volume one, the breakfast dinner, can be found on coffee tables, in record stores, and in recycling bins. you know the drill.



windmill feilds
scattered tall
like aliens, like
moonscapes and escapades
crane assembled.
at night on the hill they blink red lights.
wink red lights
one at a time.



November 3rd 2008

I like when we sleep. and the window is
held open my a book. and your arms are
warm and you hold my hand. and everytime
you breath air drifts past my right ear.
and sometimes i try and breath at the same
time as you, in and out. and in. and out.
and in and out. and that's what i like
about when we sleep.



it used to just be certain songs. and i guess maybe ideas, or magazine issue themes. oh yeah and grammatical errors.

now its gone so far that i cant even cut an orange. with out cutting the way you did (do?).

in my efforts to erase, i've embedded.

consciously not thinking is thinking right? i'd ask you but i guess i can't.

you're not the helium balloon that slipped off my little wrist at the carnival all those years ago are you? you're the one that stayed tied tight, and then lost its air slowly over days in my pastel bedroom.

shriveled and sinking, no longer kissing the ceiling. suspended mid height.

no longer shiny.

wrinkled sun-hot plastic.



senior seminar

tree skeletons.
blowing blossoms like bubbles
of bubble gum pink,
from their frail lips,
their gnarled finger tips.
they burst into beauty.
debutant and crinoline,
crying rosy tears all
over the pavement
that turn brown and rot.


loveful and falling

special issue of As Syllable from Sound, never to hit news stands, is in its final stages.

it will be mailed to america.

maybe when i'm 40 (or when someone pays for the things i make...) you can see it.

[it was written quickly which means it will be honest and painfully personal. eek]