Mratterday

So, signed up for Foundations of Learning and Memory. That's neat.

And April is happening soon. That's mega-tight.

But shwhat I really want to talk about is

A DEFENSE OF AWKWARDLY PLACED STEPPING STONES!

So, in front of the dining hall they made this little pathway out of stone that leads from these stair things to the entrance of the dining hall/student center thing. And everyone always complains because these blocks are

real, real, real, real close together. It makes for awkward foot placement most of the time. Even the people who won the Student Assembly election included changing these stones in their "platform".

Well I've got something to say about this! And I've got an infinite amount of electronic paper to say it!

But I'll try to be brief.

The other day I was using these steps as I walked out of the student center and I walked the path and it was awkward and my foot was inbetween the steps half the time, or skipping steps, or just completely rolling my ankle to the point where it violently detaches and lands in some girls CURRY FLAVORED RICE!

But I walked it, and then I realized something. So I turned completely around for no apparent reason and walked the path again. But this time I walked

real, real, real, real slow. slowly. I walked the path really slowly and my foot cleanly landed on a stone every single time.

And I was like, "Oh! I see what you did there. If I slow down as I'm going to eat or take a break from classes or do whatever, I can walk on the path. But if I'm in a hurry and just trying to plow through every part of my day then I'm going to mess up and break my ankle and be angry about some stones in the ground."

I think that's an important....message?...for a walkway to try to convey. SLOW DOWN! There's no prize at the end for getting through college as fast as possible. Instead of speedwalking through everything and then complaining about the parts that don't match up with your relentless pace to no where, why don't you just listen to the nice stone steps and really put some thought into something simple? Like walking to the dining hall for Kim's Veggie Enchiladas.

All I'm saying is it's good to change up your pace every once in a while, especially slowing down. And don't just change things because they don't fit right away, try to...I don't know, listen and find a meaning that'll make you start jumping up and down and sharing candy and stuff. It can't hurt.

That's all I'm gonna say! You can read it again if you want. I ain't goin' charge you!

Registratin' as a Senior

Wowee! Upperclassmenship definitely has its perks.

Look at me, getting into that Advanced Creative Writing Class. Gosh-em golly, the goal class I set for myself to get into freshman year and I've finally realized it. Butt-pats for me!

And today I ran thirty-two hundred-one hundred ninety nine and ONE meters (3200) in

exactly ten minutes! 10:00.10.

Soon that number before the colon will be a single digit. Very soon.
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One more month until 21!

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Memory is a powerful thing. Maybe the MOST powerful thing? Maybe...

I like memories. Memory is like vomiting if vomiting was awesome. I like when something happens to you, or you do something, and it sticks with you. Like it really sticks out and you can spend however long you want just mulling it over and examining it and making meaning of it and it doesn't even have to be recent. You can go back to your memories from years and years ago and evaluate them and find new things in them and it's like your editing and analyzing your own life.

Then I was going to make an analogy to the digestive system where it'd be cool if we had a special pouch by the spleen where we could store really good meals, and if you couldn't find anything good to eat you could just regurgitate it and chew it over a second time.

But memory is even better than that!

I think memory is important for the quiet moments. Because you can't always be around people or doing something and lose yourself. Sometimes there's nothing to do and you just have to be around yourself. And that self is memory. And if you can't control that or like what you see then you're in a pretty scary place.

MEMORY IS SO FREAKIN' COOL! ISN'T IT!? IT'S LIKE THIS REALITY THAT WE TREAT AS FACT BUT IT'S REMOVED FROM OUR SENSES WHICH ARE ALREADY BIASED AND AT THAT POINT IT'S JUST UP TO WHATEVER WE WANT TO MAKE IT.

Um...uh...I have too much to say and not enough words.

memory is...crazy. It's like a pie in a pie and you make the pie based off another pie but you are the pie and it affects all other future pie and at the same time you have to try to balance creating a functional pie to match up with other pie but still make it our own so other people can't take or control your pie and then alcohol makes the pie into like a ghost pie and everyone tells you about this pie you made/ate and you don't have a pie for that but it still happened! That pie existed! And you were there! And you made it! But you don't have it! You only have copies of the pie.

Respect pie.

I CAN BE A HAUNTED PIE!

It's Another Friday!

What say you, Needlessly Depressing Nectarine?

The smile on her mouth was the deadest thing alive enough to have strength to die.

Awww...

Needlessly Depressing Nectarine...you've been reading too much Thomas Hardy again.

