My phone is warm. For some reason, I assume that it's because it was previously filled with your voice, even though it was just a recording.

I have waited weeks for this train-- sitting cross legged reading black and white paper, gray news under gray clouds. Arrival.

This is the right train. Finally. This is taking me places.

7am and I am awake. Make breakfast. Do dishes. Class. Write. Notes. Work.

Dinner.

Damn kids. My mother told me that if I put a penny on the tracks, I could derail the train. I thought about it every time I went somewhere with those machines that will eat 4 quarters and 1 penny, and give you 1 penny the size of a quarter, with it's "This is the best place ever/good thing you came here and got this damn penny squished so you will never forget your childhood.. unless you put me in a jar and put my jar in a box and my box in a closet and my closet in the far reaches of your now adult, or at least less innocent/penny squishing existence" signature, shiny where it was previously darkened by the mystery of time and pockets. You could have put that penny on a railroad track-- for free.

Shame nobody told those damn kids about how a single penny, can derail a 20,000 ton train.

She came. Jubilee. No sleep. Toss. Turn. Dreams of torture. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Im late. Blank page. Blank page. Blank screen. Emails? Damnit. I can't. Not today. Today I am a beehive and every thought is a bee and buzz buzz buzz they won't ever ever leave me alone or shut up and I am creative or desperate or curioius but not concentrated or ethical and certainly not going to the right place to see the right people or write the right damn things nononono. onesinglepennyandihavetippedoverintoascrapingwaveofironbearingearthandstoneandcoalintoacraterwitha newfacemoreshinyandnewbutinrealityancientandwhatisthisactionntostoppingforapparentlymybrilliantengineerdesignedmewith
antifrictioncarstoslideslideslideovergoodweatherandgoodfriendsandgoodfornothingnothings.screeeeeeeeeechscraaaaaape.

Ding. 8 little soldiers. I gobble them up.

L535

8 little soldiers. 2 more hours.

Lets make new words.

Yesterday I came home and couldn't find my keys. Backpack... no. Pockets... no. Spare... yes. Did anybody see me? Perhaps. And perhaps this why I invented a baseball bat that is hollowed out and pocketed with holes for pneumatic spikes. I have a baseball bat... would a metal one be cooler? No, I like the juxtaposition of the violence and the classic, while I lay in bed trying to fall asleep.

Door handle is on the left. Is that normal? I can't remember. Key is on the right. I extend my right arm lefterly, turn, squeeze, turn, push, and take a step forward with my right foot.

There is a new word for the pain I felt shoot through the inside of my left shoulder blade-- a pain that wasn't new, but presented it's self in a new context. My body is contorted to the rhythm of some banal version of twister, my right foot entering the dark and powerless (literally, powerless. I accidentally set my wall on fire because I "overpowered" the circuit with a space heater. The heat was nice... the smell wasn't worth it), and my left foot pointing to the back of my right heel, while tailing the last bit of sunlight of that day.

I grunted some word. Isn't that how all words begin?

L535

Take 4-8 with water every 4 hours. Do not exceed 48 in a twenty four hour period.

I like these pills. They taste horrible, but there is a certain satisfaction in taking more than 2 of any kind of pill. I feel like Elvis.

Strawberry circus and I rode that roller coaster spinning and reeling and screaming into the cloudless blue bleached in scorching, bleating and oppressive sunlight. Up .. down.. more loops.. and more loops. I could quit this, I say. I could punctuate some rhino'ed fluid influenza into an envelope worth receiving. Aquamarine.. Purple .. and now Amber .. but still aquamarine, and still purple.. still sticky sweet and indulgent. "Blasphemy!". yes. it is that. and much much much much more. i can ser her bent and bruised and hunchback with one eye that opens like tin can owl, and another that squints like some lemony pressured pussy-cat doll meow and me. Wart warts warts.. one on the nose.. one somewhere less visible.. and the brewing. blasphemy. I felt poetry like a warm breeze, but the cuckoling and cackle of some old trenchy bitch has left my blinded by the nerons that stand still on my neck like soldier pines on a hill like simile popcorn to mess shit up. If you masturbate, you will grow hair on your hands and warts. I have both. Well, only one wart, which is ironically placed about 1 inch from where I used to think I had stigmata.

THE KING part 3

The further we got from the hospital the more Uncle Loyd seemed to come back to life. We drove through blocks and blocks of what most people just called "Dallas", but was really the urban sprawl turned metropolitan area of a handful of cities with irrelevant names. As we got onto the freeway we could still see Saint Benidict's. Uncle Loyd gave it a long stare, but was interrupted by a deep hacking cough that exploded from his chest.

"Loyd", I said as if I could help. He shook his head and raised his hand in a motion that meant "I'm OK", and continued to bark into a handkerchief cupped in his hand. Eventually the cough was reduced to an unsettling wheeze, and as he looked up he was greeted by thinning traffic, a panorama of open country, and an exit sign for "Gambridge". A smile spread across his face as he cleared his throat.

"That's where I met your Aunt Netty."

"Where, Gambridge?"

"Yep. Oh boy was that a long time ago... I was in town gettin' some things and I bumped into her at the grocery store."

"Really... I didn't know that."

Uncle Loyd was not the type to indulge in conversations that were not of mutual interest. He knew that I was humoring him; he could always tell, and there was nothing I could do about it. I wanted to be a good audience for him, but the fact was that I had heard the story before and could practically recite it from memory. It's not that Uncle Loyd's memory was bad; in fact, it was extraordinary. He could remember the birthdays of all of his employees. If he ever met a man, and shook his hand, he could remember his name long past it was of any use. A few years ago, when I was with my family for the holidays, he came up and patted me on the back and said "He was a good dog kid. Damn could he play fetch!". After a few minutes of confusion, I realized that it was indeed the anniversary of the day my dog, Bandit, had died eight years ago.

