"journalism" poems
Assignment after assignment
10, no 12, for math
2 lessons for English
2 movies and a sheet of questions for each for journalism
1 weekly question and 1 lesson for biology
A lesson and questions about textbook pages for Spanish
A workout log for P.E.
1 nonfiction piece and 10-15 poems for creative writing
All due when?
By the end of the week for math
By the end of the week for English
By the end of the week for journalism
By the end of the week for biology
By the end of the week for Spanish
By yesterday for the nonfiction piece for Creative Writing
And who knows when for those poems for Creative writing
Get the grades up
Get the grades up
No matter what the cost
No matter what the pain
And get the chores done
At least 4 a day
Write down everything you do along the line
Timecards, what's next?
Shower, time it just right
Work around the other people
Don't mess around
Waste away
Obey
Get the grades up
Get the grades up
No matter what
Don't be dreamy and strut
Smack you to the ground
Get down from the clouds
Back to reality
Straight As only
Nothing less
Everything more
Or who knows what's going out the door
Maybe something you love
Maybe your sanity
Get the grades up
Keep your head up
Don't slip up
Keep your head up
Smile on, smiles on!
Don't argue, they always win
It creeps beneath your skin
Make it stay there
Bite your tongue
Until it bleeds
No matter what the cost
Remember?
It's all in your head, of course,
Besides the grades,
THOSE ARE REAL
There's no making a deal
Get the grades up
Get the grades up
Straight As and nothing less
Nothing left either, until you're a horrid mess
Just Scattered.
- Jay M
May 6th, 2020
May 6, 2020
May 6, 2020 at 10:36 PM UTC
sure, first we had the schism
of the church & state...
"oddly" enough...
we now live in the 2nd tier
of schism -
the segregation of
state & media...
no?
really?
we're not?!
i'm kind of enjoying
this ongoing schismatics -
the segregation of church
from state, at least left us with
the Vatican (i.e. the church-state) -
but this, current...
segregation of state from
the media?
**** me cram my testicles
into a monkey-wrench
and subsequently watch me laugh...
and there i was thinking,
that psychiatrists,
were the new priests of
the secular age...
prescribing the alt. to
the metaphor of cannibalism
in the form of big pharmacological
pills, to replace the wafer for
bread,
or the watered down wine /
grape juice of the...
so how does that party trick goes?
is that the wine turned into blood?
symbolically:
turned water into wine:
flag-wise...
white,
cardinal...
and then burgundy of
cardinal red teasing the bishopric
coloring of purple?
i'm not here to undermine
the faith...
i'm here for the self-deprecating
humo(u)r...
you don't even require
atheism to get a laugh
out of the conundrum -
you, simply need...
the deviation from the catholic
rites...
an apostasy -
but sure as **** it's there...
secularism has allowed
journalism a monastic status...
first came the schism of
church from state -
which remained intact in
the church-state of the Vatican...
so... FAIL...
secondly had to come
the schism of the state from
the media...
i'm watching a schism
take place...
apparently...
the comparative concern
of church's divorce from
the state was easy,
having imploded into the Vatican...
but the divorce of
the media from the state?
apparently... not so easy...
the media is already locking-down
on obstructing the schism -
arguing from an entertainment
perspective...
a century or so later,
and still, the persistent,
media symbolism -
of crafting caricatures of
a state...
as the state embodied in
nothing more than subordination
to its will...
media is the new church...
and if the separation of the state
from the church took so long...
how much time, do you "think",
it will it take, for the state
to segregate itself, from the media
baronage?
i suspect - as much time as it
took to segregate itself from
the church's cardinal-lineage.
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 11:34 PM UTC
Engineering to the Bridge:
"Time passed, but without us. A bit like Kepler's third, I suppose."
Express your "law" another way. Throw rocks at the moon. Stone the satellite because of your own despicable sins.
I see demise in your face. There's something strange about the through lines of your crew, the yellow journalism of their spacewalk.
Posters of the wild frontier, staggered and torn, said nothing will go wrong. That sometimes death is merely the devil changing colors.
"I think not, Captain. You laugh when you should cry. You tear to pieces the pictures of the overtaken. You run from the lie detectors. Otherwise, your narrative falls apart and all you're left with is your withered mind funneling down a ****** abyss..."
Sep 27, 2025
Sep 27, 2025 at 5:44 PM UTC
I eyed you from across the room,
Tim was yak-yakking about some drop D heavy metal band
he was drumming in,
But I was tired of socializing,
I had only come to drink,
yet I was overtaken by you.
I'd seen you prettier, livelier.
You looked so blue
decked all in red,
in your worn out fuck-me-shoes.
I think my mouth was still agape,
when your gaze turned my way.
We both were locked.
Getting headsick from the smoke,
waiting for the flame to catch up.
You'd never seen me so unkept.
I hadn't shaved in a couple months,
my hair was to my shoulders, and
my body was drowing in wrinkled,
secondhand, early 2000s high fashion.
I walked over. Leaving Tim talking about
fusing dubstep with his metal ****
You were working at a bank,
making three bucks more than minimum.
You changed your major.
