Hey people, I hope you're doing beautifully. I have been--
writing quite a bit more than I really ever have before,
for the past couple months, esp. the last couple weeks.
However, in the wake of this creative outburst, I've been sleeping on the polishing that goes into what comes out--a bit too much basking in the sunlight, if you will (I did). Also my computer and internet availability have been trying (and failing).
But, without further ado, I bring to you three new works on the 'Other Works' tab,
and this post--written at a Seattle Public Library computer as time is quickly expiring, but the poetic meat of which was written by candlelight on my back porch in San Antonio the early morning of New Years Evening (yes it has been a while indeed):

~I called; you stalled,
                                       then told me to come over--
for not too long—I played some songs by a band you didn't know,
and you with cards and some glass shards to shine a shadow show.
You made some tea for us and me as we filled your room with smoke
but I spilled mine. You couldn't divine the meaning of the tarot.
The sound was warped; the light, distort from finicky flames still burning
your incense. Insentience almost overshadowed my yearning
to hold you just in short, -in lust, -or maybe as I once did
when we were young. The feeling stung, but I('m) no longer (a) kid
myself—I'm grown; you I can't own,
                                                                  nor could you be my lover.~
Each time I see you with me it makes me wonder why
when you I leave I have to grieve so much I want to cry.
Maybe I miss whom I first kissed, that passionate primal affection;
but I know now that simply thou art that—emotive ‘n tangible defection.
And so I must stake hope and trust in that which really is,
thus extinguish fie’ry anguish that you won't be my mrs.

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?

This is an original note that I started as a brainstorming reaction to reading a book on Marcel ("How Reading) Proust (Can Change Your Life"), more specifically the direction he took with his "In Search of Lost Time" [sic], on my phone. I continued on to tangents (somewhat disclosed in a possibly pretentious facebook post, if you saw that) for the next few hours and furnished ideas with wikipedantic research. For you to make sense of it, you'd probably have to similarly supplement the ideas, I don't know if it's easy to follow because it's my own thoughts that I've already checked into. Anyways, just thought it might be interesting to you. It was for me. Merry Christmas

Whereas Proust's 'Time' is 3rd Om, this is 3rd Ltd. Subject:
A perceptive person with proustian eye for detail, not only of present presentations, but precedences proliferating per processes that propagate current conditions, a kind of post- rather than pre-science. He could say/be "Lost in Finds," a condition conditional to his being found in loss. This omnipostscience doesn't remove him from the present, but from personability—people are interested in what he says and how he says it, but a passing interest, and no one follows him as they are preoccupied with leading their own lives. This is the conflict.
Inner, Inter, World, resultant from the conflict of the world, people, himself. Conflict is paradoxically problematic. Conflict is given, omnipresent, but his resolution perpetuates it, forms new conflicts. The Curse of Consciousness, of course.
Your job: to course his course, plot the points, each and every last one, {notice a pattern?} so that it can be followed linearly, which is funny, because it's not linear at all, it's a sine line (waves), a function fluctuating between simultaneous di-/con-vergent points (particles), inherently pluripotent, not only the function but also the points, because they are intersections of functions from (in?)finite origins, the origins themselves intersections—herein lies the problem: to know {scire} is to cut {scindere} from what isn't, but everything is. An etymological preclusion with ontological implications—to discern {separate} a cause from its effect eliminates the intrinsic connection. Motives are dependent variables upon their dependent actions and their dependent outcomes and their dependent reactions that produce dependent experiences of thought and emotion that the initial motive was dependent upon in origination—an origin/cause/effect is a supposed start of a silk web within the interconnected web that was constructed from the network of strings originally outside itself, tethered to the trees and waving in the breeze that grow up from and blow over the earth, respectively, a nonliving, life-sustaining entity resultant from interactions of larger entities composed of corporeal chemical agents, that {agein} as {organi} i.e. act as instruments, et do work, et work, et do, act: d ø â k t {â g , ô r g} because g , k are non pulmonic consonants (do not obstruct airflow) produced by the dorsal (tongue, most centralized, adaptable) region, g is implosive, passive, velar ex. e/organum (tool, instrument), energy (noun) [*j is non pulmonic palatal implosive, next step up], while k is ejective, active, velar ex. act (drive, lead), ägein/work* (verb) [*w is approximant— next step from vowels that produce no turbulence—which involve articulators (areas that produce sound ex. tongue, palate) approaching each other but not enough to produce turbulent airflow) and o , e are in the median vowel range of open-closedness (of the mouth) and front and back et 400-600hz frequency, the median frequency of base (low) vowel sounds, and e is also 2.2-2.6kHz, providing the greatest convergent vowel variation and the sound's likely origination of development, not to mention, though I will, biologically the most economical, primal, and  in most ways centric expellation of sound. Thusly energy and work are the composed of the first, most fundamental sounds humans can produce, eject by w o r k , a k t ed out by internal implosions of
e n e r j y, o r g a n s
mirroring the "known", cut, separated, discerned origin of the universe, nuclear fission, an atomic implosion of energy ejected to do, work, act
[b (nonpulmonic bilabial implosive)
e (I, close front)
i (I, close front)
s (nonpulmonic alveolar fricative ejective)
"I"/{I} is the resonance of outer openings unobstructing the flow of implosions and inner ejections channeled through narrow openings near the exterior.]
SEE ALSO: { e g o } — I, self ;
{ g e u } — gheu->zeus(/jesus?)->deus--->god
N.B. Energy, Work, I, God all from elemental utterances
{ e g } = able
{ g e / o } = act/-ed/-or

I turned this essay in a week late, but I was nowhere finished. This topic is so all-encompassing, and I'm such a perfectionist that I might never finish it if i endeavored to. What I have here is basically an outline; I didn't even edit it as a whole, and everything needs to be fleshed out more.
Anyways, I figured that I might as well post it, in case it's of interest to any of us.

Side Note: I took the title from my 'untitled' poem.

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