calm inside the eye
I load a trowel with fresh promises
mortar for the next course
filling gaps in my understanding

staggering for strength
these cobbles made of straw
constantly disintegrating
I am my task in perpetuity
caked with mud from head to toe, but
there are no mirrors here

would you have me flee
this debtor’s jail, the only
home I’ve ever known
should walls fall into disrepair
shallow roots against the storm
exhausted favor turns this eye
I might be swept away

spent and discarded
tossed to crash on a pale gray path
a means no longer needed
the end has been achieved.

a guarded glance as you pass, then
continue on your way
backs of hands are thrown above
your anaesthetic resignation
always in view
this tortured periphery
as I am dragged in tow.

Tammy Baldwin voted for network neutrality, although the Republican corporate slaves in the House stuck together with Rep. Joe Barton (R-TX) and managed to get the COPE Act to pass the House Energy & Commerce Committee without the Markey Amendment that could have saved the Internet.

I’m not particularly surprised, but that won’t stop me from being extremely disappointed yet again by the shortsightedness of the current majority party.

It’s not over yet. Please read up on the issue and decide if it’s important to you to prevent COPE from becoming law. If so, please sign MoveOn’s petition as well as the petition at SaveTheInternet.

For an example of what happens when you let the “free market” provide for the communication needs of American citizens, check this out.  If the telcos had provided what they promised, and what we’ve already paid for, we’d have 45 mbps of symmetric bandwidth to our homes.  That’s 30 to 60 times faster than the average DSL or cable broadband service currently available to us.

Thanks to the Word of the Day, I now know that I’m an onychophage. The word sounds really ugly; I may have to kick the habit for that reason alone.

onychophagia (on-i-ko-FAY-juh, -jee-uh) noun

The practice of biting one’s nails.

[From Greek onycho-, from onyx (nail) + -phagia (eating).]

brick by brick, the mason
laid a castle sure to keep her near
tapestries chanted fantastic dreams
as mirrors luminesced

time and time again
he returned to find her floating
face down in the fountain
seeking safety, drained the water
and parched the wilted bloom

a thousand days in
she was gone
he followed footprints
past the piles that once had form
far too late to watch her crest the horizon
he turned to view her mansion
and found his own name on the gate.

The trees are mating inside my nose.  If not for a daily dose of loratidine, I’d be absolutely miserable — and I usually am so during the first couple hours while awaiting its effects.

My spider plants have begun to wilt from neglect.  As known by those familiar with their species’ hardiness, that’s a lot of neglect.  They received a welcome drink today.

The ficus is dead, Jim.  It’s ready to begin its new life as an V-BAFM (Vegetative Ballistic Anti-Fratboy Missile).

he stands in an empty field
eyes keen, ears buzzing
the hilt is slick with sweat
a sound, and sudden
panic
shield aloft
he slices
the blade meets only wind

While listening to the new Tool single, Vicarious, I did a double-take when I thought I heard a vocal technique I’ve only heard used by Tuvan throat singers.

“it’s no fun ’til someone dies”

The word dies sounds an octave lower than the note I’m always expecting him to hit.  It has a guttural timbre that reminds me of the kargyraa style of throat singing, where the ventricular folds (a set of “false” vocal cords above the main ones) produce an “undertone” that is one octave below the fundamental tone produced by the vocal cords.

Having only recently begun to understand the technique of kargyraa and practice it myself, this was a pretty cool thing to hear.

I just took the Machiavelli personality test and scored 58, which apparently means that I don’t agree with his ideas.

I tried to swim too soon.
The blaze raged at the near shore and pulled my breath,
and I choked
as I came up for air.
With eyes married to the flow, the spark had gone unnoticed.
I’d laughed as I stepped to the flame, discounted the danger,
Tested the heat and turned
to assure the water, “I don’t need this.”

I was wrong.

I drop into the fire.
I need to burn a while longer.
I need to scream and see these blisters.
The river is within a coal’s throw.
I remember its comfort, remember its motion. It draws heat from my skin.
But present in this pit or not,
I know my breath will burn.

The two implore me
to dive for the stream as they slave at their bellows.
We all swam there, not long ago.
Welcoming withered flame or stronger lung, I may step in again.
But today I am given to sear.