April 29, 2009

Today like every other day…

Like every other day, today I start again, today is time for change.

Everyday is not the same, there is always something new to change, something new was learned.

It is quite tiring but it is the same for everybody.

Standing now as an anybody, don't forget how hard it was to get here.

January 23, 2008

ICWT2W3 Assignment

A Feline Monologue

There: Moving: What?

Musty and dusty hairs bristle as he scuttles and – RUNS!




Hmm-mMm… All these smellycapped twopaws: so heavy on their bottoms when game is passing right under their enormous snouts.

If my snout was that long I’d be so deep in the thickness of scent I could – by Tuna! – I could do anything! Certainly never miss a musty. Definitely never pounce into a barker…or small twopaws – those untouchable dirty creatures that scrunch and pull my fur as if I was a toy.

What are the twopaws doing now? Will they stroke me?

Hmm-mMm… Not this one. He WANTS to stroke me. And this one smells of barker.

AH, this one I like: He smells of the mushies and crunchies: He is the Feeder.

I call him so he knows I’m here: prr-RE-cious?

Pr-RE-cious, you know how to please me. That’s good - rub my tummy!


No-no! Don’t stop! Me! Me! Me-ouch!

What’s happening? They are all springing from their mutilated bottoms. They are – wary! They are sniffing, sweating and shuffling – better get out of the way.

And precious? His voice scratches the air playfully. His limbs are all limp and relaxed. He’s stretching his neck, he’s offering his tummy. He’s pleased with himself, he is! He’s looking at them as I would look at a musty trapped between my claws.

Smart twopaw! Good twopaw! My twopaw! Mine! My-Own!

I think I’ll let him play with them for now.

Anything interesting?

No crunchies, no mushies, no bristling musties.

Only quiet dust.

Right: Nap-time: Here’s good: Here is always good.

January 19, 2008

Mock ICWT2W3 Assignment

Story from the point of view of an adventurous goldfish

"Look! A bubble!"

"Look! A bubble!"

"Look! A bubble!"

"Look! A bubble!"


Story from the point of view of a nervous goldfish

"Argh! I'm drowning!"

"Argh! I'm drowning!"

"Argh! I'm drowning!"

"Argh! I'm drowning!"


What really goes on in a goldfish's mind

"                             "

"                             "

"                             "

"                             "


January 16, 2008

Public Notice

Can someone please explain to me how to add favorite blogs?


The Technologically Retarded

January 13, 2008

Gnomic Verses

Those who don’t sit at the top of an empty bus,

Are already thinking about getting off.

Who knows how much in the world is world and how much art?

How much was given to us, and how much we brought with us?

Does man pick a pick-axe readily?

No, he is content with conserving an old work.

But the colours are not so bright

And the paint has cracked in places.

Who will dribble on a clean canvas

And breathe new fumes that intoxicate with new dreams?

We will hate his courage and call him mad,

But when this new painting has dried

Will we call it good and hang it on our walls?

Those eyes, that nose, that ear in the mirror,

I see them as if I was another.

The mirror reflects what I want it to,

But what it doesn’t see I can not change.

Even if I stare into the mirror every day,

I never know what I will find in it tomorrow.

Pride comes in bricks and build walls,

To keep out those things that want us naked in the pig sty.

But I am tired of this fortress:

The thick walls trap the cold

and the quiet within is dull.

I’d like to roll in the warm mud for a while.

Will you join me?

Men think they flatter when they praise a woman for her beauty,

But a woman knows beauty is the one thing she will not have the next morning.

The ugly things are easier to believe in than the beautiful,

for who would pretend to be ugly?

I’d rather your spite than your love,

At least I can believe in your spite.

It hurts to love,

I wish I could wish not to.

He says he loves me because I’m funny,

Pretty, intelligent, and sad.

And his love falls on me like great boulders.

If I love him my wings crack!

They crack so I can be funny, pretty, intelligent

And sad - Forever.

If I love him the way I love,

Not like boulders – how terrible!

Like no-prescription glasses:

Loving in him vision.

Loving his open eyes.

Loving the miracle of his turning neck.

If I love him like this, will I lose myself?

My love too needs to learn to fly.

My love needs to grow a neck.

So it can fly along with him,

Or not.

So that every second of love is a decision.

Soaring and flirting among the clouds,

Will love not be a finer yet heavier thing,

Than that love we can dump in one moment?

Family – there’s a topic worth studying!

For it is the most unnatural of all teams

And yet the one that sticks together the longest.


Wishful Thinking

Having grown numb,

I searched my footprints for the dry stains

of tears and blood and licked them.

I searched myself for every place that hurt

and pounded on them with a hammer.

I searched for old bits of scab and scar tissue

Buried in my skin with a scalpel.

I searched within my eyes for blind spots

And scrubbed them clean with sand paper.

I searched my memory for dreams

And compared them to reality.

I searched for my heart in the guts of the earth

And yelled its secrets at strangers.

I searched for myself in the people I love

Until I was certain of my absence.

Who was the secret author of my pain?

Let him be omnipotent,

So I can blame him for every second of it.

Let him be omnipresent,

So he is here when I do so.

Let him be omniscient,

So he can understand it.

Let him be eternal,

So that it hurts him always.

I will drag God into existence!

And he will transcend time,

So that a curse uttered today,

Can eat him from the very beginning.

And he will be pure thought,

So that his suffering

Has no body to escape from.

And I will lend him a face

So I can see it contort in pain

As mine does.

Poem from perspective of something minuscule

When I Set Foot on a

(Extract from My Adventures on a by R.W.Little)

CR-rushed and asphe-heexiated between cold fleshy sheets

Like a pickle-seed lost in a frozen double-burger –

I can’t even tell if I’m kicking, I only know I want to.

Ok, one last try, if not – well – if not I’ll sleep:



A light ray slices my would-be-death-bed

And I see

     that the sheets

                              are red!

And I see

      that the vault

                              is ebony!



                                           the world I creep onto is a blind man’s world for

                                                  Suspended in a thick pungency of sea,

                                                        And petrified in deafening silence

                                                            A vast dazzling nothingness!

                                                A valley entirely carpeted in opaque mirrors.



Four feet, twenty toes

have maybe slipped and caught cold

In the TV’s glow.


Glass rattling to wind

Within curls of orange peel

A single dark hair.


Under the covers

Smells of scalp and urine;

Flowers on the grave.


The sound of my flute

Resonates against your name

Carved in cold marble.

Poem deconstructing a word

Bedtime Story in Key of THE

THE night – THE night Took His Ear

THE fear – Tickled Him Everywhere

THE bear – That Humbling Encounter

THE hunter – Tragically He Erred

THE shot –

THE howl –

THE bear – Traveled Home Exhausted

And – exhausted – he went to bed.

The Horrible End?

THE hunter – the hunter was dead.

January 11, 2008

Second thoughts on my first entry

Ok, sorry about the exhibitionism comment. I realize it sounds like a general criticism. Truth is I am shy about sharing my own stuff.

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