Tag: links

turn the lights down low, it’s just it makes me feel like I’m in a spaceship

I want an end to my unpredictable crying.

The air is full of tiny birds, wings fluttering too quickly. The tips of them are creaking against the stress like lungs choked with down. A cough and they scatter. There’s nothing to show where they were. Wind does not keep drawn lines, the beloved parabola exists only in our minds as a memory.

Unrelated: walking across a field, a thick flock of seagulls let me walk into the middle of them before taking up into flight and circling me perfectly. How callous I am, I thought, that I have too much science in me to experience this as a holy sign. Instead, I understand the way flocks stay together, what leads them, guides them. I know how to spot the lead bird. I’m not fool enough to pray.

  • Prove Christ exists, judge orders priest.

    I didn’t sleep from Saturday until noon Sunday. I have done more clever things than argue the socio-technological implications of ancient politics and family units until the sun has risen, it’s true, but I was in excellent company and the sun always rises.

  • Stardust capsule lands with comet dust sample.

    Now you’re gone, leaving echoes of somewhere I used to feel at home. You walked away and I felt such a pain shoot through me, as if there was no such thing as mercy. I know you’re trying and that gladdens me a little, it seems a better place for us than that dire muck of misery that you’d put me in so carefully. I’m scared that when I see her, this her you’ve written about but carefully did not mention, she’ll be wearing something I gave you or I’ll have to see you love her. As serious as rain, it’s the only thing I can think of that could continue to ruin me. It’s stupid because I’m grown enough I should know better. I insist on it. I should be a better stone. You don’t know what to do with me. I hand you the pulsing ball that drives my blood and you drop it. I fall apart inside.

    Delightfully, I had some especially kind partners on the floor to distract me last night, the sort where we take hands and whirl into something highly inappropriate for industrial music. Liam teaches me swing dances, for example, and Jonathan tangos with me in his kilt and big stompy boots. It’s gleeful when he lifts me up above his head and spins. I can feel him laugh through the music. (Note to self, call the man already). See, I’m everything shy of vices, so dancing is one of my only ways to salve this years constant and irritating sense of loss. I feel like I hang myself from my bones and when I move, it might even be with a heavy sort of elegance. Every twist of joint a kindness, a violent whispered argument in the dark behind my closed eyes, sounding like lovers who don’t want to wake the neighbors.

  • Male birth control pill soon a reality.

    Course, my body feels like holy retribution today. Everything aches and spasms. Walking without limping has been a proven impossibility that I’m counting on a deadly hot shower to repair. In fact, I think that’s the next step. Hooray for adventure.

  • Warren’s graphic novel FELL #1 online for free.

    • I’m bleeding dye

  • British woman weds dolphin.

    Something about me wants to learn how to sing soul music, that drum machine spoken word that focuses on notes like inspiration and cleverly explains every bar-tab feeling that love ever wracks up inside our hearts. These words aren’t enough some days. I desire chords. I keep being put on the spot next to pianos and feeling entirely inadequate as my tongue searches for something I know all the lyrics to. I’ve lost all my known songs, all I’ve got left are children’s tunes and the thin skin of pop songs that don’t stand up to scrutiny. A man suddenly startles from a couch. “You’re not a musician are you? That would be a shame.” “No, I’m not. Really I’m not. Why would that be so bad?” “I would haff to stop what I’m doing right now if you are.” “What?” “I don’t let myself ever do this with musicians.” Understanding glitters in her mind and her lips quirk. They laugh while the others look on uncomprehendingly. He leans back, settles his head back on the pillow, and she continues to be pleased. I wanted to sing. I swear. Please believe me. I would give up every ounce of hesitation I showed so that you could have had me sing for you. Hands on the keys and I felt like magic was real. I felt like I remembered, the first time I left for the city, the first time I met you. I will never stop wishing you’d called. The phone silent in my pocket felt like a John Cage piece. Four hours and thirty three seconds before I step on a plane marked only by the absence of vibration, of tone, of hello where do we meet. Those hands, so slight, pulling rabbits from my jaded hat. Sound.

  • Second chord sounds in world’s longest lasting concert.

