Hey, I hope you had a happy St. Patty's day. I did (see: uncertainty in previous post [see also: Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle, because that shit's just wicked cool]).
The hellish finals week has got me all fucked up with sleep, and I'm back to indulging in my nocturnal proclivity. I hope to amend this soon, but without further ado, Amen.
gentleMen, Ladies, indefinitely Confused, I give you my 'POETre reADING reVIEW' (an assigned attendance and write-up of a local reading in which poetry was read [that really turned out to be a "scathing... review" of the worn-through postmodernist literary conventions {intentionally plural, intended as a pun}]) and my 'Æsthetic Statement?' (an assignmeant to reflect and elaborate up/on the "questions, processes, and impulses that underlie the principles or directions of your writing". [which because by the time I began to write it, I'd already written ≈ 9-10 pages of text for about 8-10 hours, it did not as I would wish very consciously, cautiously do this, but together with the accompanying document, may have very well done a satisfactory job of]), both of which were assignments for my now over Poetry class.
Enjoy; fill in the blanks; fulfill your life and yourself

The short bio I submitted with some works to Cascadia's Lit. Mag:
Walker Jones is a recovering alcoholic narcoleptic addict who enjoyed his past times and appreciates the future's present. Tensed as an object oph repositioning, sentenced to structure, his occasional sin—tactical manipulation—is hopefully reconciled by your indulgences. He lives on Capitol Hill with records and no player.

Another note, this from last month:
Listening to the sound of falling rain,
I wonder what it means to be insane.
Insanity is to do the same thing
And expect a difference resulting,
But each new day the sun rise brings me hope
That my life too could see a rise in slope.
What I ask is: why does this hope for change
Plot me out of accepted sane range?
Must I drudge constant on this plane, flat line,
And to insane domains my hope resign?
To what point does my life line continue?
Does this plane of existence have value?

After sitting through educational videos which at least had comical backdrops and scene transitions, I could not focus on reading the "Hazard Communication" (?) packet nor discerning the truth-/false-hood of the statements in the back of said packet. I succumbed to distraction and haiku:

Sitting pretty close
By way of New York she is
A sniffling mutt

Named Katryerina
Aponte of interest
We're both new here, here

Fred Meyer, Kirkland
We filled cars and drove our homes
To make our new ones

For allergy meds
Safeway generic brand and
Nettles are helpful

I've ADHD,
One hour's sleep, you there and
No concentration

You might consider
Hazard Communication
As this, not the book

True and false review
Is truly false if I'd viewed
Truths falsely and blanked

I can't remember
What I was was I saying
I can't remember

Some rise as night falls
While the rest rest they while night
Falling at sun rise

Time never passes
It goes nowhere to the same
Place in present time

After reading "Pale Fire", a poem of 499.5 heroic couplets, and being unable to sleep my second night in Menninger, I wrote this:

{for SAW}
I'm prone on a mattress but not to sleep
Thoughts drift through my wake, no anchor to keep
My lids at harbor, nor ponders at bay
They float to the deep, then plunge to dismay
I'm currently lost; my treasure's at X
Buried up in a place where robins nest
I know the way there, the time to depart
The space in between's what troubles my heart
And mind, no matter; it's all in my head
Such weighting: my heart's as heavy as lead
This sinking feeling submerges me 'neath
Crashing waves of emotion. Deadly teeth
From sharks of desire bite my belly
Rust my resolve from iron to jelly
Fish sting me; I think: there's more in the sea
Not many, just one with whom you now be
Sinking this deeply's left me exhausted
A full night's rest is what's been accosted
I'll close my eyes and dream to escape this
Hydrogenous hell, aquatic abyss