april 2002 || may 2002 || june 20002

remember that summer when the air felt so much warmer. it seems those days just eeked on by back when you were 2. i only forget the memories that made me become what i am. faking injuries in small holes on dewey grass, just to avoid bruises and scars. running with tears screaming down my neck, as the yelling intensified. shaking alone, during 20 degree weather, as i walked home from the coffee shop.

they said the days would get better. i'm still waiting. but at least, i have the nights, and lack of lights to keep me occupied in the meantime.

5/27/02 @ 4:01AM monk;Scribble

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it seems that the world collapses in on itself at a rapid rate of dissolution. the comparable contrasts of black and white flashes rock out across the void in a streaming video that some kid finds for free online. struggling, choking, gasping for the recognition that hours of television, tv dinners, and an empty house cannot give. we all used to feel so at one time.

5/25/02 @ 2:25PM monk;Scribble

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summer is upon the great ole airwaves these days, and nobody understands it any less than i do. i'm tired of the heat already and just want some wonderful cold air to blow by and freeze me silly.

i'm jobless. soon to be homeless, meaning writing here will be harder than before. so, if anyone would like to tell me of any openings for work anywhere, i'm willing to accept. that is all.

5/20/02 @ 10:44PM monk;Scribble

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updates deserving i know. being bored with life interrupts the neurons. i'm trying to be free. i'm trying to remember what it was like to laugh, smile, smirk. anyways, enough about me and my sappy times, my dreary moments, and my frostbiten tongue.

judas never made better peanut butter, but if you happen to forget that sunshine is free, you should go to girl:lousy.

and of course, before the faithful free-hearted souls forget all else, there are better things in life than television, they are called movies, and if you wanted to be bored by numbers and dollars and top 10 lists and that like, as always box office guru should satisfy that urge.

5/17/02 @ 7:21AM monk;Scribble

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this is the end. my only friend.

i need a new job, if anyone has any possible leads to arise that situation, please email me, or sign my gbook. it is essential. i am having very serious issues with my current living environment, being st. louis.

i feel like i am trapped here with no escape. there are no girls. there are no good jobs. there is no possibility of me living just well enough to write a lot. i forsee myself sinking more into this void of mid-western excess, and drifting away behind some cardboard boxes one day begging for 20 cents so i can eat a rotten donut for my weekly meal.

someone help. anyone. email me, talk to me, try to make me forget why living is so hard, and breathing is not good. that is all from me for today. and maybe tomorrow.

randy

5/13/02 @ 7:26PM monk;Scribble

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she cradles her head between two arms. she wishes the sky was within reach. she wants to feel ashamed for something she should not have done. she watches shoes on the sidewalk and comments. she dreams through plexiglass and espresso, and wanders the night in bathrobes. she is a stolen laundry basket describing daily life. we never knew her, until the daybreak.

5/11/02 @ 3:59AM monk;Scribble

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reverse. re-iterate. re-vamp. revise. rocket ship.

gucci screaming - cyberpunk scifi story, in constant writing that i am doing.

watch as i fast-forward my story higher each day, but never add anything inspirational to it. I'm still devising my plan of attack for everything. you should really notice that i like short hair. it's a curse of mine. you should really be inspired that the stories i tell, aren't real, and in fact are stolen from the back of my brain where the little storyman devises such institutions.

gibberish. all gibberish. today is thursday. they say that the week is a long and hard place, cold and unconforming. if there was a day of the week that would signify being left in the middle, this might be that day. anyways, i think i'm going to get some more of the smiths tonight, or listen to the epoxies, not sure if i feel in a somber morrissey mood or an upbeat retro new-wave mood.

congrats to mary ellen for a site that inspires people to talk.

5/09/02 @ 3:19PM monk;Scribble

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stolen whispers steal the innocent. you never hear the screams late at night with your heater on. it's that time of the year.

a really good analysis of blade runner is located @: what defines human?
and at @: blade runner : a postmodernist view

sometimes we wander along the streets, seeing those people that never knew we existed and we forget.

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"A shoeless child on a swing reminds you of your own again. she took away your troubles, oh but then again she left pain. so, save your life because you've only got one." - smiths.

i am poor, like a french maid with no houses to clean. i now have to try to scrounge money to replace tires on a car that is failing. i also need to pay off bills. i have 200 dollars and a half pack of cigarettes, writings that don't pay any money, and a sleeping habit that would kill most people. It's possible. It's called not leaving my house for 2+ weeks and just working, sleeping, and writing. I can do it, call it hibernation, inspiration, or just living, either way, it will happen. It has to.

this summer the water rises higher than you ever saw it before,
the waves crash louder than a plane against the plastic wall.

larry bird. straight-shooter. i have nothing more to say.

5/08/02 @ 2:56PM monk;Scribble

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good photos, make good looks.

i'm violet. infra-red. stolen like a packet of gum from convienence. chalk-written on sidewalk. sirens wailing away in search of the street. i'm left. broken in half like that desk lamp. forgotten. forbidden apples that fall from trees. eve liked me. you never stole my summer. you never cared for winter. you liked connecting the stars in your mind. i forgot to play. childish games with no winners. i'm purple. it's not frost-bite this time. taken speech classes. taken laundry baskets. my drawers are empty. my room is blank. my walls are peeling. dreams don't occur. i sleep alone. i sleep alone at night. over-rated these days in pixels. you should know.

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sorry for the lack of updates. Been busy doing nothing, just wandering. nothing great. nothing fantastic. i think i am either the dumbest or laziest american in the world. I get these great ideas about how to make a movie, a story, or a poem, and they mean so little nowadays. If only I could wake up at a normal time, go to my job, do my thing, and then enjoy my normal minutes off like every other person out there in this world. But, no, i'm different. I make it a challenge each day to do anything that would normally be easy. I'll write later I think.