And of these fries one and all I weave the song of myself!

Thanks Pile of French Fries. Someone had to lift the mood.

Happeh Friday

This Will Not Stop

Do...do I have some peanut butter stuck in my craw?

No, Dude! You suck MY kiss.

Thus spoke the Holy Corn Ghost: Do not fear, my son. For I will entrust in you the funky wisdom of The Husk

It's Spring everyone everywhere. That means Good Times. The food is alive. The clouds are billowy. The Outside has rehabilitated itself once more and is safe to venture out in. And to be fair, its relapse into hate and death was pretty mild this year.

 Let's be thankful of our skin and now that it's warm again we can crawl out of that fort in our minds we retreat into to block out the cold. Now we can feel our whole body. It's all of us. We can really feel it moving and pulsing with a rhythm.

And that rhythm is called freshness. Breathe it in.

Right about now, the Funk Soul Brother.

unlistless

First of all, things that are MEGA-TIGHT.

1- Pamela. I just discovered a comment on my 500th post post from Pamela who is apparently a fan. That's amazing. Haha, thank you Pamela and thank you Internet.

...that's...about it. If you want to be mega-tight like Pamela or Anonymous, you should leave comments about stuff.

Chill Oatmeal with Oats tastefully scattered around its backside? = MEGA-TIGHT!

I guess it falls on me then to give you stuff to comment on.

CHALLENGE ACCEPTED FACELESS MASSES!

Speaking of faces...

Facebook. I de-activated my account. It's been gone since Thanksgiving and I have no problem with that. In fact, I encourage anyone considering leaving it to do so right now. Just do it. See what happens. Leave it for a week and see if you can come up with a reason why you should go back.

So that's my challenge to you, faceless masses. Aren't you the least bit curious as to what would happen if you de-activated your account for a week or two?

In my experience, nothing happens. You just waste a whole lot less time on facebook.

I don't think Facebook is a bad thing (even though that is what I think). I'm not trying to argue why you shouldn't have one (even though there are definitely arguments to be made).

I just want people to try not having one and see what they think. Take a time-out and see if you feel compelled to go back. If you do, that's fine. I know last year I was seriously considering de-activating mine but I was afraid or something. I don't know. I remember that whatever it was, there was a really strong compulsion to NOT LEAVE. Because I was afraid I'd miss out on too much and lose contact with...with SOMETHING. And whatever it was, was REALLY IMPORTANT.

So I wish someone had told me that there was nothing important. All it was was a feeling of importance that I think Facebook and a lot of other people work very hard to maintain. Social Networking is the FUTURE and if you aren't on it the FUTURE TRAIN is gonna leave the station and you'll be left in Pastville trying to shove potatoes up your nose because you forgot what eating was and now you're slowly dying of malnutrition because you're too stupid to put food in you.

But...that...um...the metaphor kind of got out of control but....that doesn't happen.

And I know a lot of people would say that they "barely ever use Facebook" and that it's not a big part of their life but...

really?

really?

...no. Let's be honest. You're creeping. And you're caught up in drama that wouldn't concern you at all in the real world. And you're wasting your ti-

Okay, I'll stop there. That's it. That's all I gotta say.

This eye is TOO GREEN!

do people like the food pictures? I like them. This one made me laugh.

Meanwhile Back in the City

Something Interesting...

Where I challenge myself to think of something interesting.

If someone burst into my room right now and hit me over the head with a guitar and it sent me flying out this third floor window and I landed in the little courtyard and lost all feeling in my body except for one finger, that'd be kind of interesting.

And if a little leprechaun appeared before me and danced on my chest and said, "I've put a bomb in you, if you wiggle your finger I'll stop dancing."

And he'd just keep dancing and dancing. And it's like, does that also mean the bomb will go off? What's the bomb made of? Maybe it's made of cotton candy.

