coq

Ain't nothing like tearing a whole slow-poached chicken apart with your hands and eating whatever you care to of it as you do.

I pretended it was my pigeon, briefly.  Someone took a chunk of the pigeon's wing that was left over after nature had its way with the carcass and stuck it vertically into the log bench in the squirrel grove next to my building.  A slender white flag.  I like this: a circulation of pieces whose past is unknown.  The person who stuck the wing there did not see the hawk strike and tear agonizingly at its wing; didn't see me happen by and scare the hawk away; this person didn't see me standing in my long yellow coat with the brick over the pigeon, mr. pigeon, shuddering to breathe but complacent in his final seconds.  Bird bones crunch like ice.  

I start thinking about feather headdresses.  I dig the meat from the crevices in the back of the chicken stand-in with my fingers and start seeing pieces of myself in its skeleton.  Sacrum.  I think of the pigeons who live under the overpass next to the building I work in, and how they sound like a brook.  I think of Hurricane, the dove in the magic shop.

I'm getting too deep here.

I painted the table.

I did not take the recycling.

I ate s'mores with friends they were awesome.

I made a chicken.

  

in like a lamb

(dream)

The dog-killing pits, 

for unwanted dogs, 

are twenty feet deep 

in slick yellow clay.  

__________________

I'm itching to do things with myself; make things.  I have a little table rescued from dumpsterside that needs to be sanded and stained/painted (have not decided).  

I have a growing collection of glass and aluminum I need to drop off at a recycling place.

 

I have intentions towards homemade marshmallows, toasted over gas stovetop burner while it's still cool enough outside to justify this activity indoors.  

I watched Rachel Getting Married by myself last night and was pleasantly surprised.  It was a movie of overblown emotional everythings but somehow it worked for me, and also, oddly made me want to get married for the first time in ___.  But only if my wedding can be exactly like the one in the film.  And only if I'm marrying a beautiful, sweet, black musician named Sidney.  

poor little honda

There was the hit-and-run last time it was icy, smashed my rear driver's side door all in.

This morning I got in my car to go to class and my stereo was gone.  Nothing else missing, no sign of forced entry, my car was (as far as I know) locked (because I never don't lock my car).  Maybe it was a freak not-locking, maybe I didn't hold the door handle long enough and the lock popped back up again like they do.  

"I am not going to class," I thought.

Please enjoy my shitty $100 stereo, master burglar.  

No more happy chirpy beeps at me when I turn the key in the ignition.  No more ash-dusted blue screen saying "WELCOMEY!"

Just a naked hole with a grotesquely detached electrical umbilicus.  

Does anyone have like a little radio I can just tape to my dashboard and turn to NPR.

:( :( :(

lately man i just ain't got much to say

life in the movies

where

am i?

what's happening?

i

love it.

internet BACK

reConnect

sockets sucking sockets

Been having nightmares, like some idiot publishing a knock-off Laurus and stealing all the dumb girly poems I write in here and printing them in it, and me being extremely upset over this in the dream.

Last night though, dreamed of an outdoor concert with thousands of screaming bodies, emerging from secret rooms five stories underground full of childhood relics to join the fringe of the crowd, then dive onto their platform of hands and be rushed along as if on a river, squealing with delight and surfing across hands and hands and smiling faces below.

"Look at the stars!  Look up at the stars!" I said, and they started falling, sparkling trails and zigzags of diamond flotsam and everyone's faces up, screaming, smiling, the music.