Touched Up by an Angel

The only way to make something more annoying is to slap some wings on it. But they are such impassioned little cronies, frolicking about the manicured lawns in their tunics. Singing 'Hey Jude' with quivering falsettos.

Zine Bean Lump Thump

Teen Poetry Workshop Zine Number Three! Bam, them kids is crazy, eh, yo.








And this might not clear up a single zine-induced migraine, but I whipped it up for the whipping:

Free Zine Time!

New zine! First from the Teen Performance Poetry Workshop is now free for download , copying, and distributing! They go back to back on one sheet of paper: print out a few and throw 'em around the cubicle:




The stapling, folding, and slicing might be a challange, but give it a try!

Sleep Bright, Don't Try

I'm not sure how to handle this.


I've been cleaning my room since two hours ago, minus the shower, minus the intuitive bit of poetry tapped out, taped into the laptop screen. definitely strange, narrowing things down. selecting the best anchors and not nailing them down. letting sleeping logs lay as they lay, watching planks toothpicking sine waves.

twang.




twang.


the ocean's an ambient conductor, the momma tongue rasping for grains from shore to shore. nonstop. don't stop no drop the day in a way convivial to drone labor, followed by a nocturnal dope layer, know wha mean, dopamine? nonstop. don't stop. nonstop.

nonstop don't stop.





lessa take the batteries out.

Just my Type (Lighter)

ah, a cause for perpetual celebration and
a poem to my new computer, birthed upon
opening its sleek shipping components a
few days ago.




mascara typography


keyed up the clackity track
padded
my lap's topped with
an ultrathin
info maker
made luminescent as a fly's flappers

laid cross't the abdomen
this is the clamshell
compact of tomorrow
so
that screen's mirroring me
faced with a mimic
not a mime field

under each
application
of

mascara typography


error: no brain


congregates
on
reflection







me type words even while seated. go fig, newty, sir.
found a humble yet servicable image editor this eve.
watch out. the rocks are going to come alive.

Spit fer Spat

Welcome to the Commuse, folks. It's gonna be an improvisational ride.

I'm expanding my comic world: this is a sketch deep pickin' the secluded hideout of the craziest teacher in existence, the stage set for the weirdest kid gatherings this side of highest education. Planning my first zine since my return feels so goodish.


Also, we had a mad crowd at the performance poetry open mic via the delawhere group-- kickin set-up, featuring new and old poems, the typical drunk host, and some unexpected rare appearances! I pedaled my two tinsel-fringed poems to great satisfaction (all mine, of course). Let's hear it for the library-themed eve.