i wonder where you are amidst the newspaper stars

finding yourself in the atrium of escape.

let us tomato.

Deep in the moon, beneath the rocks and ancient animal bones and habitable craters, under the biblical verses, under the dusty seas and the tonnage of top-heavy myth, through the center, through the half-empty core: that's where it is, like an desert child, that's where it rests, where it lies so silent and free like a reclining cloud, like a silent storm.

There is a mirror on the moon.

fear

He knew there were times when the terror just trickled down her back. When she was young she was frightened of everything, every sound, every sight, every car and aeroplane and train and seagull bell call stabbed the fright into her stomach.

She was Susanna and he loved her. But she was frightened. She was always frightened. As a child she had been afraid of all the usual suspects: body mutilation, animals, supernatural beings, monsters, ghosts, unfamiliar routines, separation from trusted adults, abandonment, annihilation. As she got older, just like we all got older, she learned to be afraid of getting older. In fact, now that he thought about it, she was still frightened of body mutilation, but really who wasn't? He was. And most of all, she was still terrified of the thought of annihilation—a big blank hole in the world where she used to stand and sing in the evening air; a big blank hole where her heart used to be. But at least, and thank god for this, at least she wasn't still afraid of ghosts. The ghosts had been horrifying.

Almost as horrifying as a mortgage.

And that’s what he had liked about her at first, she had been beautiful but so fragile, she was terrified and terrifying. He had never felt like a particular strong man until he met her, but she gave him a sense of purpose, someone to protect, someone to care for, someone to feed soup and bread. She had even been afraid of him at first, of the potential he had to crush her, to eat her heart and tear her flesh and wound her psyche—how could she ever give anyone such power over her? That was why she had been such a heartbreaker when they met, she never grew close to any of the men who came courting with chocolate and gold and saltwater fingers laid across the bone. She simply used them for what they were worth and moved on. She hadn't been possessed of the power of her own beauty, she never sought her lovers out. They had come to her and she had enjoyed their company for a time but cancelled them from her life, erased their memory the moment, the exact pinpoint instant, before things got too serious, got too comfortable, the moment before she truly became attached.

But she had grown closer to him, finally. He was the exception. She had relented, she had grown to trust him, to seek out his protection and his arms and slowly she overcame her fears. Instead of being afraid of love and heartache, she now could not even imagine being away from him; she had, in fact, insisted upon a marriage. She had been scared of moving out of her parents, yet here they were in their own home. She had been terrified of pregnancy, but here was their baby cooing and gooing and shimmying like a small snail in a bed of flowers. She had been afraid of him, she had been afraid of her own capacity to love, but here they were—here she was handling her life rationally like an adult instead of the terrified child who had ocne fled in fright from the sun as it hung suspended like a platinum plate in the air.

Sometimes he wondered if he had made a mistake.

Power Out

We were riding the train again. We were always riding the train. You and me and the woman down the street with the ugly hair. Dressed in our pressed shirts, black shoes and relaxed slacks, we were standing too close and avoiding eye contact. It was the same ritual day after day, it had to be performed or the heavens would come crashing down upon our heads and the earth would belch forth streams of liquid fire.

We were compelled, and here we were again riding the train like a closet full of junk: the shaman in the corner performing his newspaper rites; the woman with the skin disease, whose role was simply too stand far to close; the older woman who engaged in a ritualized dance with other patrons, silently demanding their seat for herself; the revolving greek chorus of men who sneeze without covering their mouth or stink like they just soiled their pinstriped trousers--I'm not sure what their role is other than to weird me out.

But here we were again, all of us, and we knew each other by sight and role but not by name; we knew the contours of each strange face in the morning, the sloping eyebrows, the freshly combed hair, the red-rimmed eyes, and the lines that formed for a yawn as we swayed along.

We were upset when the ceremony was interrupted, as it was today. We were left without footing, without maps or guides or signpost in a strange unknown land. The train lurched. A woman let loose a noise of surprise. The gods were angry. They must be furious to interrupt us in our communion and praise. Another lurch and the strength of the train below and around us faded, its virility suddenly gone limp. The power cut out. The lights flickered death. We were left in an envelope of darkness, folding closed. Underground lamps from outside splashed through the windows in arcs of light, bars of sight. It quickly played over each face in turn , exposing it to the others and moving on quickly. It was like watching lightening dance across a cloudy sky at twilight.

People twitched uncomfortably. Their eyes moved. The shaman put down his newspaper. The old woman looked about in shock.

The train coasted for a few minutes along its rails without feeling, without desire. It suddenly lurched again, jolting us all. The light flickered back on and suddenly it was as if the curtain had come down again. The ritual resumed. The newspaper must be read or misfortune would fall from the clouds as it had in olden times. The man must sneeze uncovered or he will doom us all.

Sip your coffee sir, so that we may all be saved.

"You are my rose," he said in delight.

"But roses decay."

We Stand

We stand for rising tides.
We stand for meadow-eyed monks and easychairs full of sticky, sweet sugar.
We stand for marble and moons, sculptured poetry and the kind of architecture that just bursts with soul you can see.
Because we stand for uncovering the artistry of everyday life.

We stand for angels and anarchy and anthrax parents.
We stand for raised fists and baby-faced beards.
We stand for clouds of child brides and rivers of cicada semen.
We stand for lust!