So he dances on my chest for seven years and finally I decide it's time to wiggle my finger to see what will happen and I do and he multiplies into...well...no

he just kind of crumples up and starts shaking horribly and then folds into his own belly button and drags the entire universe in with it and when I open my eyes there's this gigantic staircase in front of me with cannons lining either side and as the leprechaun, who now looks like an old dutch woman with false teeth and no forehead, is descending the staircase the cannons are firing enormous dolphins at each other. So the dolphins collide in mid-air above her heard and they just explode into fireflies and music and when she gets to the bottom of the staircase she says she's thirsty so a three-wheeled rabbit man comes flying out of a hole in the ceiling which is really the floor because everything is upside down and hands her glass of milk which she drinks upside down through her nose

before realizing she's lactose-intolerant so the lactose has to sit on the back of the bus and use different water fountains inside her digestive system and suddenly I'm in her digestive system and I want to be friends with the lactose because I've realized the common bonds of humanity that unite us all but that causes me to become an outcast and drives me to become a bassist in a punk band that plays shows in the rough side of the duodenum and in the middle of all my crazing and partying and never sleeping and stout hunting I have this moment of clarity where I remember my life when I was sitting at this computer writing this all down but then I remember that that wasn't even right because really I'm just a collection of molecules on a rock circling a big ball of fire with other rocks and then I can't maintain that so I fall back down into myself and look under a cup that's been turned over since the beginning of the semester and inside are three tiny moons all orbiting each other

and then for dinner I eat a little more broccoli than usual.

That would be...interesting.

ugh....ick, I just threw up in my mouth a little bit.

Like, seriously. That's not a comment on anything that I just said. I'm just telling you as a fact that I threw up in my mouth a little bit just now. Which I also find interesting.

Good day.

BANG A GONG! GET IT ON!

It's Friday

Here's a happy pile of quinoa to celebrate!

YAY! IT'S A COMPLETE PROTEIN!

COMPLETELY PROTEIN COMPLETE!

Hell is What You Create

when you try to create your own world.

Milton implies this in Paradise Lost.

This stuck out to me for a lot of reasons.

First of all, this:



So in some sense I can see where Milton is coming from.

But setting aside things that are already clearly demonic,

I don't agree. At all. I think making your own world is perfectly legitimate. It makes sense to me, at least.

I'm not saying I'm going to change, It's just a weird feeling to have one of the greatest poets of the English language reach his pasty, skeletal hand through almost four hundred years of being dead and backhand you across the face as he spells out your perception of reality.

I mean...I mean, dang! That stings.


Aw, it's okay blueberry muffin. I still think your epistemology is valid and won't lead to eternal damnation.

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In case you haven't noticed, I really enjoy finding images of food with white backgrounds and drawing faces on them with Microsoft paint. It's really great.
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You know how when you got a set of Legos it would come with that booklet to teach you how to make all the cool stuff. And if you trusted the word of the booklet and carefully followed the directions you'd end up with something really cool.

Who ever bothered doing that?

It was way more satisfying to just build a tower with all the pieces and then destroy it. Because it was YOUR tower. Not some booklet thingy. That's just choosing to listen to the booklet and following its instructions. There's no freedom in that. Yeah, without it you won't make anything good but...you know what? Legos aren't that much fun anyway and that's why I started playing video games.
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I JUST WANT TO MAKE MY OWN HAPPINESS!!!

that really sums it all up right there.

The Final Scene of the Final Act of the Final Chapter

of the Final Book of My Epic Beautiful Dark Space Opera

Our hero, Gret Withers, is hanging from a ledge by only the awesome strength of his bionic pinky finger. Swirling below him is a raging black-hole that only grows stronger and more furious as the wounds from all 254 of Gret's consecutive Space-katana battles violently spray blood into the vast deadzone. Of course, his strength would not ordinarily fail him but his final battle has left him infected with trillions of nano-bots that are devouring all of his rock-hard muscle tissue and messing with the hormones in his liver. And now, as he's glistening with sweat and his body is literally being torn apart from the inside his one true love interest that was introduced in like, the second scene of this whole thing, is frantically trying to reach the ledge he's dangling from but the only means of getting there is running DOWN an UP ESCALATOR! Gret hears her trying to save him and cries out,

"Chebberdina! You've come back for me! I thought you'd run off with the Space Pirate King after you'd been deceived by that Space-robot clone of me built by the nefarious Space Herzegovinians!"

"Oh, Gret. When I found out the truth I could only stand to live in the Paradise of being the Space Pirate Queen for only three more years before I figured it'd probably be better if I went back to you seeing as how you didn't technically do anything wrong. But at the same time, as rude as that Space-Robot Clone of you was, everything it said wasn't really that much of a surprise. I could still see you calling me a mal-adapted space wench."

"Oh....well....that's good...and also...I'm sorry I guess. How much longer do you think it'll take you to get down that escalator?"

"It's going really fast. Maybe another five minutes or so. Why don't you tell me about what you've been up to?"

"Ok, I'll see if I can stop these nano-bots from completely severing my shoulder from my body. About an hour ago I destroyed the hive of space-pterodactyls that were trying to blow up the Good-Times so that no one in all the galaxy would have any reason to be grateful for Fridays."

