"Like that skateboarding boy."
Fiona Guest 

And sometimes when
My heart has sung
It's tune of unleashed joy,
I know that free
Is on the move
Like that skateboarding boy.

"sp;      [skateboarding rises as the highest form of intellectu"
Coop Lee 

in the year 2462 those with nails protruding from their palms
will talk in ancient tongues
& sway the tribes of men to eternal love,
& endless ammunition
of the soul.

kin, galactic
& the golden fire.
throb the saga of man,
into hip thrust illusions and combustive color schematas.
we bury our dead in flower clippings
or skull bits.

        [skateboarding rises as the highest form of intellectual sport]

thrum and plum-bum the sewers of electric babylon.
hive city reaching past gasp and wasteland,
her lips ruinous.
cement slabs and coils of fault with
vast artistic possibilities.
these skate-lords from their heaps, their clans, augmenting
& rattling bone masks
grinding themselves into meat-bit heroics
& death.
their teeth are yellowy awoken.

this is all seen globally,
via tele-cast-com-core-mind-warp-tech.
or video.

dreams impact reality
impact dreams
in such
that the cathode cortex filter, invented circa 2222,
evolves into a demi-god, a solar charged demon of unlimited knowledge.
& it mutates the psychosphere  of our mainstream public mind
with countless projected memories.
        [streamed alternate realities]
fills the belly and the brain,
but all those unhooked are skating.
sweet meat market.
ghost harddrives.

poor leftovers called children of the once-was-men
& their poolside parties.
they leap the rubble of centuries old plastic icons,
their boards, their weapons, their seeds and spit.
they hang chains from their necks
& spew black flame from their sunshaded boot-click
they drink from large bottlesof elixer distilled
on old flowers
& worship archaic cassettes.

cults of cyborg women with gem-tipped-blade-additions
carve wooden planks from
groves of great oaks.
great oaken powers.
their creators chew gummies and bend time
to uphold
a proposed history of perfection.
they master pong from their crystalline towers,
& hire mathematicians to write
conceptual skate-deck algorithms,
solely for fun.

Cass Rose May 2013

i am a mess
my words come out backwards
my hair is out of control
around 97% of the time
and i am caught in all the books
i've ever read
and can't seem to leave
out of touch with reality
but i will try my best
if you'll let me
i will kiss your scarred hands
and make you tea when
you're angry and worked up
i'll follow every cliche that's ever been written
and all i want in return
is for you to gently reach and pull me back
when i start to drift
and not just run away

"ved everything. Shaggy-haired pre-teens skateboarding past grassy hills. Society-stricken wom"

I wore red shorts, black and white striped t-shirts, baggy over-sized Vanity Fair thrifted sweaters. I liked being alone. I liked people, but I just liked to be alone. I'd go to public libraries in other cities. I'd sit on benches at foreign parks, stayed to watch the shift...renouncing sun, rising moon. The shift, faithful shift...it moved me in such a way. A way that from the start I decided on never intending to describe. Obliviously attentive I observed everything. Shaggy-haired pre-teens skateboarding past grassy hills. Society-stricken women jogging along directed pavement. Fleeting array of arrival and dismissal. Me, sitting. Cold, happy, miserable, lonely...reading the words of anonymous others. I didn't feel alone when I read. I read all the time. I'd sit in my car on some parking-space in the midst of a small town plaza, in front of my drive-way sometime past mid-night, on the streets that could have been avenues. I'd sit and write. I'd write myself away. For nothing. For everything. For the sake of my time, for the sake of my happiness. My being. I was self-seeking through printed form. Feelings. They confused the shit out of me, especially when I wouldn't feel. And is that really even a feeling…the feeling of absence? The feeling of feeling nothing. A non-existent possessive emptiness. I wanted to be an actress. I wanted to be a writer. A poet. A librarian. An old silver-haired woman with a daughter and a son, and eventually grandchildren. A grandson named Ted and a granddaughter named Valentina, which I’d with warm grandmotherly charm sooner-than-later refer to as  ‘Teddy, dearest’ and ‘Valentina, sweetest’. --- And a lover. My lover who grew old with me. My lover who’d stay up to drink tea with me every God willing night. A great father to our children; a grandfather who’d take little Teddy dearest and Valentina sweetest out for bike rides. I wanted to be a cantante but I didn't have the voice for it. I was too average to be a model. A porcelain face didn’t suffice. More than necessary I’d hear strangers whisper, “doesn't she look like a doll?” The familiars, “dear, you are such a doll.” It was flattering. I hated it. I felt just as plastic as I looked. A doll. A cold plastic life-less porcelain doll. But then…I’d feel high. In it’s purest sense, so high…I could just take the world by clichéd storm. Conquer the dreams of my ancestors along with my own. There were times when I was invincible. I was complicated, and simple. I longed for nothing more and nothing less than a full stomach and a full heart. My organs were always half-empty. I’d stare at the stars, the moon, the sky. The laugh-lines of my father. My mothers illuminating youthful eyes filled with brightness that later in life resembled more of puddles from spring left-over’s. I’d look at my own, through the reflection of satin glass mirrors. I wish my eyes were story-tellers. I wanted a brighter smile. I wish I didn't think so much as I did. I wondered…what would life be like without a face? More sensitive, perhaps. I often times felt crazy. Unsanitary. Pathetic. Never bitter. Always misunderstood. And oddly enough, blessed. Fortunate. I believed in God. Enough so to capitalize His name. I had faith. I was grateful. If I had a million dollars, I’d off and buy the church I attended and give it as a gift to the pastor. Even then, hell as a final-inning wouldn't be eliminated. I wanted a better life. Everybody did. Nobody admitted it. Nobody talked about it. And if they did, I’d yet to hear them out. I would like to know, who, if anyone, will ever care enough to hold a beaten strangers hand? I was sympathetic. Internal. Introspective, and optimistic. I’d more than often refer to myself in the past tense. It just felt better. I liked it more that way. The imagery of a youth gone too soon. I made sense, none at all. And at times, I didn't feel the need to. I was nine-teen. Living in my own worded future. Living, that’s all that counts. All that matters. I’d be better someday. That’s what I’d tell myself. And maybe I would. Maybe I would end up being an actress, or a model, or a poet, or a wife. None of these things mattered, but maybe someday, somehow, I would. I’d wake up and live the life of being alive. 99.9, 8:29. And so…I left. And cars raced against streetlights. Seconds raced against minutes. Time was this never-ending race,
and I was just racing against myself.

This is an entry I wrote a year or so ago in one of the many college-ruled notebooks I've come to own.
I'm sort of just posting this on here for myself, to be honest. A sort of modern time-capsule, or so to say.
"and so we carried on skateboarding the snow."
John Edward Smallshaw 

..and talking of snow which you know I adore
I went out snowboarding
with the old lady next door.
She came out all dressed in a parka and trews
and wore green spangled stockings with six inch heel shoes.

We raced along alleyways which we made into trackways,
then she turns and says,
'where are the brakes?'
I said,I don't know
and so we carried on skateboarding the snow.

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