    Does anyone have a scanner? I have a lovely Polaroid of Andrew, Mike and myself that I insisted be taken by an unkempt vagrant downtown who was wandering around asking tourists to pose for a fee. We’re standing in the middle of Grandville street at night looking like nothing better than drunk kids. I would like to have a digital copy of before anything strange happens to it. I’ve never had a Polaroid before and I’m pretty sure I’ve never looked like a yuppie’s girlfriend before either. The novelty is slightly addictive. I want to wear it in my hat like an antique PRESS pass and ignore people who stare at me on the metro.

  • John McDaid’s brilliant sci-fi story Keyboard Practice is now free online.

    Larry called on Friday while he was driving down the highway home. We fell immediately into comfortable conversation. I was glad, still am. I’ve been feeling him as living farther away lately, no matter that Missouri’s a hell of a lot closer than Paris, because the frequency of his posts dropped lately and there’s been less content. My distances are measured in information, not geography. Every letter typed is a drop in a river. I don’t have to close my eyes at night to see it. I can be walking barefoot through cold mud, whirling glittering scarves over my head, and think, ah, so-and-so would like to do this with me. I can tell. They write that way. As I was discussing with Rick, on the bus Sunday, grammar and punctuation can mean so much on-line. The entire language changes to make up for body-language, for visual cues. Sentence structure is suddenly crucial in a way that doesn’t effect speech. Typing the word “like” or “um” every three words is unacceptable, though I’m sure we say them more often than we’d like to admit. Spelling takes on the measure of your education, typos of your intelligence. Code overshadows everything read, as LOL translates to “well that was enough to make me smile”. It makes me wonder how well I transliterate to page. I’m told that I smile more in person than on-line, but that my typos are less. What about you?

  • India is missing about 10 million daughters since the widespread use of ultrasound, estimates a new study.

    • over a year ago, do you remember?


    Heaven’s in the backseat
    Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

    Here there are no weeds growing, there are no patches of green grass to startle the eyes through the snow and hard packed side-walk ice. The reality is fiercely burning ears, tips of noses too numb to feel, and lips slurring inexpansively from cold. It gets dark quickly with no ocean to snare the sun. Walking down the street is noticing the flash of neon signs reflecting off eye-glass lenses, is watching black trends in coats and scarfs, is wishing for someone beautiful to step out from the crowd to ask your name. I’m feeling like I’m failing at being at peace. I could find something here to capture me, but I’m lost for a direction. There’s so much to explore that all I’ve accomplished is walking. I’m not clicking into place like a missing computer chip, instead I’ve barely scratching a surface I’m not even sure I’ve been allowed to see.

    Why aren’t you here beside me? When I’m running on so few hours of sleep, my dreams are always just on the edge of sleep, as if hallucinations are forcing me down into the bed instead of the insistent hand of gravity. Around the screaming edges of my tired lids are dark curls bleeding into my field of vision, the institutional brushes of a fingertip along the inside of my arm, the certainty that a tongue has just shaped the sounds required to speak my name. I flinch away, turning my head into my pillow, and sink into sleep, haunted by subliminal echoes of another bed, the one I would rather be in, wherever that is. I’m not even sure right now. People make fools of places, expose them for the space occupied that they are no longer living in. My memory lies to me, tells me that if I put my hand out, the right hand will take it, swing it to the softest lips my needs spill into and take my heart from it to cradle gently and let me rest. Sleeping lately hasn’t been rest. My heart is soul searching without me, leaving me always on the edge of exhaustion. I’m finding it difficult to follow simple conversation and the native language isn’t sticking to me at all. Instead, I’m shoving off, wandering on-line, trying to find somewhere within walking distance that would be interesting to be at two a.m.

    I slipped out of the apartment earlier to try and look at the wonder that is the sky. (A pregnant woman survived a fall from it earlier, though elsewhere.) There’s an easily accessible rooftop deck on the twenty-first and a half floor. Through the tiny gaps in the clouds, the stars are a seemingly endless metaphor for a patternless universe. I’m considering finding some of my most solid underwear and going back up. The other part of the roof encloses a heated pool. If I can’t find freedom, I might as well splash my toes around and read a good book. Last night I stayed up reading comic books that James had chosen for me from his prodigious collection. Fast fiction snacks, I thought. Strange little things, not solid enough to take a full bite of. It felt odd to be reading dedications written by people I know in the front covers, like I was deconstructing reality just the tiniest bit. Enough so that maybe when I looked up from the last page, it would be perfectly in time to see an unexpected explosion through the window, chunks of building spinning orange and black into the sky twenty blocks away.

