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Below are the 10 most recent journal entries.

	2008.06.04  22.51 UNTITLED FIVE HUNDRED 1 we line ourselves up on the interstate, tail-lights as textbook signal-flares. the deep city-grey cycles about us, and we push the bobby pins into the speaker-jacks, rattling the static; heavy piano songs plunder our lungs like magpies. 2 the bones on our plates become less of a thing of contention. something we drum out on tabletops backflips into something we sing out loud: the filaments in our teeth are magnetized & locked together. we look into mirrors as everything turns mid-air & suddenly that glass jaw you have is concrete: a bear trap. 3 sometimes, sleep is dangerous -- like when it finds you going one-sixty on the sea-to-sky highway / it is less so when you are sliding in and out of some violet light, pulled back ashore by the suburbs & the birdsong, still dreaming of the amazon river. a data code jumping through your muscles is what strikes you, when it strikes you. for example, when i find myself still fingering the ankle-bones we left in my grandparents' rice empires & you love me for that, i can see your synapses firing up like runways. i can see your synapses firing up for me.
		for the fatherless in ypsilanti

	2008.05.02  22.13 HIGHWAY blackjack raven overturns rocks as a mirror, whistling as the ghosts cars blow in, all sirens flaring. brokenly, the glassjaw roadsigns waver in the wind. our convergence on these common paths is a reasonless overture to moving forward -- metaphorically. we consider the lost dogs in their back-window frames, matching footsteps to ours when the roads open up to them, even going mad under powerlines as we do. like venn-diagrams, we clothe ourselves in similarities, not so tied to geography as we are to potpourri, rice crackers, rings of peach candy. all wheels move more slowly. we exfoliate our skins of self-pity. like plastic shopping bags, they play into the wind, where they turn & turn endlessly, useless & ultimately unavoidable.
		for the fatherless in ypsilanti

	2008.03.12  18.30 THE DOGS THAT CHASE AFTER US with jungles like this, how could we not dis appear? to shed the final sandpaper progress of aircraft through that kenya-blue sky: that was all we needed, really, keeping watch from treetops. while your mother checked the messages, while your brother checked the mail, while you rooted through acceptance letters, believing -- we had hooked our lives in you, laying light upon your trembling eyes. interrogation time! -- where were you, that hour when the whole world was a woman adjusting her timepiece? correct answer: "i was turning my shins into jeep tyres, i was on my way out. my lover had found pakistan & was drawing it softly about her, tenderly making whole again the perforated blanket. she had telephoned, & the poem wavering on the water-cusp in a test tube had vanished: a ghost. my best friend was in grozny, wiggling his toes in some pulled-rag carpet of warheads. i was leaving to see him, drawing lines to further define my field of vision. you should know, occasionally i exist as some flash of astigmatism, some little vision hung like a scapular about the holy vault of his neck. if that is the first exhibit well-defined in your pocket, then remove it, i will point it out to you, me as an apparition." do you understand our expectations now? do not exist as some gratified claim. if your best friend loves the oil rig, then follow him there, comb the salt from his hair, remember how you have tried to forgive yourselves for one another, remember how you have failed. do not relate yourself any longer to those interior piano scales. pack cloth, pack bandages, pack your heart & set sail.
		for the fatherless in ypsilanti

	2008.02.26  00.17 VANCOUVER, AGAIN (or, ARE SOBER RELATIONS TOO MUCH TO FUCKING ASK FOR?) everyone looks the same in vancouver, it's true. even on those stop-motion bus-rides, even in those neighbourhoods unchanging, there are mirrors & mirrors of the same piano spring & those new vegas houses, conspiring, there is someone in a coat with a fur collar trembling in some circulated wind. god, how we love them and the voids that they occupy. how we love the heart-shaped sandtraps & the guards with fingers hooked, conversing across a chain-link fence -          "the building isn't finished yet."         "the buildings are never finished." the buildings are of the opinion that life is most enjoyable when you are half-naked & raking the sky. we are of the opinion that we should be half-naked, period. when the foreign students are slapping their IDs down, are drunk & circling irritably, they may take comfort in that we are doing so too.
		for the fatherless in ypsilanti

