Love
Brings
Hate
and
Hate
Brings
Love
Go Figure!
(Author Unknown)
[Taken from toilet stall wall made of steel in the Learning Resource Center (LRC) at CC on November 03, 2004]
Love
Brings
Hate
and
Hate
Brings
Love
Go Figure!
(Author Unknown)
[Taken from toilet stall wall made of steel in the Learning Resource Center (LRC) at CC on November 03, 2004]
If there were no authors, there would be no accountability or responsibility.
Modernity on the British tongue sounds like Maternity, except of course there is a "d" and not a "t" in there. In America it is more of the "mod" part of modernity, which is stressed and apt just to sound more "mud" than "mod". This morning on my way to the mail I passed a house that looked to be the definition of "modernity" - or the "modern", depending on how you say it, or where you say it. That isn't to say that it was industrial and/or recalled octopus trains stretching American grain fields to a group of Molly McGuires in a factory town... ...though in a sense, or to my senses, it did collapse an expanse. A house two triangle slabs a slice of yellow between. It sat cavased backed on a large lot. But, what truly came to define it - or make me realize that somewhere in my head I'd collapsed something were the two teenagers waiting for the bus in front of the house: Smoking.
My brother and I bought shirts that match, the difference is that his head is bare and mine has a hat.
I washed my pants, and now they fit again.
There is a preconceived notion about shoes - and the people who like them. When she comes in the mailroom with glee, and calls me a liar of happiness, because I've missed the fact that shoes have arrived, I think of the time I was in a foreign country with a big suitcase, the size of a small foreign car's trunk. In the case, I had: some paper and a lot of empty space. My girlfriend saw the space - And put it to good use by filling it with shoes. Perhaps my "preconceived notion", that in the grand physics of the cosmos, women are inexorably linked to shoes, is unfounded. But I'm glad that women like shoes. It makes for a very mysterious life.
The people who you thought looked nice aren't And the people who you thought were mean weren't But it is still pretty stereotypical when you get down to it.
The thin box sits between the two similar boxes filling the space of the room attempting something for myself - but then the man comes and moves them, my ears buzzing.
There is some arrogant dick and some stuck on herself cunt and a mother fucking, father fucked system involving time-sheets that for some idiotic reason every blind somebody thought worked - - when the only thing really working is "I".
There is no shape that the words carve out to match the roar I anticipate in waiting to hear A city a man no more a wilderness of men and (women) a structure structure-less sought where it isn't mown The only garden a Dunkin Donuts never closed always clean the young girl behind the counter who smiles and speaks in a language I cannot understand (and still the women's bathroom is out of order - something is amiss in paradise) Against the grass uncut as mist falls bending light over wrappers and cans round beneath the rusted bridge where a man hangs by a cable There too i think i have an idea for a poem something to get this voice of the moment to put it down to map it out when the reality is maps litter the backseat taken from the center where the man speaks a history that turns in and over itself wrapping me by in squares lines and names that do or don't There's no way out of this place but living in a roar of fevered streets alive in the light alive in the dark where there never was a poem to begin with Only a winding NJ turnpike scattered with ridiculous $0.35 tolls