10:37 a.m.||||2004-06-16
this is a poem.
a needle poked
into the eye will, without alarm,
leave a hole.
my son will scream. all the way home.
and in the full moon
parking lot of home depot, kisses traded,
pincers caught/
an apple will always cause
a single knowledge
a stomach ache.
partial rot.
end of poem fullstop.
now that Alan's leaving, which like for all of us, might simply be a matter of time...and it's almost like graduation, but I get depressed momentarily anyway, cause old chum, gonna miss you - especially all you guys I met here in the first place.
But I'm still stickin around, not updating, being a one-toon horse, a one gun sally, whatever/
I'm thinking of departing into poetry or nonsense. one of the two. make it a venue for something other than rage. you might wonder why in the hell i always mention it, my rage, how stupid, how elementary. i just have an awful lot of it.
how would you guys feel if I moved this? would you like to know? would you like me to know that you want to know? tell me, then.
I never did depart from this being sort of a pseudo-parental, semi-psycho chronical of this here disaster's first serious waltz with anything real in her life balanced with some of the worst failures of her life - son meets other issues.....and, remember tankstress? well.