AUTHOR.CALHO: If I didn't write it, I would be hitch hiking cross country to Maine and then Alaska in that order. While taking frequent breaks to spread leaflets. And sit in diners. And write on things because I wasn't at a computer. I may still do that in a few years. Writing this also helps me forget about and better understand the limitations of being human, and keeps me busy enough to allow me no free time to burn the world down.

THEMATIC.ABOUT : Collapse often. The things that hold people together and hold them apart and scatter brains. The things that make thoughts go boom. The things that ooh and aah and [expletive deleted]. Sometimes poking around the margins where responsibility ends and the only one to look to is the Original Equipment Manufacturer and say "but, I already pressed 9 for more options and the menus are exactly the same. Can you just replace it?" The answer will be: "please hold." Sometimes hanging out in dark corners. Sometimes following the train tracks. Looking for ways out and ways in and all the while sharing the things seen and heard and done and drawn and written and scorched and healed and teased and caged and dreamed along the way.

6/4/07

move your pen 06/04/07

Subject : move your pen
Posted Date: : Jun 4, 2007 11:09 PM

tonight... its too warm to sleep easily and i have a boner that refuses to resolve itself. so instead of trying to pleasure myself till the bright hours of the morning and going to work tired im gonna just try to sweat it out. not really sweat it out persay, but more like lay here till i feel sleepy.

while i wait for sleep i will write some stream of concious stuff that may or may not be true. basically im entertaining myself.

i picked apart my sandwich today while considering the things i like to imagine are important. the seeds in the wheat bread. there were seeds in the wheat bread and they reminded me of gothic homes. kitchen floors dusted with flour. flour that falls deeper. pressed by footsteps between the dulled boards. sprinkling down to the cellar where Tigris died. after birthing her litter. of still borns.

it was tuna fish again. not that i have anything against dolphins. or fishermen. theres a show on called deadliest catch featuring the dancing talents of a thing. i forget which talent im supposed to say. the tuna was old. i could taste it. the can. i could taste the can between bites. and i noticed the refrigerator door was still open.

the cool touch of air around my ankles just like the last time. i showered, but left my bedroom window open. i couldnt help thinking how gorgeous i looked. for the first minutes. before i realized there was a man standing beneath the street lights. just to the left of the oak tree that nearly died last winter. knowing the uncertainty. the measured seconds before my fingers shut the window. was the same.

a mouthful of tin shards and dry oats. mixed and mashed together with the smoked guts of some thing i'd never before laid. eyes on and probably never would. i picked that sandwich. for forty minutes. watching the sun and staring it down till it hid behind the big easy hills. and cast its shadows where my hands couldnt interfere. someone should probably. throw it out.



///the dust brothers - "jacks smirking revenge" not much to say here. the dust brothers are the chemical brothers. i think thats good enough if it matters at all. bbye for now.
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