woke up early...read this book...watched tv...did some of the moving back into my room thing...watched more tv...read my little reader thing from my 280 class... listening to the Lauren show, writing in this thing...don't want to go to work today... i think i'm gonna go to lou's and pick up some old new edition records from before their voices dropped and look for a copy of the Beat Bop record and that Tricky cd with Bjork and his ex-girlfriend up on it...I want to go to ken vid and see if they have the Lance Loud biography so i can cry when Rufus sings over the rainbow...
by far the highlight of my day was reading my 280 reader. most of it is just crappy writings that don't appeal to my short attention span (much like this thing and how it will be skipped over by most of you). but two of the people in my class were/are utter fucking genius. my buddy Dave is straight up old school with his shit and it is fucking beautiful. in the reader theres this thing he wrote about chess pieces and their rolls and what not that is mad crazy amounts of brilliant and this Elizabethan sonnet where he writes about seeing endless spiral galaxies in some broads eyes. the other genius of writing is my friend Melissa who wrote these prose poetry things about this girl who isnt all that happy about going to state. every time I read it I am happy and I wish that she would just write a fucking novel already. as for me there were like 4 (embarrassing) poems. one was an icon poem that was my little reaction to the whole post-911 atmosphere that was going on at the time (I wish I knew the exact date I wrote it, but it was weeks if not days after the event). if I were to slightly revise it, it would look something like this
yellow ribbons turn to
flesh and blood flavored
swastikas.
this time the sheep
are not playing fair.
the living seraph
sings about freedom
in my radio
as I drive down
my freeway.
I wish the dead one
would fall from the sky
and tell the sheep that
all they need is love.
all you need is love.
most other vehicales
on the American Highway
proudly display
the Yankee swastika
the only deity with
written protection
against desecration
that you can buy
for ninety nine cents
at seven eleven.
I may end up fucked
because my soul cant afford
a ninety nine cent
celebration of ill will
to put on the back of my car.
my souls saving up for
love
love
love.
I may end up fucked,
but at least Ill have
love
all you need is love
not vengeance,
not revenge,
not hatred and loathing,
love.
not flesh,
not blood,
not even stars and nationalism,
love.
I know, hokey. but it was how I felt. and its sort of relevant today with my paranoia of having to go to jail after I get drafted and refuse to kill poor people. but any ways, this was also in the reader
Once I had this dream
where I was working at a
convenience store,
and every girl
I had ever
had a crush on
in high school
came in
one after the other
with their boyfriends
and asked
where the condoms were.
Aisle five
I replied.
Yeah, sometimes I am a pro ass motha fuckathen there was this one
Maybe,
just maybe,
Ill be to her
not what I am,
but what shes
been looking for
all her life.
And maybe
there is
a god
in hell
Chewbacca.
I vaguely remember reading some Russian guy and meeting some stupid girl who ditched me for some cheesy dude. Yeah and finally there was this one thing that was meant to be said and not read, but my teacher put it in anyways
What do you think we should call your little sister
my mother asked
no longer hopped up on the meds
that were necessary to give birth
to the little thing in front of me
wrapped in a blanket
lying in some plastic tray thing.
I said
Johnson Head
You see,
I wanted to call he Johnson Head
because she was bald
just like the
itty bity people things
in the Johnsons and Johnsons
baby shampoo commercials.
I had no idea
that the term Johnson Head
referred to a specific part
of a specific part
of the male anatomy.
One does not know these things
when they are three and a half.
Hell,
being three and a half
I thought
that we were at the police station
and that the little Johnson Head
was some sort of ticket
for my mother being too fat.
Its funny how
I knew being fat
was wrong way back then,
maybe its because my earliest memory is
of being taken to see
Return of the Jedi
and wetting myself
to the scariness of Jabba the Hut.
Or maybe my existence
in American culture
had already set in,
even though I wanted
to call my newborn sister
Johnson Head.
yeah, thats it for now. no more horseshit rants. Im gonna get me some New Edition
by far the highlight of my day was reading my 280 reader. most of it is just crappy writings that don't appeal to my short attention span (much like this thing and how it will be skipped over by most of you). but two of the people in my class were/are utter fucking genius. my buddy Dave is straight up old school with his shit and it is fucking beautiful. in the reader theres this thing he wrote about chess pieces and their rolls and what not that is mad crazy amounts of brilliant and this Elizabethan sonnet where he writes about seeing endless spiral galaxies in some broads eyes. the other genius of writing is my friend Melissa who wrote these prose poetry things about this girl who isnt all that happy about going to state. every time I read it I am happy and I wish that she would just write a fucking novel already. as for me there were like 4 (embarrassing) poems. one was an icon poem that was my little reaction to the whole post-911 atmosphere that was going on at the time (I wish I knew the exact date I wrote it, but it was weeks if not days after the event). if I were to slightly revise it, it would look something like this
yellow ribbons turn to
flesh and blood flavored
swastikas.
this time the sheep
are not playing fair.
the living seraph
sings about freedom
in my radio
as I drive down
my freeway.
I wish the dead one
would fall from the sky
and tell the sheep that
all they need is love.
all you need is love.
most other vehicales
on the American Highway
proudly display
the Yankee swastika
the only deity with
written protection
against desecration
that you can buy
for ninety nine cents
at seven eleven.
I may end up fucked
because my soul cant afford
a ninety nine cent
celebration of ill will
to put on the back of my car.
my souls saving up for
love
love
love.
I may end up fucked,
but at least Ill have
love
all you need is love
not vengeance,
not revenge,
not hatred and loathing,
love.
not flesh,
not blood,
not even stars and nationalism,
love.
I know, hokey. but it was how I felt. and its sort of relevant today with my paranoia of having to go to jail after I get drafted and refuse to kill poor people. but any ways, this was also in the reader
Once I had this dream
where I was working at a
convenience store,
and every girl
I had ever
had a crush on
in high school
came in
one after the other
with their boyfriends
and asked
where the condoms were.
Aisle five
I replied.
Yeah, sometimes I am a pro ass motha fuckathen there was this one
Maybe,
just maybe,
Ill be to her
not what I am,
but what shes
been looking for
all her life.
And maybe
there is
a god
in hell
Chewbacca.
I vaguely remember reading some Russian guy and meeting some stupid girl who ditched me for some cheesy dude. Yeah and finally there was this one thing that was meant to be said and not read, but my teacher put it in anyways
What do you think we should call your little sister
my mother asked
no longer hopped up on the meds
that were necessary to give birth
to the little thing in front of me
wrapped in a blanket
lying in some plastic tray thing.
I said
Johnson Head
You see,
I wanted to call he Johnson Head
because she was bald
just like the
itty bity people things
in the Johnsons and Johnsons
baby shampoo commercials.
I had no idea
that the term Johnson Head
referred to a specific part
of a specific part
of the male anatomy.
One does not know these things
when they are three and a half.
Hell,
being three and a half
I thought
that we were at the police station
and that the little Johnson Head
was some sort of ticket
for my mother being too fat.
Its funny how
I knew being fat
was wrong way back then,
maybe its because my earliest memory is
of being taken to see
Return of the Jedi
and wetting myself
to the scariness of Jabba the Hut.
Or maybe my existence
in American culture
had already set in,
even though I wanted
to call my newborn sister
Johnson Head.
yeah, thats it for now. no more horseshit rants. Im gonna get me some New Edition