Friday, October 13, 2006


NOTE: Hawaii does have a State Writer. So you will have to share your Glory and Prestige with them, I think.

But don't let that stop you from applying.


  1. Anonymous10:53 AM

    When gray fades into gray
    And black and white appear
    There’s clarity from chaos
    From things you used to fear
    These things that used to own you
    Have finally set you free
    But the chains still drag behind you
    No matter how you try and flee
    You’re straining to move forward
    But your past it weighs you down
    As you walk it clanks and rattles
    ‘Though you’ve finally made new ground
    These chains they slow your walk
    And you cannot climb the hill
    So you stay here in the valley
    And know not what calls you still

  2. This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.

  3. The Sleep That We Dream Of

    I am the mother of the dead soldiers
    whose blood wins only a grave.
    I am the child of the dead mothers
    whose cries reach no god.
    I am the father of the great idiots
    whose hearts give birth to wars.
    And it is for all these singers
    poets lament while the earth moans.

    It is for those who are hungry and cold,
    who have forgotten who they are,
    who wait in their meekness
    for some impossible saviour
    the old ones taught us would come in dreams,
    that I sing this song that is the name of our family.

    O you powerful nations of imagination
    how you strive to keep the people from touching
    and rebuilding their tomorrow.

    You will soon enough know all your relations,
    soon enough you will be brought to your knees
    and not through some mute hope or promise
    that leads the people to slave in your factories.

    It will be by the vast hope of billions
    who cannot be chained or silenced
    by your gold, your jingles, your poverty.

    It will be in the murmuring heart of the people
    that you will hear the story of your own death
    you nations whose kindness resides
    in the radioactive fist that melts bones
    and the memories of our ancestral union.

    You will be strangled in your own vomit
    and your children who are fed by machines
    will one day lay down and curse you
    for those angry worms that are eating their hearts.

    Perhaps then the people, if they are still here
    will be gentle and lift them from their tears,
    will take them again into the circle
    that is our lives spinning around the sun.

    Yes, I am your son and your daughter,
    your mother and father and ancestors,
    lover of winged finned and furred
    people who caress the grass with abandon,
    who drink in the waters with hope.

    My wails shall fill up the skies of our world
    until you shall listen or watch us all die.

  4. America the hungry

    Our obese culture,
    churning out drones,
    sweaty dollar bill fists
    shoveling loaded forks
    into their rectal mouths,
    Supressing their coach potato rage
    with the over-medicated, over-advertised, over-the-counter thinking of this new age.

    More eating.
    Less reading.

    Chomping. Chewing. Chomping.

    Further dissolving a constipated education system,
    the consumption is so loud
    it is impossible to listen,

    School houses are pens
    for the living dead
    where hands only raise
    to scratch empty heads.

    Maybe we need more MTV,
    more me, me, me,
    more SUVs

    less empathy
    = more HIV

    Am I cursed with the only set of eyes that can actually see?

    We wage a war on terror
    while religion is raped and twisted
    into political tools
    used to munipulate the masses of brain washable, yet good natured fools,
    And brown skinned children
    are sent to their Gods,
    as we download stolen music
    to load up our ipods,

    So what,
    Our beady, greed-focused, judgemental eyes
    have left the city of New Orleans
    to be claimed by flies.

    But America knows best
    -which is sitting around getting fat,
    so for piling up your plate,
    this is where it's at.

    As for me,
    I'm full.

  5. Anonymous9:58 PM

    The Dream Dried Up When I Touched it:

    It started with a girl wandering, locked out
    a pale ghost carrying milk on a wooden yoke
    in frigid winter
    lost, with no language,
    hallucinating Hiroshima, dogshit, and escape,
    on mushrooms, in a see-through nightie
    wearing fear, going by bus,
    following a loose marble
    into the highway reststop
    with the wax sculptures, fast food fungi,
    the torture maps, charts and diagrams,
    lost in the horror film
    lost in the frantic search
    leading to the haunted house
    leading to the increasingly enclosed space
    and finding her mother inside the dull mirror
    of the broken mammogram machine
    costing a quarter.

    The girl and the mother are strangers.
    That's all I remember.

  6. Anonymous7:50 AM

    Leonardo invents the wheellock pistol, then works on the
    Mona Lisa for ten years. Art is never the same

    An estranged Greek wanders into Marienburg screaming,
    asking for "Die grun kinder?" Philosophy is never the same.

    Taking a cue from his father Dracul and his mentor John
    Hunyadi, Vlad Tepes invents the freeform abattoir.
    Politics is never the same.

    James Watt, after 20 labors, unveils his steamshovel pilecrapdriver. Industry is never the same.

    Oppenheimer cowers and pisses his pants, quoting
    the Bagavad Gita in the light of the first worldwide tanning
    booth. War is never the same.

    Dark Saturn pries himself fullborn from the everyman brow
    of a poet's Zeus. Life is never the same.