    Well, one can hope.

    I have a media request of the internet audience again. You folk were so utterly amazing the last time that I figure this particular search should be a breeze. James introduced me to a music video, (download), a few months ago at Quickie Culture Night, DJ Krush – Truthspeaking, (linked here as an mp3). He’s in love with the singer, I fell in love with the DJ. However, his work is easy to find. DJ Krush is high in the hierarchy of wicked hip-hop fusion gods to come out of Japan in the last ten years, but Angelina Esparza’s a bit of an enigma. James has been unable to find anything else of hers in spite of a rather intensive search. If anyone’s got anything, could you toss it our way? Personally, I find her a little generic. Instead of finding her enchanting, I’m left craving more video with this man in it. The depth of personality he’s got engraved in his motion is simply breathtaking.

    “and by contraption, I mean my computer, not my cock” (uminthecoil andrew)


    Burrow
    Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

    Bless the day that I walked away with a smile on my lips and tears that were glad to be. I ran for the bus wanting to call out his name as the cry that would stop all time. My eyes shone, said the man who sat next to me. How do you do that? I’m young, I replied, and went back to my book.

    There’s a mirror in front of where I sit to type on my computer and if I look up into it, I can see the white of my hair framing my face like the colour of ashes rubbed into the roots of my hair. Some days it’s good to remember what I’m like from the outside.

    Also, pirates.

    Often, almost always, I’m living hand to mouth. I try to get used to being a little bit too hungry but instead I’m always hoping that my tongue will have the strength to claw me out of where I am to somewhere greater than myself. It can be so frustrating. I find, though, that there is a side-effect of running under the line for so long. Gradually, my requirements fall. It’s almost that aphorism: the less I have, the more precious what is left becomes. As if bird crumbs have grown into mountains, complements arias, and even if they don’t love you down to their bones, what they offer is more than enough simply because they’re smiling to see you.

  • Scratchless CD blanks keep data from touching your desk.

    I’m not scared anymore. That’s terrible and yet I thank you. You were set up for those shots across the bow. All hope was swallowed in the cold of another morning, darkness and rain making for a miserable one foot in front of the other, and I had to let you know that it was okay. That no matter, I am too tired to need very much, too broken down to dust to invest my care too much. You’ve been that face that swims across my dreams close to morning for over a year. That I can kiss you now, that I have a chance, love, this makes for no illusions. This only keeps me warm.

  • Bike helmet covers shaped like brains, frogs, mohawks, etc.

    Burrow is here, finally we get to connect. She’s come up from Bellingham a few times and every instance, schedules have conflicted. It’s a shame, as I most undoubtedly don’t have enough professional clowns in my life. If the bicycle circus takes off, she’ll be up once a week a least. She says she’ll teach me to clown properly. Bwah-hah. (okay, no. She said heh heh heh, then HA HA HA. She’s reading this as I type it). I’m starting to think about wearing make-up.

    TONIGHT, (Tuesday), at 9:30, there’s will be a group of us at Tinseltown go seeing what they’ve done to Aeon Flux.

    edit: some of us are going for food at the wild ginger before the film. (Think 7:30). it’s the william gibson restaurant tucked away in the tinseltown food-court that has the magical slow-motion exploding tea.

    • It’s easier to fly when my head is held up.

    Yesterday was World AIDS Day. ruralrob is an admirable man. Do what you can. Support World AIDS Day


    My replacement at work, she slapped my peripheral vision as soon as I walked in. She seems more the kind of person to work in my shop than I could ever be. I can’t help but approve of her rock-a-billy zebra lunchbox and betty page haircut. They matched her leopard skirt so well. My manager, she just shook her head. Another new girl is no help to her. She’s only just through teaching me how to run the strangely mis-managed shop around and in spite of how badly and quirkily organized the owner has it set up. It’s only been November she’s been able to leave me for hours at a time to handle everything. I almost feel sorry for the new girl. I don’t know if she has the diplomatic memory to deal with the crying chaos she’s just been inserted into. Every day reaches a new impasse with stress, introduces another piece of the suspicious labor law puzzle. I’m counting on my job to be gone when I come back from Montreal, otherwise I may find myself trapped there by a lazy sympathy for my co-workers and that might count as a new dictionary definition of the word dreadful.