"Oh, that's so interesting. You know, the Space Pirate King just bought a new car and said I could drive it whenever I want. Pretty cool, huh? What was the last thing you bought me?"

"You know what, why don't you try jumping down that escalator? It's kinda easy to jump...you know, cuz we're in space."

"Fine. Avoid the question until you get your way."

And so, as Chebberdina prepares to jump down the up-escalator she trips and begins an eternal space-fall down an up-escalator!

When Gret realizes what has happened he gives up entirely and lets himself fall into the infinite raging abyss. Chebberdina is still falling up that escalator to this day.

This story gets the approval of fancy fez-wearing oranges everywhere!

Tebberity

I think I'm going to go back to Ludwell. But this time, I'm gonna do it right. And by that, I mean...nothing.

But I was thinking about how I'd go to a store (wherever they sell this type of thing) and get a giant sheet of white paper. And I'd hang it up in the living room and just doodle on it a little bit all the time over the year. And other people could come over and doodle on it or doodle-sign it. And at the end of the year I'd have this giant doodle that I could save or burn or give to dumb little kids because they don't know what art is.

And if we filled it up I'd just get another one!

Also I'd get lots and lots and lots of Peace Tea.

Also I'd remake throne chair.

And tapestries!

And christmas lights! So many christmas lights! Living room, bedroom, hallway. All-ways!

And some moldy thing in the fridge!

...not that one.

And speakers for music-tunes.

And a space base WITHOUT a bunk-ed bed. (that one is going to take some crafty crafting)

And a dragon-panda. Like...it's like...breathing-fire thing...black and white...likes sushi...a baby?...I don't know I'm gonna have to think about that one.

But it's going to be really great and greatly real and I don't even care if I'm holed up alone in there for the whole year because I've had enough lack of privacy to last me for the rest of forever.

Senior year is finally going to be housing done right.
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I think writing and anything creative should be a celebration. A celebration of varying degrees but at the center of it all should be an affirmation of life. Even writing about failure, ESPECIALLY failure! And of all the failures, the best one is the failure to communicate. At least for me. You might have your own favorite way to fail but I like communication best.

We all fail to communicate. All the time. Every time. In obvious ways sometimes, like when I saw my RA and he was like, "Hey" and I did that thing where I opened my mouth but my throat kinda closed up and this really faint "hey" came out. But you can never truly understand or truly communicate anything. If you could have that connection, like really have that complete connection, that'd be like sharing the same brain. You'd love that person. How could you not accept them and love them when in that moment they are you and you are them?

Like, we all have our normal relationship with Oreo cookies, and they're awesome. But can you even imagine the uber-consummation you'd feel if you knew that part of you WAS an Oreo cookie and part of an Oreo cookie was YOU? It'd be like this delicious cookie that could completely understand you in every way and then you dunk yourself in milk, eat it, and plow through another sleeve whether they contain parts of you or not because, SHEESH, I ate one Oreo cookie, I better eat twenty.

 You'd have to love yourself first, of course. But let's not dwell on that.

So, by some weird logic, any attempt to write or communicate and share an idea (excluding practical forms of communication necessary for survival like: "Hey, that walrus is reloading its shotgun. Run!") is an attempt to find understanding and in that understanding, love. So how can writing not be a celebration?

Well you might say: but true understanding and communication is impossible. It will always fail. So that's really depressing because that implies that love is impossible and will always fail. I'LL NEVER BE AN OREO COOKIE! Which is true. Kinda. But there's honesty. If you know that all your writing is a failure and you understand that you will fail then you'll be honest. Honest writing is knowing your limits and humor is knowing those limits and breaking them. And you learn those limits through failure! So every time you fail is like a step towards honesty!

That's why I think honesty is the most important thing because that's our way out of our failure. And yeah, honesty can't be perfectly communicated either but it can build trust and maybe that trust can act as a buffer and give us some tolerance for the stupid stuff that doesn't come across right. And if we allow for that wiggle-room in communication then we might come pretty dang close to really understanding and accepting. And you know...like love and happiness and sharing candy n' stuff.

So yeah, writing is a celebration. And hopefully you trust me enough to not hate me for going on that indulgent rant and as an apology I present to you this demonic blueberry muffin I made.

RAWR RAWR RAWR! I LIKE PEA SOUP!!

Crebbles

It's SUNday again! And it's sunny!

