to the lighthouse

can't wait to graduate.

http://www.weather.com/outlook/travel/businesstraveler/tenday/CHXX0502?from=36hr_outlet_business

then what?

"mama may not be here one day
   but this will always be your moon, micah
 and mama won't let anyone move it.

do you understand?"

-tan
-wait for the stars to come out-make a fire on the beach
-dance, sing, read poetry, tell stories by the fire
-bring speakers so we can shake
-swim at night
-play some scandalous game
-(get dave drunk) get dave to come.
-enjoy your company
-get the class to bury Paul in the sand and add some cleavage and a mermaid bra of sea shells
-spend some time in meditation.

and..? add.

     i'll answer once and for all:
 
                                          Anderson Cooper. 
                                        

265 blank moons
      left to write on
           "we must and shall go free."

Fell asleep at 7pm to Stewie's Untold Story. 
Then it was 12:59.

And everyone's offline except Joe, who was ditched on Friday.  "When can we talk?"  Talk. 

Suspicions of possession taunt, titillate, then terrify.  The gray building blooms blacker sockets at night.  Concrete winks.  Same.  Always so polite.  These folks think they know me.  Memorized the kaleidoscope reel in your eyes.

Molotov, Moloch.   Mama?

So full. Of your missing emptiness.
Insanity slithers under my sheets, arches my hips to traces words on my lips. 
We don't hold hands in the streets.

So full.

Should purge a third of the souls
I carry in my body.

What's the nerdiest thing about you?

          I read San Zi Jing when I sunbathe naked.

 i could use a hero right now
  you could use someone to save.

                                       

It is 1:11am, and I will capitalize like a good girl.

   Coming up to the surface from my EE treasure hunt in the palpitating blue grime heart of Answers.com, I feel so small.  Why hadn't I done a comprehensive reading of the history and movements of poetry before?  Why hadn't I bought the "New American Poetry" while I was fluttering around Borders?  Why wasn't I born half a century earlier so I can put "Black Mountain College" as the single choice, early decision school?  I am humiliated by the unfailing genius of the world.  I know nothing.  I am nothing compared to what the world has remembered.
  
   In addition, I want to get out of this money rut.  Ten years ago, I could not have anything I wanted.  And to this day, I am not accustomed to spending so.  Yet I am in a culture, a class (for lack of euphemism), and a generation possessing high wallet metabolism.  Rightly so, money is for spending.  But I just don't belong to this.  I perused the menu at the Japanese restaurant Ma, the kids, and I were at for lunch today, and couldn't stop translating it into the currency of the number of clean cars.  My aunt Linda moved back to Xinjiang last year, very pregnant with her second child, very devout in faith, and very convinced that she needed to find a way to transcendence and independence from familial patronage.  She went through so much shit.  They were going to take her baby.  She couldn't find work.  Her husband was even more emasculated because of the same.  But they believed in Providence and two weeks ago, opened their own car-wash hut.  With no helpers, my aunt has to wake at 4, breast-feed, make breakfast, wash cars, breast-feed, wash cars, make lunch, wait for cars, breast-feed, see Robert through his homework, wait for cars, make dinner, wait for cars, and count ten-kuai bills.  The total income of the average day is 90 kuai.  This is their sustenance.  This isn't "World Vision" or "Oxfam" or "Anderson Cooper 360" for me.  My aunt was 'mother' for so many years.  Imagining her frail hands coarse, trying to sooth her infant, but fearing to carress him for fear of scratching... Let's say it gets me.  So when I eat the 45-kuai Unagi Roll or turn the AC on for too long or walk through a relatively (on par, for Canadian standards, but) luxurious mall, I think of her. I think of all the Janes in the world.  And all the kids who died without a name.  Not to be "shan-qing", or to grow corns...  But I wish I had less.  I wish for more suffering.  I wish for less sleep.  I wish for more lights.  I wish for stronger arms.  I wish for a heart capable of believing, and a Father who will take me back, no questions asked.  People see me change and wonder if it was all jest.  The answer is no.  I was ready to die for Him.  I was ready to be I-less.  Some nights, I wish I could not know what I know now.  Or that what I know now is all just optical illusion, harhar style.  I hope with all my heart to be wrong.  Hope is a hefty price for such a pimpled world to pay.

  But the point was, me publishing is a joke.  And I'm not kidding.  Guess I'll have to call up FLP tomorrow.

   Maybe one day. 
       Not any of the 'today's around Boulevard 06, I guess. 

At least until one much more worthy than I get his tentacles melded onto a cover. =)

Yours,

               Miar.