Project #1 - Education Blog

My latest project is a blog that follows changes and proposed changes to public education over the first 100 days of this new administration. Despite its title, the focus of this blog is has an infinitely finer focus on Congress.

trump100.blogspot.com

Poetry 50 - The Fits

Here's a poem I'll hate in two days:

The seas seizing epileptic passengers,
drowning the disabled rebellion,
Octaves of time deafen the ever-afters,
casting graves from former medallion.

Tape rolls in pieces.
Fuzzy screens convey nothing,
but abandoned dreams.

Life, a caliper on an empty cup,
serving only to measure the emptiness.

The Second Reflects #2 - Return of the Jedi

I am getting better, and if anyone, that makes me happy. The waters of futurama (the concept) feel cleansing. There's no particular catharsis, as washing a wound does not heal it, but I have been easily moving forward. After meetings with my guidance counselor and attendance that is close to restored, I believe that things are getting better.

No, I didn't finish the fucking novel, but I did give it a shot, and I don't foresee my writing to cease as it is now December 1st.

There are good things ahead, even for the optimistic depressive.
Consistency is key.
So it goes.

The Second Reflects #1 - Numb and Dumb

I don't smoke pot or drink.
Every couple of weeks, I'll smoke one cigarette if I'm in the mood.
I'm not a druggie, and I've never been on a long-term medication.

Despite this, I feel like a junkie that's falling apart. I wrote more poems last month than I did the entirety of the 2015-2016 year. These poems have mostly been marked with the time and date they were whipped up.

My writing is deteriorating at an alarming rate. My WPM is down to roughly 25-30. It's like my fingers just don't flow the same. They were these liquid wands that were randomly dammed. I have not attended school in roughly one month. Things just aren't what they used to be. My brain is the Detroit Auto Industry. In an effort to combat this, I have decided to take a serious jab at NaNoWriMo for the first time in three years. The title of my novella is "Confessions of a Tranny Slut." I'm sure there's a metaphor in there somewhere. I will keep you (all two of you) posted.

Friday is the day that I will seek help.
Until then, Godspeed.

Fucking Films

Please just put Jonah Hill and Michael Cera on the same screen again.

Poetry 49 - Spoken Word Rehab

We're getting worried about you

You seem to be focusing
More on your smoking
Than your breathing

I haven't seen you in...

literally six weeks.

You used to limit yourself
to one cigarette a day,
stopped smoking for months,
and now you smell like an ashtray.

We just don't know what to do

Your words were once so intoxicating.
Release. Refresh.

You can let the wine breathe,
but that's only before the roaches slide down
and make it smell like vomit and pee.

You used to say that beer was just ethanol and piss and I don't know how you let yourself become that.

I saw the lights were out at your house,
and I'm scared it's the same for your head.

Come home
Come home
Come home

We miss you, damn it.

Your girlfriend misses you.
Everyone misses you.

Come home.
Come out.
Open up,
we're here to help.

Believe it or not there is food
other than hungry howies delivery.
And there is life
outside of the TV.

Poetry 48 - Goodbye

Goodbye
is the shopping cart quarter.

Goodbye
Goodbye
Repeat
Process
Repeat
Goodbye

The words you vow to never say again,
cut-outs of which will literally be buried.

Seventeen misfortunes
in angry longevity.

Misfortunes
will not cease,
though privilege will not ease.