You lie slumbering
in a velvet room next door
I listen to you sleep
as your breaths hit the floor

I found some tape recordings
from an old TV broadcast
murmurs of a life
that were left in the trash

The histories or hers
all on a small blue dot
I couldn't hold a thing against you
you're just fraction of the spot

so spread your feelings out like sand
across my ocean
let your tears roll off my cheeks
I'll be your listener

I know you wanted to go
you missed your chance again
But I'm here like honey
We can still pretend

The We hit all the places
on the maps on the wall
throw darts into land mass
watch'em sore down the hall

Dream my lover,
are you a dream in my eye?
dream while you're awake
and dream until you die

This is an absurd piece. Its different than my usually style because there is not really central idea. I just sat down and tried to listen to the chaos of the mind.  

Styrofoam cups and

babies rounding mountains

climb cricket hill top 

to pluck the blossoms off

a blunt in your air 

bare, a billowy rowan tree

the winter white days cloud your eyes

and burrow deep in the brown fur

that rises and falls with sleep

prints show up all over your hands

follow them down to your navel

and tuck it in like a laugh

that hits you like red sirens 

Pish Posh

I am sitting in my favorite place to write: Big Mikes Coffee.

As a approach graduation I am filled with excitement and relief, but a slight discomfort. What will I do with myself once I leave this familiar little bubble of academia? I've known nothing else since 5 years old. Where do I apply the knowledge I have gleaned from this earnest, altruistic institution**ahem shark tank. What do I take? That I was bread to be a fine sheep, to be used for my wool too keep the elite warm and cozy in their mansions under the sea, maybe? I think the most important thing I've learned from college is that it is, in itself,  a life seeding corporation and that capitalism is death.

--------<3{:}3>-------

Love, transforms, takes different faces, but it is always an extension of your pinky finger.

Old shoe mind
you're falling apart
you don't support the body
that lives inside you

If you represent yourself
Then you're infrastructure needs reframing
You're making the heart beat hard
The synapses bear mice
the stress hormones that chew at the pipes
breaking down the concubines
the lawman, and the shrines alike

Mind it is time to form a mouth
and learn when to open
and when to keep closed
and when to eat.

It has been quite sometime since I have written anything. I have been working with the Artist Way by Julia Cameron, a book devoted to helping people cultivate the artist within. The book emphasizes the idea of silencing your inner critic and letting your ideas just flow out of you without judgement. I have realized that that has been a struggle for me for a long time. I do not consider myself a winded person. Aaron whom I'd love to call my boyfriend, but can't seem to bring myself to do it yet is full of words and conversation. He is just bubbling over with information.

What could I say to you that is valuable? I don't know, maybe I can only tell you in a poem or a song. I'll just stake my value there until I can convince myself that I can communicate ideas in a coherent, intellectual fashion.

Casting through the trees,
a black colt
the brush is cutting light
over the rocky folds

It stamps the earths green
It's an ebony gleam
as dark as the mare
from whence it came

we were both treading water
walking in dark brooks
aloof and unafraid
Whilst the beast stole our pain

After a long stretch of silence.

A neon "open" sign hangs above my head, suspended in the corner of my right eye. It loams, a gory red. It is subdued, especially in the context of a coffee shop window open 24 hours. The sign scarcely rests and has lost its vigor to blaze like only the vivacity of electric red should.
I'm sipping rejuve tea. The hot liquid burns my mouth slightly and warms my throat. I want to dunk my entire body in the steamy stew of herbs until I dissolve. I could dissolve or I could float. It doesn't matter either way. I will still be apart of this huge soup.

Sam and I were talking the other night about his brother. Sam described himself as having a textbook approach things, where as his brother provided a more "accessible" explanations of his ideas. I wasn't quite sure what he meant by that. --- I would guess that "textbook person" would describe someone who has a well thought, drawn out explanation to and might include references to other thinkers who have insights relevant to the idea being expressed. Basically, someone good at writing college essays. I think I'll look up what others have to say about the definition...

(10 minutes later)

Okay, I couldn't find a satisfactory definition on the web. Next I seem him I'll ask him what he means. 

Hay, there is my old therapist in the sitting at a round table wearing studio headphones. It is a sign that I should start repeating positive affirmations to myself-- something I stopped doing, but helped while in practice.

Well, my hour of writing is up. I'm going to try this everyday.

Peace, love and all the flowers in British Columbia.