5/07/02 @ 3:02PM monk;Scribble

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welcome to a world untapped, pure, and innocent. welcome to the 12th century. no real update today, i work at 8am tomorrow and am here till 11:30pm tonight. Any update would be on the story below.

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this thing below is a story i think i will continue. i just started writing it today. it is pretty weird. i'm at work, feeling down, and just started to write a story. I don't write stories. If anyone does read this, please email me ASAP and let me know what you think currently. As, I might not finish it if it does not seem worthwhile. Thanks, Randy.

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gucci screaming

......She stepped into Boston, a free-form collective of jaded aristocrats, down on their luck junkies, and agro-political freedom undouka. The city looked 17th century tech, thanks to modifications to the building structure codes and the constant projection of holographs refusing to relinquish the past. Big tall buildings graced with the architecture of brick and mortar on the first two to three floors, solid gutai roads that are visually transcribed in the eye as cobblestone, and bustling street corners with 23rd century virtual gambling games, cybernetically enhanced street girls, and past relics of all kinds being distributed by merchants, made Boston into a blur of activity that most other cities fail to comprehend.

......She had business to attend to, tossing her half-smoked cigarette to the cobblestone, zipping among the throngs of fashion police, decked out in the latest Kamamoto threads, bearing their resources to the alley cats with the thin red eyes. She started across the road, dodging the multi-person shuttles with j-pop stars belting out tunes on the vidscreens mounted on the sides, taxis with rotating neon ever-fluctuating prices, and other people wandering in their chameleon-like wardrobes.

......She made it through the slums to the building she was looking for, one of the many that lack the nice and neat straight-forward design of this century, and have a crumbling outer-structure that looks very displeasing to certain eyes. Walking up to the door, crossing over things that looked better left alone, she entered.

......Approximately 2 minutes later, according to the french girl meowing the time on a billboard, the building she had entered ceased to exist, and so did the building on the left and on the right. The blast also managed to take out some tailor-made suits and a couple of cars that probably should not have been brought out on the road.

......They say we should care about those people that no one notices exist. They fill that gap between living your life comfortably or slipping through the cracks. Sometimes late at night I can still hear the screams of all the people that died that day and I smile.

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......It was a cold night in Moscow, with the border guards shaking down anybody that even remotely looked entertaining. Being that I had at least 4 different citi-passes that appeared to look like me, I never really concerned myself with being caught. They say rogue-looking individuals usually manage to slip on by high security, and today was no different. The name's Frances. At least that's the name I go by to all of my business associates and the general public. My real name, well, it was forgotten many years ago, and for good reason, as I'd probably be dead by now if anyone knew it. I've been hired to kill the best of society and the worst. Sipping champagne out of your retro-indian apartment does not guarantee you any security these days, nor does moving your sheets of paper from one alleyway to another.

......I can't say that I remember my childhood, as the jumble of memories that were in my head have ceased to be after all the hardware that has been jacked into my body.

(1) undouka - activist.
(2) gutai - concrete.

5/03/02 @ 2:58PM monk;Scribble

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i am soft-spoken. i am frozen solid like a broken windmill.
i am stolen from a gas station and dropped on the ground like
a cheap fountain drink. i am not feeling fine.

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run away kids, this mentioning of mentions has failed to parlay the efforts of governments. they mass-murder civilians on a daily basis just to push forth the noble notions of more gasoline. i regret to inform you that bombs are dropping as i type, and people vanishing without a fight. When you walk outside of your house, and trek your way to work to do your 9 to 5, look out into the sky and hope nothing falls on you.

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a random chorus from a song never done
these feelings of mine have been described
countless times by countless others every day,
and you told me you felt the same way.

you made me forget my dreams were mine
taken before i had time to realize
i would never have a chance to go for them.

5/02/02 @ 3:47PM monk;Scribble

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a terrible terrible day. i hate this day. it lives in infamy as being the day i would just like to stab a person in management here, for being so insanely dumb that he would give me false information and force me to use it, even though everyone else i know and myself knew that i was right.

gotta love that corporate environment. It would be so "cyberpunk" of me to just walk in in black jeans and a trenchcoat, break into the inner shell of each computer and destroy all relevant data, and then take a gun out and start blazing away. I'm a wuss though, so i'll just sit and stew, and later tonight when i'm home, try out Kelly's idea to lull me to sleep.

some good hot tea with a bit of sugar in it is all I need to warm my heart.

5/01/02 @ 8:16PM monk;Scribble

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i've been on a writing binge, what is with me. all past entries, have been moved to the appropriate month of april, where the showers came for a little bit and stole away before i could truly run rampant through them. however, the last piece of wisdom i had to give made it through to may, so sometimes the past does become the present.

i really should get these published some day. Not the ones on this site, but the collection i've been growing at home, that i've been told over and over again to get published but have failed at doing for so many years. Any help in publishing poetry would be accepted with open arms, and tootsie rolls.

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jersey

sometimes jersey sits there staring at me from my third floor building.
the fireworks struck the tree next to the heart on my sleeve,
she said drury inns feel comfortable on sunday mornings.

sometimes jersey shorelines stretch my eyes from dirty sand.
the sidewalk cracks interrupt the steady walking of lovers,
she felt like the pier has no magic when your alone.

remembering there was more to follow, she'd fallen asleep on my shoulder,
but that was 2 years past, and i'd moved from jersey
to the quiet streets of manitoba, to forget the past.

sometimes manitoba feels colder than the canadian forecast.
the buildings feel less real when your standing behind them,
i'd forgotten how everything reminded me of jersey and her.

5/01/02 @ 2:07PM monk;Scribble

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