i dreamt i saw you walking
up a hillside in the snow
casting shadows on the winter sky
as you stood there counting crows
one for sorrow, two for joy,
three for girls, and four for boys,
five for silver, six for gold, and
seven for a secret never to be told

there's a bird that nests inside you
sleeping underneath your skin
when you open up your wings to speak
i wish you'd let me in

from "a murder of one" ~ counting crows
'All you zombies'

There are days when i'm so very sure of everything, what i want and how i'm gonna get it - NOW. i'm on the top of the world, ready to bust balls and bleached-blonde bitches.

Then, days like yesterday come along, when i suddenly feel all . . . human . . . and i'm not sure if i should go about things like that or if i really want it to begin with. i think, "maybe this customer is telling the truth . . . " i want to pet kitties and roll on the floor with small children.

Uncertainty slows me down and i feel like i'm moving through hot air, thick with moisture and redolent of a flowery perfume made to render the victims senseless.

today i feel this way, too. i feel like what i do this day is not going to matter, unless, of course, i fail, then it's all on MY head. Somewhat like i have fought life to a draw but neither side can back down for a second. We both know we can't win, but we aren't allowed to lose, either, so we continue to map out the breadth and width of futility while stubbornly wondering when the other side will give.

Poetic, yep, that's me.

i want something to say, i want to be able to stand on this little soap box here and pour forth into your eyes ears my thoughts, desires, needs, and ideas without fear that the wrong person will come here eventually and destroy the empire i am dreaming up right now.

i have nothing but truth in me but it is MY truth, not yours nor anyone else's. My truth is shaped by my feelings, emotions, prejudices and paranoias. My truth is altered only by me. My truth is subjective even at it's most objective moments.

i look about at the people i encounter on a daily basis and wonder, why do they live? What takes them from day to day and on into next week? Month? Year? What do they do with the feelings? Where do they express the pain and wonder of life? Or are they walking zombies, drones, if you will, with no more life in them that the toaster oven?

Where do they come from and who puts them away at night?

"Lullaby" ~ Brahms
"Lullaby and good night, with roses bedight
With lilies o'er spread is baby's wee bed
Lay thee down now and rest, may thy slumber be blessed
Lay thee down now and rest, may thy slumber be blessed

Lullaby and good night, thy mother's delight
Bright angels beside my darling abide
They will guard thee at rest, thou shalt wake on my breast
They will guard thee at rest, thou shalt wake on my breast"


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confessed on Monday, Sept. 30, 2002