    So it seems the biological source/reservoir for the dreaded Ebola Virus are some tiny, cute, and apparently tasty fruitbats. The apparently tasty is why we keep having outbreaks. How fun is that? As fun as a pack of russian killer squirrels? Or a group of children who fight with machetes to re-enact a battle from Lord of the Rings? The jury may still be out, arguing with David Byrne over copyrights.

    accented with a wet outlook today

  • Landmines now being cleared with arrows.

    The world gave us snow last night. It paralyzed parts of me. My creature mind went blitzing beyond compare. I wanted to drag my lovely out of bed. Look! I wanted to say. It’s snowing! Come dance with me!

    It was rain by the time I opened my eyes again. Another moment lost to the dark.

    The last time there was such a snow fall was just before New years two years ago. I was walking to the bus with Adrian from my first time at Rowan and Dominique’s house. He took a picture or two, but they didn’t turn out.

  • Aerial signposts point to Scientology’s sacred text storage facility.

    Work has given me extra hours today. I’m going to be working from four until eight. There were no other plans for today. I have no plans all week. It’s surreal, but let me say yes when they asked me if I could come in.

    It’s not that I don’t want plans. I have been trying, but I am still somehow unable to find people.

    Shane and I have been playing an odd phone tag. Congratulations, I want to say, when I pick up the phone instead of the answering machine. Mercy, I am alive and as difficult to find as you are. Poetry rolls over the line, measured as come play poker with me. I don’t know how and nor do you so maybe we can teach everyone else how not to drink so much. It was cold out. I said no but call me later. He did, but now it was too late. My turn to ring.

  • The Vancouver Ridge Theater is closing its doors.

    What the hell are you up to?

    (all the real humans are hiding)

    • I’m going to dance on my own grave

    Vogue, December '05

    A ghost slid into bed this morning and placed a little kiss on my lips. He was cocaine pale like a stone and as smooth as if water tumbled. I frowned and turned my head, the dead are not welcome in my bed, but he was persistent. My body began to hold the smell of suicide, of unhappy older women trapped in elevators. A long way to hell, I thought. The distance between his chilly hands and the last button of my shirt. The dead are clever, they orbit the lonely like satellites. They are a constant undertow trying to drag dreams too deep, close enough for them to touch. They promise success, but deliver only the cold light of the television. And this one was trying to take off my shirt.

    The other side of time, I might have let him. The static song of his seduction was soothing, calming as a technocratic lullabye. Instead I opened my eyes, reached out my hands, and tangled his wings with the wire and string of my hair. Ghosts are small, collections of mental bacteria built up over uninteresting lives. They are usually as romantic to the eye as a plain white t-shirt. Capturing them is only difficult if you believe in angels and I am too old now. All my bridges with mystery were burned a long time ago. Sitting up, I examined the glow I caught. His eyes were a building tumbling down, a video clip on constant repeat, surrounded by a halo of jasper. A city creature then, sailing his ship through history. I wonder if he regrets how he survives. The lives he must have crept into as a memory, the ambitions and aspirations he’d cruelly siphoned off paper hearts to live off. I swear they have intelligence. Some inbred understanding of language, built layer by layer as they accumulate.

    Romance lasts little over a year, Italian scientists believe.

    she is so pretty, so pretty, yes, like I remember, oh milk, they gave me milk, like pixies, a thousand names, pale like I am now, but to live, oh pretty, fire, flame, smoulder, a lamp dying, oh to touch, rain, blood, she burns, a spoken word, glimmering, pale like crystal, her skin, give me, please, her skin like milk

    Kiss may have been fatal.

    There are small silver scissors next to the bed. I take them and cut the ghost from my body. It’s still whispering, wrapped in my hair, waiting to wreck the party, but quieter now. I’m beginning to be awake enough to think. I lie back in the bed and watch the steel gray dawn coming in. Last night’s phonecall was me drunkenly walking a crooked line. I remember every word he said, how he’s busy lately, how the world is spinning too fast for a visit. His absence must have been broadcasting as loudly as teenagers flirting at a check-out counter for the ghost to have found me so recklessly easy. It’s either merciful or frightening to think that the slippery sound of my heart is so enticing. Maybe I should use some of those orange pills in the cupboard.

