it’s weird, i’ve been writing in the box room for over a year, only seeing the apple mac displays and aesthetics... but now, to decrease noise pollution in the house in an attempt to not disturb the cats asking for treats... i took out a dusty laptop with a windows’ formatting... and already i feel like i’m re-writing dostoyevsky’s notes from the underground... the whole oddity of it is pedantically exhilarating: plus i saved wolfmother’s debut on this machine, and trentemøller’s into the great wide yonder.*

this is a typical biography of poets these days:
a. gained an b/a from michigan university in english /
    gained an m/a from stanford university (also in english)
b. teaches creative writing at night school
c. has some prize in literature reduced to trophy handling
    akin to sports' trophies, although
    got the prize without the "team talk"
    of motivationalist macho-ism and buttock spanks...
d. divides his / her time between paris chicago & london
     (rich parents i guess)
but there’s hardly a gritty biography so mundane it
would make people weep:
a. educated... yes
b. self-educated after crap education... yes
c. got a really cool triangular badge
    by being in the elite of those learning to cycle
    (when in primary school)... yes
d. divides his time between the box room, his bedroom
     and the living room, ****** in the garden
     too lazy to creep the stairs while the whiskey river flows
     through the oesophagus valley.