	2008.02.24  10.04 OBJECTIVES to find insurgency here is to find insurgency sleeping. in paper-white sandos, we tread through perpetual malls with our eyelids skidding / with undressed feet, we pump the jungles with kerosene to burn up pathetically to go, ultimately, unnoticed. only you on your metal tanks are lauded with roses. a rustle of treads & a city is on its knees, every neon sign begging & pornographic. listen - if you absolutely must fuck us blind with objectives, at least acknowledge the consequential children of your redeye conglomerates / the shining fingerless orphans of globalization. at least have the decency to look them absolutely in the eye as they are palming car windows & relenting, reminding you again & again of yourself of yourself of yourself Music: Stay Ups : The Most Serene Republic
		for the fatherless in ypsilanti

	2008.02.20  21.40 STATIC IN AMERICA (or, Response to a Lunar Eclipse) 1. static in america! jump-shoot us through our own blustering grids. around which lights do we prosper? - a friend lighting looses, a colour T.V. we turn it up & drown the wolverines. we are eye-holed with fright at those interminable woods whose winds still corrugate our windowsills, whose beasts are still conjured up to turn-tail, half- yawning, at all garbage-tip corners. 2. to live & die with a shotgun, scrapping it out: we desired this surreptitiously, squirreling birdshot under bedcovers, hooking eyes on each other like a smuggled missile, like the khyber pass. 3. it is a widely known fact that you are no good for anyone but those legs on the road. 4. a sonnet about negroes - she reads it & blushes in spite of the liberated time period, feels the flush of pine & not mango between her woolen knees. there is an anxious mumbling of automobiles & she sits jiggling a foot waiting. 5. you are laughing like ayn rand again like céline on the sunshine mimosa riverboat momentarily loosed from that perpetual darkness. someone's mouth is macaroni, making sloppy cheese sauce of "i'll be careful, i promise" & you are dancing out.
		for the fatherless in ypsilanti

	2007.12.05  21.11 EDITH PIAF your shoulders feel no need for edith piaf and her phonographs: they have already fled the years in farther ways, relinquishing the apartment-building clearcuts to shake the barking treetrunks, to hide out in canopies, laughing - to hide out in canopies, insane. below, you test the pH levels of everything, fingers burning in perpetual alternate lighting. you are enduring redeye flights, or at least anticipating your endurance of redeye flights, and find that your 12+ hours in those pressure-calmed cabins are made so much easier sans épaules. sometimes, you remember feeling like a hopper painting. sometimes, you remember feeling like a novel coupland wrote. the sky falsifies itself and you sparrow-step to some tricolour blues. you exhibit your inner arms as vessels solely for graphite dust, and dream endlessly and specifically about ascending clock towers. vancouver throws temper-tantrums more than you do these days, but you are still the one with a back like a cigarette lighter. reduced to a silhouette in a window, you are still the one with the throat like a wrench.
		for the fatherless in ypsilanti

	2007.11.07  23.25 FUGUE we sensed its strange occurrence the second the sun propped its yellow elbows up on the sill. something was blowing about unsettlingly, filling all the rooms up like they were balloons we were breathing into. you turned up a little more often & something turned up all the screws along my inner arms. the dresses hung themselves up. you turned up, and, roughly, i gauged your game voice, wondering at this new interference. in miniature, we rooted through those nosebags of affliction, only ever finding finger-sieves and raw oats. pacing school perimeters, we would notice & re-notice leafy parallelisms, posessing no further verbal potential, having finally run out - we had lost footing, scrambling down the sides of a trophy bowl. everything was gold, like licking teeth; everything was brown and dribbling coffee, like a lack of motor skill development. certain things laughed immeasurably and our breath escaped in little worried starts, ached through mirrored halls, tiptoed into the shivering avenues: we were measuring ourselves, always, we were straining for the notches in the doorjamb lines, moving toes in thick boots, clutching at each other with escalating fervor as our ambition filled the streets like glass and we lay our legs among it, howling for attention... somewhere, all the tiny dim-sum fingers swiveled to face an eastward grin. god stirred a bowl of cereal. i cracked teacups like eggs, tumbling further over kitchen floors, hands fugueing on their own, remembering the bicycle rides, ducking highway-knives, the resounding excavations, the scattered shorelines patterned after a shock of pencil lines, the corners to lean and tremble upon, fingers fumbling for the other's. hands fugueing and remembering - discovering, beyond the cramps of ruled paper, the neccessity of the small primal urges to circle close, pick the bones, and finally plunge away. Music: I Don't Know What I Can Save You From : Kings of Convenience
		for the fatherless in ypsilanti