It seemed to me that Uncle Loyd never thought about the month, or the day, but had some natural connection to the individual signature of a moment. For him, last April 5th wasn't just another day at the office: It was the day that one of his accountants showed him pictures of his new born baby. It was the day that his wife cooked him a steak that was medium rare and shiny with grease and homemade gravy, and she wore a perfume that smelled like fresh cut daisies. She had reached over to kiss him on the forehead, and her blouse opened up like curtains to expose the ivory white of her breasts, and he comprehended the extent of human beauty.

He knew that I knew the story. But today, he wanted to hear it again.

"Yessir", he said in an amused retort. "I literally bumped into her! Bout' gave the girl a heart attack. She was holdin' a carton of eggs.. and I knocked em' straight out of her hands!"

He paused as if he had remembered something important and shifted his attention from me to his window.

"She was pretty. God damn your aunt was pretty. I told her right then 'I wish I could say I was sorry mam, but you are honestly the best thing that has happened to me this week!'"

He glanced back at me for a moment, in search of any sign of disinterest, but upon finding my expression acceptable, continued his story.

"I said 'Lady, I hope you don't mind if I buy you some new eggs. Also, I hope you wouldn't mind me buying you dinner- if you don't already got one.'" He laughed out loud. It was good to hear him laugh. It had been too long.

"Damn kid I was slick. Ha... She told me that her mama was expecting her back for supper. Well, you know your aunt, she was pullin' my leg. She just wanted to watch me squirm and stutter. Haha... god damn she was sly. Eventually she threw me a rope and said that her momma had made plenty for an extra stomach, and that I should tag along back with her."

He was back looking out his window now with an expression of pleasant contemplation. We passed more little towns, and houses and grocery stores. I wasn't sure if he saw them all like he saw people, each with it's own set of memories and emotions, or if he was looking at something else, more distant and more specific. We took the next exit and drove toward a carved wooden sign with a dairy cow and some wheat painted on it. Uncle Loyd's eyes snapped away from the side window and trained in on the sign. He dutifully read it out loud as we came to it.

"Welcome to Bigsby"

quazi free write absuretery no editing o editing not for me or you or anyone.

The ticking noise i heard was self produced. yes, i made it with hours and hours of sweat and oil labor to splurge it s a chinsy trendy shiny colorful and danish super fat house. Tick tick tick tick... and a bell! what bell? I didn't hear it. i was drowning in a wave of heat and dreams and monsters and good lord do I know you? Cathartic and catholic I am, both un-reliazed and nu religious or un repented or un un un... I would wish to be the better parts of those words: confessed and oblidged to honey and strawberry jam on your sunday evening picnics- canoe rides with girls in pretty hats: religion is never a part of that story. Nor does it need to be right? A dark room and someone nods there head. Sooo easy he nods, Obviously someone gronas. Quationless and unmarked in a unanimous agreement. Well... water bottle in hand, I pander to the crowd. Bread is all they understand because bread is all that I tell them. There is so more thang greater mohuman neatness superdelicate non-repreenstational heart beat and TOCK! THE BELL! what was I doing? Do I nkow you? Excuse me mam, but i fear that your nakedness has some freudian root that i should like to uncover, no pun intended. Ehhh.. forget Freud. You are not my friend. You are just some desktop bobble head killing time with skipping stones as the bluejays sing sing sing to deaf ears. Whos ears are deaf now? My back is deaf and my ears are blind while my eyes hold no upper lumber support and start to arc against what the general surgeon orders. Empty. She leaves, I realease, and nothing, nothing is left. Cold, sweat, and my world awaits! I am KWEO! Conquerer of all!(below lvl 22). What sir doth ye require?MLEH! I am not that. I am not this. I am not even here or close to hear or even in the street near my house digging through dumpsters andcrying to the moon "Moon mother! So bright! So far!". How could i be? She said "what is now will not last""you are someone that niether of us have met". TOK. BELL.

quazi freewrite 2 (10 minutes, no.. minimal edit) I can't help it sometimes

No distractions. This room isn't dark enough. These fingers lack agility and the power to hunt. Less is more, they say. I haven't found that to be true. There is "less". There is "even less". Both of them have a positive counter part-- niether of them are friends or equals. Today is "even less". Last night was "even lesser". The night before that was "Welcome to the train to the bottom of the mouth of hell. To your right there is crippling depression! To you left.. well would you look at that.. It's the devil. Hello devil! May I take your picture? Can I get your autograph?". God is in the details, they say. No... god is not in the details. I looked there. God is in a painting of a window. Satan is in the details.. in the image of a reflection. I am not trying hard enough, I say. rusty and brown and veteraned members of metal and synaptical architecture just shuting down. One by one: I will be that old factory. New times, the papers will say. Industrial revolution, the socialites whelp. good and fine. good and fine modernity. I made the grease that you drink. rusty, brown and useless. patience is not mine today/ nor any muse or flower... and there have been flowers. mostly cold and dead ones... but still keeping some fragrance. I smelt, but I did not touch. Those horse faced whores have left me too: I sleep in a cacoon. the doors locked, but I am still ripe for the picking by some rouge man eating bear... like a pear bearing stress to it's mother. Left foot right foot, i said. I did it so casualy, too casually, and I tripped on my right foot.