We stand for the elimination of cages.
We stand for the destruction of limits, of focus, of practicality and compromise.
Because the fucking jig is up! You hear me?
Turn around, don't go to work today. Set your house on fire and breath the flames like the air of your first breath.
Because we stand for setting yourself free.

We could have saved the blood of the Summer sun in our hands.

We could have sailed the maps and seen the seas of another's dreams.

We could have drawn our names in the pool of smoke.

We could have had value.

We could have been heroes.

there's water in her eyes, there's water in her eyes!
tell the men in the black hills that the snow falls from a young girls eyes!

Top 15 Songs That Make Me Lose My Shit

At some point while doing an insane freakout dance to Jackie Wilson's "(Your Love Keeps Lifting Me) Higher and Higher," I got the idea to compile a list of songs that 'make me lose my shit.' In this particular case, the freakout dance in question was done alone in an elevator at work. That is what I mean by losing my shit. For years on the five-hour drive from School in Gainesville to Home in Coral Springs, FL, I would always wind up shoulder-dancing, totally unaware of my speed, shouting at the top of my lungs with the stereo pumping so loud I could hear the speakers crackle. I could have gotten in an accident and I would not have cared at all. That is what I mean by losing my shit. I'm not suprised by how much Motown is on this list, but I am suprised by how much of the list is what you would consider 'oldies'. Born in the wronge age, eh?

1. "Heatwave" by Martha and the Vandellas
2. "Be My Baby" by the Ronnettes
3. "Naive Melody" by the Talking Heads
4. "(Your Love Keeps Lifting Me) Higher and Higher" by Jackie Wilson
5. "God Only Knows" by the Beach Boys
6. "Bernadette" by the Four Tops
7. "Ain't Too Proud to Beg" by the Temptations
8. "Complete Control" and 9. "Train In Vain" by the Clash
10. "Someone has His Fingers Broken" by Black Eyes (actually, most their first self-titled album)
11. "El Scorcho" and 12. "Only in Dreams" by Weezer
13. "The City" by the Dismemberment Plan
14. "Promises" by Fugazi
15. "Instant karma" by John Lennon

honorable mention to gang of four, early beatles, q and not u and chuck berry.

type: lubricant

Anna was an Acorn

This story was published by Eyeshot.

----

Anna was an acorn, and she told people this every chance she got: her parents, friends, coworkers, random people on the street; whoever whenever, they had to know the truth. She wasn't a woman, a child, with skin and hair the color of blood-spackled honey. No, no not at all. She was a red-rose nugget inside a shell dangling from the end of a swaying branch. That was Anna. That was all she ever wanted to be and all she would ever yearn for.

And when she would tell people this they would look at her in suspicion and brilliant fright.

"What was so bad about being human, Anna? I'm a human, Anna. Am I so bad?"

"Blah," she would say, "blah," and wave her fists in a furious kind of dismissal, disgusting by a question too stupid to even be asked.

It was simple, see: Anna was an acorn. There were no questions to be asked, no arguments to be made. She simply was and she was as she was meant to be, don't you see?

All her life she wanted to be an acorn, all her life and nothing could stop her savage aching ways, nothing could stop her daydream montage. She saw herself so frequently, she saw herself bloom in delight, an acorn that grew and stretched up year by year until she pierced the sky, her limbs reaching up so high they ensnared the moon and the two of them lived their life together in an embrace--just her and the moon that loved in her grasp, lived in her arms, like husband and wife and husband again. She could be happy as a tree, without emotion, without skin and nerves or a brain, or pain or any kind of soft silver sighs or cares at all, just strength and height and age and growth. So mighty, so solipsistic, there could be nothing outside herself, nothing at all except her and her growth and the moon that had fallen into her clutches one ecstatic steaming night.

And then there was Jacob. Poor, dear Jacob who traded in affection and held-hands and sly smiles. Dim little Jacob who tried his hardest to show her the joys of being human: the feeling of fingers running down dawn bellies and over sequined hips; the pain and tenderness of life, but she had little interest. Or none at all. Oh yes, she enjoyed these things--so wondrously and multiplyingly spinal--she enjoyed them and consumed them simply as any good young woman does, its just that they were not convincing, they weren't good enough, they simply were not that important and neither was he. She was hesitant to break his heart, of course, to rip it apart like a tortured wineglass, like a fractured bone, but he had chosen his path freely. It was his own damn fault and he should stop pouring down tears. He knew she was an acorn, he knew it all along and he just chose to ignore the facts before him and press on, always on, trying to convince her of her folly. Poor Jacob.

It was pointless. She never longed for him, she liked him fine, but she never longed with that burning mind-erasing, leg-slackening tension that seems to connect the head and the heart with chains and wires of bronze that passed electrical waves. She had never ever longed like that in her life. Except for one thing: what she longed for was to drop from the branch, feel herself roll in freefall like a child down the trunk of her tree and land steaming and charging, reeping and rolling, avoiding the sharp beaks of the birds and the stoneground steps of men to bury herself deep under blankets of earth. She would cover herself with it, oh yes she would cover herself so happily, running it through her hair and fingers and wiggling down low, tucked in and warm to wait in the womb of the world as she gradually grew, safe from harm until she could finally extend her arms and legs, feel them pulling in new directions and carving their way up, up toward the sun, the sky, that loving moon, and the arched columns that hung suspended in the wind like green and gold money.

Anna was an aching acorn, and every day she ached a little more.

time was a treasure she kept in her cup.

there will be currents of leaves in the coming sea of trees.