I have this terrible disease where my headphones are always broken. Sometimes only one ear works. Sometimes I have to wrap the chord around and around my finger to hear anything. After a while I forget that they're are broken. I get used to hearing only half of a song. It's like having a long cold, and forgetting what it's like to breath through your nose. It can be frustrating at times. When I hear a new song, beautiful and complex like a swift moving river, I want to hear every note. I want to swim through it in my mind, or to lay on my back and float through it. But I can only hear the rhythm and the faint whispers of melody. You can't just listen listen to half of a Philip Glass song. It's painful.

Dead Week

Sitting alone. In my stale dorm cave. Eating tropical Starbursts and jalapeno chips, and drinking off brand ginger ale. Listening to surf guitar and sewing the crotches back into my jeans, there's little reason to watch the clock. I don't eat the purple Starbursts and I don't study political science. Last night, instead of practicing Conditional proofs, I made a magazine collage called "Signs of the Zeitgeist". If I were a boy I would no doubt have more salacious ways of spending my free time. The truth is that I never have to do laundry again if I choose not to. I know that it is Thursday because it is my mother's birthday. I know that I shouldn't touch my face with my jalapeno powered fingers, but it feels good to massage my temples. I go to class because it's easier than figureing out what to do instead of not going to class. It's sort of like what W.E.B. DuBoise said,"......". I didn't read the chapter assigned on W.E.B. DuBoise. Needless to say, I was not what he envisioned when he wrote about the "Talented Tenth". I don't need makeup when I get enough sleep, but I can never get enough sleep. I know it is Thursday because they served pancakes in the dining hall. I rise and fall from my bed, as punctual as the tide. There will be final exams someday, and someday there won't be. Presently, I am unwrapping Starbursts and that seems to be enough for now.

Kelly is as pretty as Kirsten Dunst. Her eyes are not weak at all. And all of her hair is not blond.

Strange Fruit

I defy you to watch a Ken Burns documentary and not cry. This week I tried to watch Jazz, the 10 hour series. I made it as far as the late 30's. By then Louis Armstrong had just arrived in Chicago. I began the series only intending to watch the episode about Billie Holiday. I quickly realized that I would have to start from the beginning to fully appreciate the Lady. To fully understand how she could be so heartbroken. Heartbroken in a way that only a jazz singer could be. If jazz were a tree, then it's roots would be deep and twisted, it's fruit would be bitter-sweet. The most successful artists had the greatest failures. They drowned in bottles or faded into shadows. Often they would just disappear into the deep blue of their own music. I only made it as far as the late 30's. Louis Armstrong was still blowing on second-hand trumpet and wearing borrowed tuxedos. He hadn't even met Billie Holiday yet. I defy you to watch an entire Ken Burns documentary. A person can only look at black and white photo's for so long. A person can only take so much heartbreak.

Restless Ear Syndrome

I can hear a dog howling a few blocks away. At this time of night, while I'm waiting for sleep to come, it sounds a little like the whurr of a police siren. At this time of night. After the crickets in the grass are silent. When the frogs in the forest lie still. When the birds in the trees have gone to where ever birds go at this time of night. I can hear a dog howling a few blocks away. It sounds a little like a man crying. The slow hands of the clock don't mean anything. When sleep hasn't come. At this time of night.

Madonna on the Rocks

This is dedicated to Amanda Westbrooke and everyone who is related to Amanda Westbrooke. To fans and suitors of Amanda Westbrooke. To people who watch public television, and patrons of community theatre. We are starstruck. We are children at her feet and clay in her hands. She is among the Daffodils. When we scorn her, she weeps like Mary. And so we give praise. She is your mother, and mine. Amanda Westbrooke. Holy vessel. Guardian of patrons of community theatre, and people who watch public television.

Damn

I have searched the pockets of every pair of pants that I own, and I cannot find a single piece of bubble-gum.