self portrait ( Read more... )

today is my best friends birthday.

1. Reply with your name and I will write something about you.
2. I will then tell what song(s) remind me of you.
3. Next, I will tell you who you remind me of, celebrity/animated or otherwise.
4. Last, I will try to name a single word that best describes you.
5. Now put this in your journal.

nineteen years ago my mother held me against her heart for the first time. yesterday i read rattled words on a page filled with so many beautiful intentions. so many hopes for her daughter named after a woman who dared to sit down on a bus; in one moment changing time forever. i am slowly learning how to cry, eyes slowly gone to a another mode of ( Read more... )

the more we are the richer everything we experience is.

i have a new home which contains among other things: adrianne, derrick, opheim, melodica and rain boots.

adrianne's hair color changes with the season. she has long forgotten the original color buried underneath the bleach and dye, at the moment it's as black as the kahlua bottles that once ( Read more... )

they sell jesus here like they do a diet pill. for a percentage of your monthly income you are allotted one day a week to forget that the terrorist alert level is back up to orange and convince yourself that your definition of democracy is liberation. that the flag you raise every morning above your two car garage is something other than a blanket ( Read more... )

time moves slowly, but passes quickly. veinte y uno credits came to an end on tuesday. cuatro menos uno B and tres plus oun A ( Read more... )

“I am not against killing. I’ve been there.” Irwin sits slouched over, his shoulders caved in around his chest, as if protecting his heart. One arm rests on the cold metal armrest, which sticks like an arrow out of the tan foldout lawn chair which is occupying him. He slowly rolls his lit cigar within his clenched hand, the other out stretched as ( Read more... )

filling my head with what seems at times like such fruitless knowledge, longing for the familiarities of the radio as houses pass with their perfectly plowed driveways. arriving home to a lovely cd from a boy hundreds of states away, mixed in with envelopes filled with numbers and words reminding me of obligations and wasted money. thank you zen. ( Read more... )

I remember sitting in the front seat of our 89 red Ford pick-up squished between my older brother Keya and the big rusty door. A red-cheeked five year old, I had ridden with my father to the general store for milk, red delicious apples, and the Sunday paper. The newspaper I carried seeming huge compared to my chicken legs sticking awkwardly out ( Read more... )