Sometimes I find myself narrating my life in my mind and sometimes what comes of said neurotic habit is something almost worth sharing. And so, please enjoy my first enstallment of "It Came From Cube City"

A moment of mental coma strikes and I find myself unable to continue with what I was doing. I stare listlessly around my desk for something to at least make me look busy while my brain attempts another jump
start. I spy a stamp with a built-in ink pad and begin working it in my hands, scrutinizing carefully the mechanics behind its simple function. I notice the red, spongy pad that is hidden inside and, with all
capacity of reason currently out of order, I poke it. That seems to have woken me up as now I am faced with a strikingly obvious red spot glistening on the tip of my finger and the question of what exactly I am to do about it. Washing it off doesn't seem to be an option - I make enough trips to the washroom as it is, people are going to get suspicious. Instead, I carefully begin dabbing my finger on a post-it pad, creating a gradient line of little red dots riddled with the rather
incriminating identifying map of my prints. Perhaps that wasn't the best idea I could have come up with after all. While the spot no longer looks as though I had attempted to sign a binding contact with my own blood it is, frustratingly, still there. I attempt to be optimistic as I settle on the notion that at least I no longer run the risk of leaving little inky smudges on everything I touch. Still, the spot has got to go. Out of desperation I wet my opposing thumb with my tongue, which unfortunately tastes of dust and I am appropriately disgusted, and begin rubbing at my finger tip. It almost works, except that now my thumb is stained a rosy shade. Curses, this isn't working and it is more than evident what I have done. I decide to take this as a sign and after hanging my post-it art off of my monitor's edge, it's back to work for me. Another exciting afternoon in Cube City.

bird noise by ~arr-matey on deviantART


An unfortunate scan of a painting from the Classroom series: Contemporary Literary Theory

From Saussure - consciousness as determined by differential meaning in language.

no noise = no trouble
noise = there is trouble

rudimentary form of language
consciousness


I was so inspired by that class.

Acrylic on canvas board.

I feel like this is just as good as flash fiction...

( Rapid fire msn-ing featuring Jeffu... )

We will always be the young
They, the old
And the children will stay
Free



January 17, 2007
Untitled
I found this scratched into the margins of my notes while studying for finals.
I had forgotten all about it until now and barely remember writing it in the first place.
Just a few lines I was musing over, really raw.

This is my life. This is my home.
This is all I have ever known.
Should I leave? I can’t just leave.
Where would I go?
There isn’t anything out there,
nothing that would really ever let me in.
I would be made to sit on the front steps
where I’d still be able to watch the distant
flashes of fire and hear the thunder
following me from the place
I had left behind.
Leaving doesn’t mean that it ends
and it won’t ever leave me alone.
There isn’t anything else out there,
and this is my home.
This is all I have ever known.


January 2007
Title: [withheld]
I've been really busy and felt bad about not having any new pieces to put up here.
I wrote this very quickly in a flash of inspiration during class one day.
It's pretty rough but I just jotted it down as it came to me.
I'm not giving the title because I'm interested to know what you think it's about.
Who's speaking? What's happening?
I'd love to hear what you have to say.

I want to have you
in a cheap New York apartment
a relic in all its history
desperate beneath the shroud
of a world that could care less
our lust drowned out
by the roar of Broadway
and the city shining
like a censor unto itself


older, circa 2005(?)
untitled
nothing spectacular, still fond of it though
it was, shall we say, inspired
posting for the sake of reflection

My magnetic poetry is rather optimistic.