These are two notes I found on a tattered piece of paper keeping the thoughtlines to my cryptic work-out-of-progress 'habibti' (see below) kept from November of 2009.

11/12
Speaking in tongues
Different takes
From which we take the same thing

11/13
A dome
     towers
       over
             us
N /interior
          void(ed)
         of us
                  we fill it

I've had these four dialogues (in two sets), but since I haven't had a blog post in a long time, I'll post these that I had a considerably longer time ago.

'Seventh Periodical'

“Hey man, what are we going to do today?” he asked.
“The same thing we do every day, Mike…” he said.
“Shut the,” he interrupted; then paused as he caught sight of the teacher, agitated, expectant. “Look dude, I went down there yesterday. They were real suspicious and I didn’t return it. Can you go get a crossword?” Mike asked.

“What are you doing?” she started.
“Excuse me,” he replied.
“Can I help you?” she rephrased.
“I’m merely seeking guidance from a professional publication. Thank you,” he said and turned towards the dailies.
“Oh, all right. What class are you in?” she asked.
“Advanced Journalism—Newspaper I,” he said.
“I see. Is there anything in particular you’re looking for?” she asked.
“A Life, but Arts & Culture will do,” he said as he shuffled through broadsheets.
She stammered. He continued, “I am searching for proper citation of motion pictures in a news story,” as he selected a section of folded paper, folded it once more, and tucked it under his arm.
“Oh, I have something over here that you might,” she began, seeking a book, then abruptly stopped, looking back. He was gone.

'Asunderstanding'

The phone rang. But he’d stopped dropping everything for her. He was on a roll; he was working. And whatever they had wasn’t.
But it was the second time she’d called that night and the nineteenth straight day. He hadn’t told her anything. He’d just stopped answering.
He called her back.
“Hello,” she said.
“Hey,” he answered.
Tactful silence ensued.
“So, why haven’t you been talking to me?” she asked.
“I’ve explained why to you before. I’ve just decided to do it now,” he said.
“You can’t just do that,” she said.
“I already have,” he replied.
“This isn’t fair,” she responded.
“I know it’s not; that’s why I called back,” he said.
“So that’s just it?” she asked.
He affirmed her query, audibly, positively, but unintelligibly.
“You know what this does to me,” she said.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Destroys my trust. I won’t let anyone in. That’s what,” she said.
 “Where are you?” he asked.
“In bed,” she said. “Why?”
“I’ll be there,” he answered.

He explained, “I promised her I wouldn’t leave her life. We cuddled. I offered to go down on her. She said if it didn’t work out with her boyfriend we’d move to Boston and get married.”
“I guess she said no to the oral,” he replied.
“She never said no. She just never said yes, and I wasn’t going to force it,” he said.
“Because that’s rape,” he said.
“Which would have been cool if I’d my Xyrem and we’d had dinner beforehand,” he replied.
“Yeah, if by ‘cool’ you mean felony. But if you’re going to commit a felony, at least you get a mouthful of pussy that way,” he said; “Anyways, I’m glad to hear you’ve reached some level of understanding.”

The spacing of my poems is logical, but borders the fine line between method and madness. However, in these two poems I crossed that Rubicon line into madness. I attribute it to sleep deprivation and over-specification of overly broad themes; i.e. to say I tried to incorporate and interrelate too much too logically, leading to illogicality. I don't see myself completeing them, but I thought I'd share them anyways.
The first, habibti, I wrote nearly two years ago, the night after I wrote my first four poems (eyes, shut your mouth and open your lips, what, and orange, chronologically respective). I had an outline of a dozen or more combinations of the same words forming different sentences all playing to the same ideas (some of them were included in shut your mouth), and this was my attempt at overtly texto-graphically combining them. It's unreadable without my outline as a map, and I still can't make all of it out.
The second, conscience con science (how romantic), I penned about a month ago, as a reaction to my discovery in biology that science is fundamentally founded on nihilism, the current inequality gap (among other problems) widened by corporate greed, and my romantic feeling that our problems could be overcome just by a collective conscience.
Without further ado, I give you my logical descents into madness:

