a++ would smuggle into space again

Twittermagnets! This is fun, although my competitive edge wants a bash.org for them. My favorite (not by me) is blinding her cat to heal a boy, mostly because that's a competent plot summary of the Lieutenant of Inishmore. Some other favorites:
* perhaps decay, baby.
* we gaze, / clean but boastful.
* some let the universe down more than / perhaps i would.
* i heart pie?

Mine:
* i miss her secret salt, / steam - daughter / born liquid & grass, / an insolent star.
* think it over - / will we fall? / greedy shiver, / drink down all.

Fair warning: it is probably way too easy to make a poem about the bleeding poison walls of your heart.

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I'm in the On the Corner café (the corner in question is Divisadero and Fell) which is pretty much my new favorite place to hang out; it's just down the block from a Gamescape and Comix Experience, where I bought The War on Ellsmere last week. I took great pride in going in and saying, "Hi, so, I need some Blue Beetle and maybe some Runaways, and then an independent comic of which you only have one copy! What do you think about Amazons Attack?" while dressed up all skirts and heels for an interview. I should really hang out at s_d again, it makes me feel very full of cred.

I've only been making unlocked posts lately because I'm not sure how to handle DW crossposting on filters; I haven't even friended everyone on DW, let alone thought out my filter policy. There are some things kicking around in my brain, though. In particular lienne has sparked me to do some thinking about an area of my life that usually goes unexplored with his recent string of posts. Hmmm~

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I think I actually like If You Seek Amy, based on the music video and all the cardancing I do to it. Don't tell me I'm dead to you because I'm dead to me, believe me. On a less depressing note, this is pretty awesome.

I wrote this in February, I think.

The year won't have poetic resolution.
December ends in cold, misfortune, and cold.
So, here I am, reliving evolution:

in January, slime and dull pollution,
by June, the smog lifting, legged and finned and bold.
But years have no poetic resolution--

November brings the slowest dissolution,
our hard-earned spines unnecessary. Old.
It's hard as hell reliving evolution,

because a part of living is solution,
the dying not unnatural, left with bones and gold.
These are the years poetic. Resolution:

I will not look too long at my dilution,
I will believe that I am something to hold,
Forget the natural end of evolution:

a slow and sweet protracted execution.
Remember the giving over to new and gold
the new year, with poetic resolution.
And wait for next year for the revolution.

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So! Closing music for my play. "Ghost" or "Holland 1945"?

This is an accumulation of thoughts that I might eventually go back to. I just -- it's interesting to me right now, for no reason other than that I have homework I should be doing so I can't be online or NaNoing, but I can get away with pontificating in a text window so long as my mother doesn't look over here.

( portrait of the artist as a young wench )

Things I have discovered about myself: when I am in a good peaceful mood, I become an egotist. SO HOW ARE ALL OF YOU