    In the kitchen I find a jar the size of a fishbowl to put my new pet into. I spit into it and punch holes into the lid with a fishing knife before dropping him in with a crumpled page from one of my favourite books. The words reverberate and the paper begins to decay softly around him as he makes a little bed. Another happy ending ruined. The idea scrapes at the embers of my ruined evening and fuels my inner annoyance at how easily I push over. If I were a better person, I would stand up for myself, pound on the stubborn shore at the ugly sea that’s been drowning me. This is what I tell myself as I pour myself a glass of water. I pop the pills and notice the ghost is glowing brighter. Feeding him with my saliva was a good idea. Keeping him around will force me to resist the urge to burn this place down.

    a crime in my country


    ultra uwe scheid
    Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

    The angel raises her head, her eyes focusing with an audible click.

    Sometimes I’ll wake in the middle of the night, the sky still dark and broken by occasional stars strong enough to shine through to a city. My eyes are blind without my glasses, I can’t see stars, but on these rare times the darkness lets me compensate. Around me might be other people, might be only blankets. I think, “Where am I going to be?” and I feel myself leave the bed, leave my breath and body full of bones and interlocking chemicals systems and slide into the Other City, where my heart resumes beating. I have an entire life there, a place by the water, a favourite coffee shop, but I can never find it on purpose. Instead, it washes over me, into my cells like some illusive memory of being in the womb. Like when the body remains lying still on the bed, but every neuron firing tells you instead that you are weightless, floating in a fetal position, turning in warm black water.

    Amateur band performs Super Mario theme on marimba.

    There’s a wonderful music store on Commercial Drive that you should all become addicted to. The staff are friendly, with an admirable grasp of anything pleasantly obscure, and the selection is excellent. They sell odd little instruments in the front window and are always playing something you’ve never heard but instantly like. They’ve been doing it for at least twenty years. It’s like it was created for some warm love-story movie that left them behind when Hollywood knocked, but with less pretension. Aiden and I were caught earlier today by a sale table they had on the street. I walked away with Rickie Lee Jones and I’m still wondering if tearing myself away from the afro-european funk they had playing was the good idea I told myself it was. Already I caught myself singing it on the bus while I was reading my borrowed John Barnes. (One for the Morning Glory is now required reading, yo. Find yourself some kids and feed it to them, chapter by chapter.) There’s the reason I hardly ever go in.

    I went in a couple of weeks ago, though. Second time this year. I bought a street kid some guitar strings. His name’s Cody, he’s working at Juicy Juice on the Drive now, (go support him). Ryan and I met him a few months ago, his first day in Vancouver having left him begging for change outside of Love’s Touch. When we ran into him with his newly acquired guitar, I traded it for a joint, man, and he smoked it with me too, so it’s like I traded it for only half a joint, I brushed off my gift by telling him that one-string Deep Purple is a punishable crime. It’s probably true somewhere.

    edit for all of you who jumped onto messenger and asked me: I do not, in fact, remember the name of the store. It is on the block across from Beckwomans and the Santa Barbara market, (the place with the orange bags that’s a few shops down from the BBQ place that catered Jenn’s wedding and the bicycle shop), and is in between the Elizabeth Bakery and the incredibly oldschool italian cafe that goes frankly mad whenever soccer/football comes around right next to the equally brilliant bookstore and the nice little laundromat.

    “I was the one worth leaving”

    The party was an entertaining success.
    By the end of the night,
    my money gauge read like this:

    [ &nbsp ] Beatles
    [ &nbsp ] Andrew
    [ &nbsp ] Famous
    [ &nbsp ] god
    [ &nbsp ] birth control
    [ &nbsp ] Christopher Walken
    [ &nbsp ] Alan Rickman
    [ &nbsp ] European
    [ &nbsp ] cute bartender
    [ &nbsp ] Emo DJ
    [ &nbsp ] livejournal
    [xx] fire spinner
    [xx] myspace
    [xx] real poets
    [xx] discordian
    [xx] goth
    [xx] poet (angsty)
    [xx] T.V. actor
    [xx] poseur
    [xx] your mom
    [xx] startrek furry
    [xx] easy as apple pie
    [xx] Arts major
    [xx] porn star
    [xx] philosophy major
    [xx] morris dancer
    [xx] premature ejactulator
    [xx] child actor
    [xx] country singer
    [xx] chopped liver
    [xx] they never loved you
    [xx] no self esteem

    In the darkness I came to the mountainside. A red woman opened the door, velvet and calm, cats twining around her ankles. When I step outside of my work, if I escape early enough, and look up into the welcoming sky, the blue looks as thick as a hallucination. I think I cried in my sleep because there’s a light smeary path of leached dye running down my cheek from my right eye. Just enough tracery of purple to catch my eye in the mirror when I blindly brush my teeth. I look like a comic book character. There’s a curl of it on the back of my right hand too, where my face must have rested. A perfect curl describing the bones of my hand in Fibonacci’s most perfect sequence of gold.

