  page five. currently. five...is that right? no okay four. i've been writing for the past half hour and with a little bit of splicing from my unfinished story, which really i'm only using one scene from (it didn't get that far) it's flowing. I am having so much fun with this.
i wrote a layout of the plot in my journal, just a kind of general thing, and i don't know how long it will be or what random things will insert themselves as i go but it's definitely working. i may get around to posting some of it if i feel like it, but more than likely i won't until it's finished and set and i've edited it and had a few friends look at it, etc. ms. brayton requested that i post some poems. ummm...let's see... that's too bitter. no, wait, that's too bitter. that one...definitely too bitter.
hee hee. this is entertaining. God, i'm a bitter jaded individual on paper. how sad! Remind me not to show my portfolio to anyone in the health services. They'd lock me up.
okay, for real now. this is the first poem i wrote and ever actually liked. It's rough, i think, but i like it still. 4 x 6 Looking at what used to be Never can get us back there. This image of your laughter has been dried of sound and flattened out, shrunken, pasted on a wall so I dont forget what laughing looks like. So that I dont forget when I listen to the hissing sound of dead air on the telephone dull electric what it was like to hear music from your mouth.
I cannot make this picture sing. October 7th, 2000 okay, here's another one, which i just discovered and don't remember writing, particularly, but i think i sent it to erin at one point... nursery rhyme from the hospital bed the ink on my fingers is staining my throat its staining it all over every word i speak. rum tum tubble lets kick through the rubble lets dig up our four letter words and rum tum tubble look at all this trouble look at these ink stains and the little spot on her right hand where she scraped it against the wall that was for you. Yes for you a gift a gift from mr. tom hubble wasnt it nice his suggestion wasnt it nice of mr. tom hubble? call him tim! this is grimmer than the ink that is spilling out of my typewriter all over the pages of my new novella which is only semi-autobiographical a spot of blood for a spot of ink which spells out words i think every word i speak spilled through a punched hole in the wall of my rum tum tubble This was for a poetry class i took this fall.
nobody seemed to understand the middle line, but i left it anyway: reflecting driving at night her vision is poor the little lights flicker in and out and in and out as that motorcycle goes by she thinks just for a split second what if sees him caught on the sideview mirror in the mesh of a leather exterior driving too fast at night and the barrier weaves like a fishtail okay, and here's a final one, written for the same class. I feel like it should have been called "and ode to starbucks" instead of "Tuesday," but whatever. "Tuesday" works too, i guess. Tuesday Today seems stenciled. As if each word running across the page was its own, separate slogan spelled out in bubble letters still waiting to be filled. The woman in the coffee shop asks in her usual routine how I would like my mocha sized and glancing upward I notice her words like a character in a comic book floating in little bubbles above her head.
Tall. Grande. Venti? Its like that with everything today. An explosion of road signs and hollowed slogans, smacking me directly in the gut. The flashing bulbs around the name of a chain bookstore scream out to passers-by although their sparks have little to say in broad daylight.
I could easily find this offensive, but I dont. Because its all still hollow no matter how loud it gets and nothing is worse than Yesterday (Yesterday was charcoal, all smudged together meanings in which I could not decipher the letters behind her eyes). Tomorrow things will still go unsaid. Tomorrow, I might overcome the fear of losing my voice in this mess and try to speak. I imagine it would be clear, and lasting, like a wine glass ringing crystal. Tomorrow, I will duck my head, close my eyes, and think of silence.
i think maybe that one's a little heavy handed. whatever, all my poetry is. i'm such a melancholic. It's the irish, or something, i suppose. my screenplay, however, is glorious. when carrie gets old enough i'm going to make her open a production company with me and we're going to make the greatest films EVAH.
this has been a post by ed 20 davis in da HAUS Katherine, please do not go throw yourself onto the incoming traffic on Ralston Ave after reading my melodramatic lyric. Also, if you or Dees happen to find out what the godfather ice cream truck song source is, please let me know. I'm still curious about it. and please remember: pain heals. chicks dig scars. glory lasts forever.
lis. 