The ink on this page ran from the rain as I wrote this kneeling on the pathway up The Hill at the fork before the Franklin College Library:

~a pebble-paved pathway winter-coated with orange autumn petals sheen and shining in the free-falling, omni-downpouring droplets dripping a glaze on the spoils of the seasons~

Tuskegee, Alabama--Down South, in the land of the Crimson Tide, a modern scientific breakthrough has discovered a colloquially-termed "hot pink ride" that outranks the favorite football squad in consequence. Dr. Kenneth Noisewater and his team at the Tuskegee Institute, riding the success of their monumental findings that bitches ain't shit but hoes and tricks, have proved that the females' vagina is actually more important than their exceedingly popular breasts and buttocks.
"After years of studying subject after subject, we have concluded that the objectification of women's chests and backsides is misguided—it's what lies between their thighs that should snatch our attention."
The female vagina is located in the lowest regions of her groin between her fascia lata and gluteus maximus, adjacent to her tuberosity of ischium, and unlike the prominent breasts and buttocks, is often hidden beneath layers of garments and rarely flaunted in courting displays or by attention-directing clothing.
Dr. Noisewater's research uncovered that while all three anatomical areas can positively stimulate a woman, her vagina is the one that "hits the spot—the G-spot, in fact." This newly exposed G-spot is an area responsible for intense pleasure and named after test subject Georgia Peach whose occupational experience further supports the Tuskegee team's research. Peach, an X-list actress, says that in her profession men do initially focus on her 38DD gigantits and super phat bubble-booty, "but when it's time to get down to business they always go for my hot, sweet, wet pussy. Ooooh!"
The team hopes their findings will reroute misplaced attentions towards this more fulfilling area.

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

This is a scene, as explained, I wanted to do something with. I learned on the pertinent day that I'm no good with a paint brush; but to quote Sir Sean Connery, my "PENIS MIGHTIER." (I swapped the name for a DFW one.)

~I remember, like the second time we hung out, we went down to Woodlawn Lake with paint and a canvas and dipped it in water and came back and parked in your driveway and just talked. While discussing your sincere concern for Orin at one point--I recall this scene so vividly, I wanted to paint it: the blue of my stereo light lambently lining your facial features, brushing your bones smooth, softly silhouetting your profile a flowing contour framed by your fluidly falling hair--to hear your care, to see the softness, I felt in my cab's conditioned air a fragility of feeling that made me feel... empathy--not quite, no--sympathy- for you; and for me, that I didn't care about something that way, feel the way you did about anything at all.~
And here was my mortal error. I could not lend that feeling to anything else until I gave it to myself.

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

Hey... you. I've decided since it's been a while since I've written anything new I'm just going to put up some of my unfinished stuff up here. So this is the beginning to a creative writing assignment that (SURPRISE!) I never did. The only way I passed that class is because I edited the entire 2010 anthology. Anywho. Here goes. It was written a couple days after the morning my dog, Kiwi, passed away. It was going to be called:

"Hair"
     A flap, flurry and ruffle of feathers alighted a hanging wooden house hand-crafted by a finger-painter. Schools of fish with scorched green scales drifted aimlessly to and from their trees in the summer's breeze, offering a chorus of hollow whispers to complement the cheerful chirping of the feathered flocks. As summer's song sang, they sat, smoked and occasionally petted their black furry friend that panted and played. The planks on which they sat stood a dozen years tall, a stationary existence that had stained them a shade unlike their own. White-hot sticks warmed their lips; their signals danced, became one and were gone with a wind that came in shrill gusts ringing in my ears--shrill and still, shrill and still, shrill and still.
     There we were. "Were," not "we're." We are no longer. We had been; relegated to the past tense. But times passed don't necessarily pass with time. I still dream of her and remember the time we had, or maybe that's the other way around.
     The wind that woke me was a wind of change. A cruel clock, time winds endlessly. Except for me, everything is always coming and going. And now our black little furry friend had come and gone, too. That must be it--for her, alas, I still can't cry. Though, judging by the elephant bugling coming from across the house, my mother has that covered for the both of us. I take a seat on my ivory throne: shit, even it comes and goes.