It is hard to sleep again. Maybe because I can't quite find a comfortable position with my shoulder, or that I stink from my worcestyshire sauce supper. But I want to mostly blame it on the humidity.
It just seems like I hear Mahler's "Ich bin von der Welt abhanden gekommen" in my head wherever I go. My intro is mostly lame, so I need to talk about mahler, something, someone, a thought to distract my mind from sleeplesness. or maybe just a mug of hot milk and honey.

He took a kitchen knife
and poked a kinch
into the tomatoe
probing for parasites
anyways
he felt that life we perceive
are polaroid snapshots
one at a time
developing the present
through the hard pressed memories
reacting to the emotion
of self awareness

Lovely how I can spit such redundant poetry into the space if my mind when my eyes are clogging with tiredness. And then there is always that presssure to include god somewhere here. but he isn't like that. if god was here, I wouldn't be real, or that is he would be talking to fake. not that I am wishing him away. its just I feel quite not adequate for the most sanctimonious abstract in all of man's conception. god is not even that. so how can I feel like this would be a right time for god to be in my polarois snapshot. in other words, how rude would that be?

those mornings are the stranges occurances throughout the years, that cannot be described at beautiful or horrible, but as truth, since it pulls like a knot in my chest in the form of a shadow that I cannot grasp (like counting and forgetting a number), pulling the stings attached to my limbs through the will of something hidden inside of me, where I want to leave all behind, including my brown worn wallet, my dried hearding aids, and forget packing and start walking west towards plains to climb over the mountains into alaska, where I would hunt with a rifle and a knife to make living easier than in walmart, and laying on rocks and leaves would make no difference since sleep would only be missing that number I try to keep counting while I live here and now with my clothes on, working an honest living with a job that only is a job and school is only school, where the bed I sleep on is no more comfortable than the waking of the day, and god would is trapped in all of this inside of my introverted folded world, that world where I am naked and making no difference to myself with others, but for the bare life I have, that I am hiding.

Spitting on a page

This is no poem entry. I just wanted to make the announcement that I received a letter the other work that one of my poems will be published in "Immortal Verses" by poetry.com .
I know the title of the collection is a little ostentatiously demanding, as well getting a poem published by poetry.com must have ment I sought some reward by posting my poems there. Well I jsut have to say whatever. Its a first step, even if my poem is being spitted on a page.
They are planning to publish the book this summer. So if you really care to spend ridiculous money on a ridiculous collection of poems by a ridiculous site, I am sure you can find it at their website.
take care friends, the few silent that actually read this.
Roy