i need a url for this pic... heh

zeitgeistmovie.com

everyone should watch this...all of it.


I hope everyone had a good festivus, here are some aired grievances for the world:

1. To everyone at my high school minus about two handfuls: die.
2. I hate people in my generation, we are the most inter-connected, technological advanced age ever, and instead of doing something important-ending hungry, poverty, class, capitalism, materialism. People want to play guitar hero and watch youtube videos of themselves getting kicked in the scrotum.
3. I have to wait until like march to know what college I'm going to go to, but everyone of my friends knows like, now.
4. I can't think of anymore right now, but there is a shitload of grievances, let me tell you.
   

Blazed

all the arguments of the world, rest between the two poles of black and white.
they swirl in thre demnsions so the make a double tear drop, attached at the drop, not the tear, but then as if pulled by a cyclone, it swils so that the tear drop becomes- for a moment- a cyrilinder, than if pushed by a parralle wind, it formed a timeglass. the white sands and the black sands would roll so fast around the glass that the shade would be grey, but the ill lighting of the human mind makes the decicevness of our own minds be not the blue ambiugity that we see it as, it is the vaccum of dissention and arguement, not the actually facts or the clues of reality, that shapes our lenses. that is the energy that pushes our stick to move sand...black stick, white stand.

y's and k's

If ice-rock fell at my toes
I'd hurl it at that damn phoenix,
so cocky in its resilience,
instead I kick at fire dust.

Which gets in my eye, scratched cornea,
like a DJ-backwards-so I can see
and almost, oh god jesus almost,
I feel her. I come so close to the warmth
of her breath flittering the whitest hairs
on my neck that these swollen memories
almost distract me from my swollen member.

Now it levitates again, foul fowl.
More dust-more lust-more reminisces
of dingy couches, whose 70's
floral patterns are high-tided by
quickly vanishing dresses and belts,
and its distinct "I've been alive
for 65+ years" smell is
temporarily covered by
the sounds of our minds leaving us
to mingle off into somewhere,
certainly not this basement
where our bodies-lips and noses
and who knows what else-are clanging
into each other like pots and pans.

and when the crimson rooster crows,
and my eyes fade from pitch black to
awoken, i expect to see
her, a visage of Helen, but
of course she is not to be found.
Which makes me want to launch my one
thousand microscopic white ships
all the more, but where is Troy?