact any single man has just as much of a voice online as the biggest of company or govt, for any man can create a webpage and share any type of media he wishes, for a relatively cheap fare. this is a shift bigger than the internet on the economies of the world, and it could reach a point where it proves fatal for many rulers, as the people will take notice that they have common bonds and desires which are being tightly reigned in in the 'real' world.

even the media outlets now, as the big corporate mainframes they are, have powers equal to expansions on our constitution, and can effect a people and hold them down intellectually just as the govt restrains them physically. it is too easy for most people to sit back daily and accept to be spoonfed something prechewed that requires no thought nor stress to take in world events, we trust the world is fine if we can put gas in the car and the morning paper delivery doesnt get interrupted. but the country has become an intricately geared machine now too complex to even question or inspect, for by mere sight alone it could collapse on itself, so it is up to each person to learn when to retreat, and how to feed and shelter oneself.

as this country grows in population, more laws and restrictions must be placed on us in order to keep the lines straight as they grow, and ensure theres less of those one in a million chances for a problem. the greater the strength of the fence though, impedes many great minds to pursue movement forward in all sciences and endeavours, because the more laws the less discovery in all aspects of humanity. it is up to oneself to acknowledge that as he progresses within himself, he will spend time in defence, learning how to build a proper personality structure in order to filter people, and then who to invite within and who to block their arrows. one should never have the stress of believing they are easily replaceable within any relationship in their lives, for personal development should naturally lead to a uniqueness not identical to any other design. just because we now have quicker forms of omnipotent communications, we still need something worthy to transmit beyond just a constant acknowledgement of our immediate social circles. the internet should not just show us what we have, but what we lack as a country, just as we as children one day realize that our parents, too, are only human.

hide away your passion, and i retract the action, touching your craft all alone,

stumbling in homemade quilt and gloves, pretending to dress up the feeling within,

deep rings of curious beauty spreading from the surface of a sleeping emotion,

the painful conversations like sores, a funny face to make even death grin,

the disease of distance between love and attachment, wheels which dont touch ground,

i cannot always assume the wheels spin only one way, her fruit ripened eyes,

slow words from the study of botany, feeding the leaves with fresh wounds,

hide away these disposible items which we cling to stay afloat together.

netting schools of sentences, dipping into the paper aquarium,

the only confidence lying in estimating reality to be somewhat managable,

a braincharing until empty thoughts lay flat against the pages,

the spotlighted self, trying to pull salt from daily thin air, trying to pepper

some rough translation of memories soaking in some quiet contemplations,

i pin tails on all times and places, i detach negativities from all conclusions,

and try again, reciting on papers, some smoke signals to keep the daily light.

monotonous bee, same hive, same tree, graduating time by refraining from its measure,

contemplating the flight of circuitry, a bout of electrons licking at bare feet,

saving eternity but for whom, milking synapses as a quiet fire snapping,

when thoughts derail they go by foot to the destination, stung and swollen,

the flight of creatures which conduct business without conscious, with compass,

into the honeycombed city, and only stop to sting.

is this me i world, or me and world, i struggle with independance,

the revolution of pitched adverbs and adjectives, procreating feathers

to ask what bird is this, and forcing dreams so much it must by now by bad habit,

adding up the conditions of life to find a weight of a restless state,

caught in judging where the source of existence lies, and what propels it forwards,

and what forwards really heads to other than time, my blind spot floats in the universe,

small words with no tails, flooded by realitys sensory directions, close those doors,

i cannot keep greeting all the possbilities each minute, let me hold one direction per event,

let missing illusions take on some type of plausible descriptions, let me shut off for one night,

in order to separate the sense of self from environment.

in florida, when you say its cold you only mean you arent sweating, but tonight,

tonight is an actual tithardchill evening, the sky is naked black sponge, stars

without flicker and no clouds to stain its sleeve. every star, singular for its sologlory,

throwing even lumunous shape onto the glassbroken streets, tiny wavelet breaths,

a herd of black goldfish lit by strumming xenon streetlamp, a new treble of passing train,

oilchoking lungs echo catcalls bouncing through both street and alleys, the whole block

caught in ten seconds of unsteady frozen tracks and steamed whistlering,

florida, in a one dimensional toast, to easy to overcome though never here and now,

the injection of floridas sweating fixtures, browsing files of lives-to-be.