	2007.10.21  11.51 FOR THE BEST PEOPLE IN THE WORLD, PLEASE DO NOT GET HIT BY CARS ANYMORE, PLEASE DO NOT BE SAD ANYMORE (for grace & bingo) to be able to arrange ourselves amidst the mirror-strings of rain & sweetly dialogue: remember when we were caught in this? remember when our shoes filled up and we were laughing & stomping through tyre-track lakes? remember when i fell asleep in your bed? remember when you fell asleep in mine? remember when i kept your clothes for ages? all the time, there was a thrill like the inside of a backpack & like turtledoves, we fled the magician's hat. somehow, i never knew too much about lace trimming but it was ok, sometimes you needed my swiss-army knives, my spreading ink bruises, or we would reach a compromise, colour our tongues with chocolate cake, spin umbrellas for cab drivers with lungs like fare meters. god, when you got caught on fenders, then side-mirrors, then pavement, i was so scared. when you stamped mascara into your cheekbones and clawed at payphones in the rain, something caught itself in my throat and hasn't left since you joked around half-heartedly and i could hear your sad smile from miles away. - remember when we were all wearing sad smiles for smaller reasons? they were like bridges, then, but now there are other ways to cross water, and we are holding up the crystals of each other, noting the light. TOOTH-WHISTLING learn to whistle through your teeth & this city will give you something new to write about, like how the exchange students kick about other-language'd notions of each other and you're just a string of shuffled tagalog-letters on a clean, clean bus. usually the rain follows you about like a lousy dog, but eventually umbrellas become the same sort of twitching reflex as too many pencil drawings or that endless wrist-hankering after resin violins and anyway, there is some small delight in propping your sneakers up on the radiator to dry. certain sentence-structures recall SAT scores; others, more personable, know what electrons to pull for tiny recollection, like a pinhole winter morning, some shutter-click of raised voices ricocheting through the rooms, and with dirty ears, yours still kneels at the keyhole now and then, when you are not plying it with your epic music, your missed-phone-call cacophony, your worried alarm-clock sounds. somehow, you can never get up on time, but at least breakfast is simple, at least you can still sport your boy-friend's scarf when you've forgotten to dress warmly and the day is brooding hopelessly like little miss rejection. (you've forgotten how to brood like little miss rejection. you take this as a very good thing, indeed.)
		for the fatherless in ypsilanti

	2007.10.20  11.46 LIFE-TREMORS terribly inadequate, we would often gnaw open our own flossy seams to spare the life-tremors the trouble. indeed, life's outer chambers were drafted for us and us only, resplendent in synthetics and this wind like a birdcage sigh: we, in the paper slippers, were to turn its corners, ceaselessly. but maybe through a hole-punched skylight there would occur the flight of a water bird, pure wings and stockings. or the wind that we'd mimic with defeated exhalations would suddenly take a turn through an apple field or a room dashed with new paint or some other event that would stir the heart to new & unfamilliar movement in recognition. like dogs, we would fall about the source, nosing the coffee grounds & water coolers, the paper, the silicon chips. - waiting, inevitably, for our coming undone, for our unravelling in a parasail of ribbons. PHANTOM SWIFTLETS somewhere, there is birdsong but no elusive swiftlet. entangling ourselves in gin-chairs, pointing up, we are never too struck by the staring-games of cupboards, only curiously dredging our fingers through their loose emptiness. kortedala, with trumpets, becomes a synonym for this kind of sorrow, as does the act of jacketing oneself with philosophy books as does vancouver, in his frowns of cloud cover - (it is he who we find so readily in mirrors, breathing cooly, staring back) SHORT & somewhere i am yelling - o my love! shake the coats out! knowing that vancouver is returning to bed & books & gin & i am not so reluctant to follow him
		for the fatherless in ypsilanti