What's Fun About a Field of Flowers?

Stomping on them, that's what!
Why put beautiful things at our feet
if we can't squash them and frollick
and feel the delicate colors mash in our toes?

You can plant them. And watch them grow.
And take pride in your creation
but if you just let them be and watch them,
what good is that?

There's beauty in growth
and destruction
but nothing's pretty about staring at something
and watching the life slowly drain out of it like a cock-eyed miserable buzzard with a gimpy leg.

Smash it, pluck it, toss it, celebrate!
then help it grow again.
You are a frivolous god dispensing ribbons of rainbow death in your wake
from which new things bud bursting with the strength of the sun to be released again back into the light.

What's fun about a field of flowers?
I say we get liquor'd up and start a march
and dance a dance and wave a freak flag
like so many technicolor badger carnivals.

It's technicolor badger carnivals all the way down to the dirt.
That's what's fun about a field of flowers.

Shortday

I was in Goodwill today and I realized a common theme in all my favorite stores.

If the change in your ash tray is a viable means of purchasing something at that store--that's a magical store! Those are the only places I ever want to give my business to. In an ideal world. In my fantasy, if I can't afford something I should be able to say, "Hold on, let me go to the ash tray in my car and I'm sure there's more than enough change there to help me buy this." And then I'd fly over the parking lot with my magnificent angel wings.

I like the story of Icarus. Now that I'm thinking about wings and the sun. I guess that's supposed to be a warning about pride and hubris or whatever,

but I think I've learned enough from Professor Kanye to know that if you have wings, WHY WOULD YOU NOT FLY INTO THE SUN?! What better way to die than to fly headlong into a bright shining miracle that taunts us everyday?. Is there any greater fulfillment of the human spirit than to try to capture the Sun?!

We can make popcorn with laser beams! We don't need a god! We are our own god! We have invented a buttery salty concoction that contains more fat than six mcdonalds cheeseburgers!

We've mastered the calorie and now we're slowly killing ourselves with our own genius!

Fly towards the Sun, America. I'll lead the way.
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The future is a scary place.
I refuse to go until I'm older.

Sunsploid

I'm going to bed
with dried sweat
From the sun
and sprinting like mad.
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You know you're in shape when sprinting doesn't hurt. All you feel is an anger at your body for not being able to move its whimpy self any faster.

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You ever find weird things that make you feel alive? They're usually kind of shameful, right? Like sharpening up a candy cane and then accidentally stabbing yourself in the tongue with it. And then maybe you stab yourself on purpose...

Or sitting with your laptop and you become aware of the warmth...on your lap...and then you just kinda press it down and...hold it there. And think about lemurs. It's not a sexual thing! It's an existential experience!

What's interesting is that things that make you feel absolutely dead inside are just as shameful. I had to send out a list of comedians for this committee thing I'm on...and the first thing I went to was a running shoe website. And I just sat there and stared at the homepage of Running Warehouse for a good two minutes before I thought to myself: Andy. Hey Andy. You're supposed to be looking for comedians. Why are you considering watching that informative video on Asics new trail racing shoes for the summer season? What...what are you doing?

Compared to that...the whole laptop warmth on my crotch thing seems noble.

Autobiographical Little Grill Sun Poem

A poem about beauty autobiographical

Hi there beautiful everyone!
I'm just a miner, only five years old,
look at my cart full of diamonds.
I lug it around from town to town.
I go down to Santa Fe even.
And everywhere I go--I get mugged.

My diamonds are for free
they're for all to share
there's no need to knife me in the face.

And you might think it's hard
pulling these diamonds
and only finding greed and disdain
but my friend is the Sun
and he looks down and says,
"All those guys are just a bunch of bulletheads!
You're a star, my boy.
And for all they take
you can give more
so let them fill their pockets
and drag around in their heavy pants
and you'll be light and free
because they can't take your beauty
and the thing that makes you shine.
And it can't weigh you down,
my little chicken pot pie.
Trust me, I'm the sun!"

And yes, I have the cholera
and am slowly diarrhea-ing my self to death
and the birds have grown self-aware and have already conquered the Midwest
but me and this cart full of diamonds

and this tattoo of a plate of pancakes

and this old, old, old, old, old, decrepit general of the Mexican American War

are going to traverse this great land until all the piles of beauty inside us are exhausted
and we can deposit no more
and we will lay down our heads and dream of flamingoes.
pink birds.
ridiculous.

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Read this at the open mic!

Since I was a little late, today will be a double post day!

