Emotional Robots

Haven't we all seen enough robots destroying humanity movies to have learned by now?

so...

I just got a call from Martin Corless Smith. Turns out I got into Boise State already. With the full ride and teaching assistantship.

Crazy huh?

I feel wierd. And excited.

The Fog (or how to know you're dying slowly from the elements)

The white cloud stops us. It is too thick, wraps us like a chenile blanket, little whisps of chenile sticking to our skin, caught in our hair. We hug the blanket to us because it's all we have. We love the blanket. Cool against our cool skin. This white, white blanket.

RIP Anna Nicole

Do you think it had something to do with that TrimSpa shit?

I'm more concerned with getting into BSU. I'm very nervous. I just finished my assistantship app and shipped it out. I'm very nervous. All weak-like in the stomach region.

I "heart" the BBC.

Global Warming.

Amber's Poems

The Solar System, (or Why Humanity is Failing at the Speed of Light)

In my dream I'm singing "she's like the wind next to me," but Patrick Swayze is far away on the television and nobody is dancing, even dirty. I carry a red balloon, just one, and wear a scar and the sun is shiny in the sky, which I know because I looked and it was a dream so I didn't go blind but saw that the sun was actually a lie. A shiny lie. A refinished lie. A lie waxed on and on.

Things of note

a l i c e    b l u e returns

read poems by me and others at coconut and dusie.

also, out there, new octopus.

go here

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/science/nature/6298467.stm


way too lazy to make a pretty link. but you should read this, and download the pdf to get the whole scoop.

Sulfur

The sound is a reflection.
The sound is a burden.
The sound is the sunrise in an orange streak.


The peak is a curve and a bell.
We are all listening and dying.
We are deaf in the streets with
lights as lines of script in our past.

The script is a poem.
The past is a poem.
This poem is a poem.
The sound is a poem
made of water and fog.

Morning Adventure

Slipping to the bus stop on ice, then waiting. Two people beside me: a portly old man with a grandfatherly face and a green beret...buying an eight ball from a kid who couldn't have been more than 16. They talk about the guy they almost killed behind an alley. Grandfatherly bonding. Mentor.

Then reading. Reading on the bus. Reading Joshua Clover on the bus and damn it's good. Fourier Series. A discovery about this beautiful book that I own. The cover has a flower/dandelion split between the front and back covers, the spine a dividing line. This is just a fancy book jacket, folded over the real cover. It comes off. Reveals a poster of a dandelion and the simplest cover underneath.

Then Downtown Seattle. Riding past store fronts. Banana Republic doing their windows. Naked mannequins. Naked Male Mannequins...and all that that implies...

Something interesting always happens when you ride the bus. I love it.

alice

I need the poetry submissions narrowed to 30 and the prose down to 20 in about a week. Now's the time to ask me for help. I'm unemployed and unforgiving.

Why the Universe is a Cold Hard Place (and other tales)

The sun died in the apple orchard because there was a worm in it. If it wasn't for the chewy center all would have been absolved. After the feast, there was another feast in mourning. We ate all night. In the morning it was dark and the trees were leafless and rigid and to touch was like shivering and nobody cried at all.

You can now read my old story on juked

Though you've probably read it before. The Apocalypse of John.

Juked Took an Old Story of Mine

woo hoo.

Poem written at work...a line a day

This room is a dying ship, which means
in simple terms, a structure
standing in for music.

There are almonds on the ground
in place of gravel.

We eat what ends between our toes
forgetting the importance of respiration.

The hull is sore.
Our mouths are ragged.
Eighth notes standing in.

Holiday Schmoliday

I'm gonna kick my mistletoe
up your candied ass.

"Truthiness" is named Word of the Year

Read about it in the Seattle PI.

Guerilla Poetics

Guerilla Poetics. I have mixed feelings about stuff like this. Feels a little like guerilla advertising to me. Not that I'm against guerilla advertising, but if you're advertising your advertising, no? I don't know. Maybe not. I'm probably being ridiculous. It just sounds like advertising and it yanks out the thirteen-year-old-girl in me. Anyway. I'm sure Will's seen this already. He's seen everything. He's probably even shown it to be before. I should eat something.

absent

check out a new online journal absent

a lot of neat work & poems from fellow greener Nicholas Perrin (whom I don't actaully know, but whose name i recognize from slightly west, confirmed in the biographical note as producer of cross cultural poetics for the last two years)