I saw Michael Moore's movie tonight. I plan on posting on it tomorrow. Do any of you ever feel a little bit like Doogie Howser when you post? You know, at the end of the show when he takes time to reflect on the day's lessons. Yeah me too.



Haiku Very Much.

I just wrote a haiku for George W. Bush.
Hey W. Bitch,
too bad you're not literate,
Then you could read this.

I saw a competition on the net somewhere. Feel free to leave a haiku in the comments section. It's more fun than I thought. (5,7,5)


Dem'ocracy and Dem'Nation

I worry that my children will read history books about what was happening when I was twenty-five and George W. Bitch was president and ask me, "How the hell did you let that happen?!" I'm afraid that, "I marched in a protest in Washington once," will not be a good enough answer.




Three days ago I went walking through Ithaca's Commons in search of a Diego Rivera book. Used books are usually cheaper and there are two used bookstores right next to one another in the shopping district. Cornell makes Ithaca privy to the heavy paged books that feel like extremities that have fallen asleep. The only drawback is that the bookstores know how these books feel in my hands, so all of the Cortazar books and art books that could be found for cheap in other places are usually pretty expensive here. They know their goods worth. We should say that about our lives and relationships with confidence. Finding an Asturias book hidden among the masses for 50 cents, sticking my fingers through the pages like frosting on cake, thats why I go to these places. My hands growl and ache.

If I were searching for a Leonardo or a Georgia O'Keefe or a Van Gogh or a Monet or any other blockbuster artist I'd be set. They're like moss in these places. I hunted for a good half hour and found nothing resembling Diego Rivera. I did find a book called Rayuela or Hopscotch which was a show curated around Latin American artists, which used Cortazar's non-linear novel, Hopscotch as it's foundation. Oh, were I rich. I broke down and asked the woman at the front desk if she had any idea whether or not there was Diego Rivera book somewhere along the warped stomach linings of these shelves. (I said store in place of warped stomach linings) She lit up and said she was a muralist. She loved Diego Rivera. She said this with a Polish accent. She darted toward those side shelves behind the counter that tease and laugh at me every time I'm in there. "Psst," they whisper, "Over here...I'm over here, sneak back here and take a bite of my fruit." Fortunately this woman had clearance to meander through those gardens of off limit books. She plucked one from the shelf ripe for my taking. A beautiful Rivera book. The sticker price said ten dollars. I looked it over with an erudite squint, as if it were an answer to a question that I had not predicted, which it was in a way. It was perfect. I held it for a minute and flashed through the pages, shaking my new found extremity until it awoke and began sending signals to my head that it was still alive and ready to start performing. It's time to begin painting again. I spit out the seeds and left, warning Rayuela to stay warm and awake.



Unusual and Useless, Childish.

Burning embers. The grey gray grey coulours colors. The gray swirles that ascend towards greatness or aspirations of color. Nothing. While they ascend, they dampin these synapses and blood flows like ink and if it jogs out there is more. The cold sharpens my imput and leaves this falling bursh and dust and ash to remind hero's of OUR origin. Rimbaud is my mother. She is lost biologically and symbolically and I will not find her. HER origin is substantial.
Do you hear these squeaks? Combustions release. A revolution. A clogged lung, it's greyness is symbolic. My family is so slow. I don't mind. No targeted stigmatism can focus this. It dims and swings like wheat. That fragrance ignites my violent colours. Violet equalizes this. My fulcrum is she who's lashes agree quickly, whisper each other into compromises.
The red lights groan and forge through. Push I say push! and you will come to grip with it's refuge. A displace garden (unweeded of course) Cold cracks awaken you and remind us of what he...what we said. Subtract the "I" and it is sad and in that, a moment of clarity. Yes, I say. I can see.

(He tries, but he is blind, for I have sworn. I can not see. What a blessing.)