My hand veins look ridiculous right now.

Fire Alive One

Sunshine up feeling fire alive one!
I walked down cupcake boulevards in a trance to see the wind flowing over grass.
Glass speckled roadside flowering in the light in the motion of the instant!
Smells are growing in the air as scents stretch their twisting tender tendrils.
Tell me, do you think the season suits us?
Spring's embrace comes soon enough and leads the Summer Elephant by the trunk
to a pool smelling of coconut oil and Gatorade and sex and chlorine hair.
If you ever find cool blue speed you should hang on to it
because it will take you to the cliff and hand you a rope and you can swing out
over the archipelago to see palaces and pelicans frozen in crystal by the shock of the instant.
Free form spirals and lines and wires and webs of electricity
spasming in manifest ecstasy and spilling across the sidewalk.
Overpriced pickle juice with undervalued values and a tie and a shirt
and a burning driving home late at night.
I don't want to make sense I want to take pictures of my blurry feet and smash the camera on the ground
and take pictures of that
and lie my bones on bleached wood under watch of the sun with a gallon of tea and my own
peace with the honest instant.
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This one I like.

Also, Suppynabiles.

That is all.

Don't Have Much Time

I want the world to be bigger
and it keeps getting warmer.
I want the days to be longer
and it keeps getting warmer.
I want time to move slower
and it keeps getting warmer.
I want things to be brighter
and it keeps getting warmer.
I want to be better
and it keeps getting warmer.

I want to be hungry
and it keeps getting hotter.
I want to be faster
and it keeps getting hotter
I want to be clearer
and it keeps getting hotter.
I want to be new
and it keeps getting hotter.
I want it to be boiling
and it keeps getting hotter.
I want it to refresh
and it keeps getting hotter.
I want the wind at my back and the sun on my face
and it keeps getting hotter.

I want to look out over the edge
and it keeps getting hotter.

I want it all laid out in stone before me
and it keeps getting hotter.
I'm going to tear it right off the walls and mail it to the world
and it keeps getting hotter.
I'm not going to stop for water
and it keeps getting hotter.
I'm going to sweat it all out
and it keeps getting hotter.
Something will remain, something's going to stick, something's going to last through the storms of sand
and it keeps getting hotter.

Red: I'd rather be burned than pale

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It's kind of hard to burn bridges if you can't light a match and the cold keeps freezing over the water but when the sun- comes to stay I can lay out on my island in the freakin' star position and watch mountains of clouds plow into each- other like cool piles of cream in the blue.

Sand sun sweat and grass
Sound smell feel better
next to silence and crashing fizz.
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I just realized that my dad has a Homer Simpson laugh. You know the one where he giggles in a high-pitched voice? Hee-hee! My dad does that.

After 30 Rock was over I asked, "What's on now?" and my mom said in a low, raspy voice, "The Bachelooorrrrr".

My little sister did nothing of note except...nope. Nothing. I'll make something up. She got hopped up on gummy bears from the Mennonite grocery store and chopped down our pear tree with a squirrel carcass during a snow storm with no shoes on.

That little sister...always...doin' stuff.

Piemtry

Did I say Saturday to Saturday? That doesn't make any sense. We aren't writing poems about Saturn. These are Sun poems.

Obviously I meant Sunday to Sunday. Obviously.

POEM #1

I haven't done this in a while
and it's cold outside.
Snow is coming,
fumbling in the dark,
I forgot to make it fun.
I forgot to make it new.

But the sun is always there, stupid!

Thick waves of sun inside,
rippling spontaneous touches
crafted with a joy
you can hold in your hands
that can show you yourself.
Illuminate the shadows
with an orange glow grown
from soft curves
shaped in a sphere for a second.

Clear away the clouds
to step outside
yourself and be a part of a moment
you leave a part in.

If you leave it all in the light,
there's nothing the dark can take.

Talk with the sun,
breathe it in and
say it loud.
Make it strange and wonderful and
you.

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If I could be a shape-shifter I'd shift my shape into a pentagon. Cuz it's the ultimate shape.

If you threw up on someone's shoes then before they got mad you could just turn into a pentagon. There's nothing they can do at that point. They're forced to submit to your superior will.

Question: if you could be a pentagon would you be made of iron or pretzel?

Spring Break has Lifted Off

WHY AM I WRITING THIS?! THERE'S SUN OUTSIDE!

Also, over Spring Break I'm going to write a poem every day for the Sun. From Saturday to Saturday.