  • New world’s largest telescope to dwarf Hubble’s abilities.

    I feel adrift today. For the first time in over a week, I have no plans for my evening after work. When eight o’clock ticks to, I will be rudderless. My feet will be wind upon pavement waves and wandering. It will be cold, however, so I will likely go home. Weigh the anchor in folding the laundry that has eaten my bed from under me and tidy the endless small papers that collect in slippery drifts against my furniture. There are flat surfaces here, I just need to find them again under the detritus of never being home. I would rather that when people come in, they don’t take a minute to wonder where it’s possible to sit.

  • Television show hopes to convince participants they are in orbit.

    Jacques and I split the money fifty/fifty, (minus Ray‘s personal donation). He broke even and I’m going to be able to pay my transit inflicted debt. I don’t know how many people came. I would guess a number around fourty. It was a room full of eccentric twenty-somethings and middle aged men, a very two dimensional look into my social life. I wonder how much they mixed. People like Chistoph and Will are likely to mingle with anyone, but so far my only word on the party was Dominique calling this morning to quickly tell me what happened after she, Rowan, Travis and Josh left the party.

    There is no buzzer for 440 w Hastings, so people took turns in the cold glass atrium, watching the door. On one shift, I invited in two people off the street who seemed as if they were coming to the party. Turns out we didn’t know either of them, but they looked right. Long coats, long hair, a combined aura of geeky conversation. Another shift was twenty minutes alone, wrapped in my shawl against the chill and finishing Douglas Coupland’s Miss Wyoming until my mother came down with my brother Robin. I was glad of the relief, I didn’t want to miss Rowan playing pop songs on his accordion. It’s delightful. An entire corner of the room dissolved into laughter when they realized they were listening to Nine Inch Nails. Anyone who took photographs, I would appreciate if you would send them to me to post, (fully credited), into my flickr account.

  • Jesus Monkey Pants in Space up to page 9.

    • when the storm takes over

    It’s like waking up next to a lion. A lion who likes laughing.

    The fog has been here a week now, so thick that it seems almost possible that if could just reach your hand a little farther, you could grasp handfuls of it to eat from the air. Breakfast was a small paper bag of profiteroles from the bakery next to the laundromat. Cold cream explosions draped in dark chocolate. Breakfast was walking through early morning fog, wondering at all the people who were already awake enough to be beginning their day, as if nine in the morning were entirely a normal hour. (Benn being one of them.). Now, yes, I know I used to be like that. I quite liked my nine to five. However, this does not erase the fact that my mind instinctually tells me that eight a.m. should be possibly banned by law. When the sky blushes, embarrassed to be rising so naked, then you should do it the courtesy of hiding your face in some coverlets. Otherwise, disservice and a pox on your house.

    I love for the years he has on me, the time he wears so gracefully in his silver hair.

  • Manic depression scientifically linked to creativity.
  • Flickr claims they are only for photographs, bans pictures, illustrations. …damned yahoo.

    Sara came over after I and I and others went up the mountain, scared for her future. She’s searching for a purpose, just like all the other humans. We’re mammals with opposable thumbs who tell time with blood. In my more empty evenings, I would argue that meaning might be a bit beyond us. There’s people like Katie, who blows stars into being, and I know she’s as lost as the rest of us.

  • Vancouver Rhino Party seeking people with fictional languages.

    This was in my in-box when I got home:

    I walked out, into the cold fog, and looked back.
    I always have to look back.
    And there she was, the Sphinx standing in the firelight, standing in her cave.
    For a moment she was there and then, like grains of sand in the wind, she blew away and I realized that not only had I failed to answer correctly, I had missed the riddle.

    She had lain the opium of her body upon my lap, my eyes and arms drew her into my blood, making dreams of my senses and in the reverie of my answered prayers I forgot to hear hers.

    reminder: KEEP JHAYNE FROM JHAYLE -a party of proportion- #340 – 440 west hastings, Friday, November 25th, 9:00 – onward