Your relations got too public,
so you're shooting for journalism.
Haha me too, or something like that,
is what I said.
Your smile became parasitic to my clumsy words.
You said we should hang out for old time's sake.
"I won't take no for an answer."
"I'm too sober for this."
I walked off, grabbed the flask from Tim,
spent the night strolling under streetlights,
and hoping to have a revelation.
But all I had was a dwindling buzz,
and a divine gravity pulling me
away from remaking the same
mistakes.
Dec 8, 2010
Dec 8, 2010 at 12:33 PM UTC
This is an Instrument a Verser must have
Without it, we cannot Write with Love.
This Tool, yet so small
Does so many for All.
Ink-Filled Skinney,
With a ball-soaked head.
Passing-out stains of Blue Blood
And creating Words which Read.
People throughout Literacy
Seek for this Sword.
To furnish their own Feelings
And Bsuiness in the Ring.
It all started,
With a large, downey feather
From the Swan's sacrifice,
Dipping the tip with sticky paint,
And scribbling onto leather.
Paper, in progression, was its Factor
Then came the Fountain - Civil Man's writing major.
This Pen does well
And so does much.
Ink goes up,
Goes down,
Though still plans to Blot.
However it may be,
How the Ball-Point was born.
"This is way Better!" People would say
And now - the New Century - is still
Used today.
And because of it,
Production was born
In Business, Literary and most
Of all - Journalism
Was so Progressive.
And so this ends,
This Tale of the Happy Ballpen.
Of Friend's in-take,
Which is needed much in the Open.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 12:45 PM UTC
When news broke out that the glorious White Building
was to become dust to make way for a high rise
that would displace both bones and ghosts,
we were standing in a parking lot, my friends’ fists
clutched tight around their motorcycle handles,
their rapid Khmer lilting with each syllable
as they quickly planned a memorial service
for another shard of history that once did not have
blood dripping from where it had been broken.
My nickname was Country Girl, clueless and silly,
full of questions, songs and dances, a patched-up mess
with the face of a Vietnamese, the laugh of a Filipino,
and the pride of a maybe, sometimes, almost Khmer.
We left just as the city was starting to wake again.
In journalism school, they never taught us
how to grieve for ourselves, so we tried
in the best way we knew how -- a funeral procession
of worn rubber shoes and checkered polos,
in our backpacks the cameras that would write our eulogies for us.
I was the stranger whose connection to the deceased no one
understood, but still let in,
taught me a prayer,
offered some porridge.
That afternoon, I whispered a prayer.
White Building, who stares death in the face,
once a mother to the hands that had colored
their age gold, please welcome me.
Do not let your skeleton
collapse beneath the weight of this stranger.
Please, welcome me.
Aug 27, 2021
Aug 27, 2021 at 2:10 AM UTC
First day of class, her nerves are crunching inside while she tries to maintain a cool surface. The nervous foot tapping and magnetically crossed legs I see giver her away. On top she is collected: calm, serene shirt color, long hair tied back in a ponytail and a smile as the teacher talks and jokes. Her pen is tapping out a nervous jig, but why?
Is she eager to impress or is it nerves too anxious to start her first day of class actually ‘specified for her future.’ Is this class the first stepping stone on her “road to success?” Nervous laughter at all of Dr. Sandlin’s corny jokes, sometimes her laugh rings out a trill and true chime and sometimes it is stale.
She has big plans, big dreams, a big hope. Creative Writing 3400 is her first “official” step, from there a journalism job in London perhaps? Her nervous feet are thirsting to walk the streets of history where Shakespeare, Milton, or maybe for her Dostoyevsky have trodden.
Cold determination, a warm smile, she will succeed.
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 12:38 PM UTC
i always thought that comparing
photography to painting
would be hard,
but then i read an article about
a girl with a baguette,
in the jardin de plantes
looking up at a kerfuffle
being pestered by sparrows,
having henri cartier-bresson
take a picture and i thought...
*one brush stroke of colour,
after watching a blank canvas
for about an hour.*
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 7:25 AM UTC
At 8:30 this morning I was still hopeful. I still had a chance. It was possible. It was mine.
An hour later "We regret to inform you..."
An hour later it was over. the 4 months of waiting for absolutely nothing was over. "Excellent pool of candidates..."
I wondered if that made me less excellent. "highly competitive and qualified..."
Was I not qualified? I replayed my application over and over in my head and it sounded like it was mine.
"Oh, it was national" says my father.
Maybe I'm only qualified when it comes to Wisconsin, because the same thing happened to me at Regionals... Somewhere in America there is someone better equipped for your dream.
"We wish you the best of luck in your future endeavors"
Well, what if I have no luck left? What if I'm not excellent enough?
What if I'm not qualified enough?
What if I'm not deserving enough?
Then I look over my Journalism application. 120 spots.
120 qualified people out of a pool of who knows how many.
My morning made me feel unqualified as if there was a slim chance I could possibly obtain anything I truly wanted.
Then there's Beyonce and Jay-Z tickets everyone is raving about, but I'm in a stand still because I have **** I need to do. I have dreams that money actually can buy. So while everyone is raving about concert tickets,
I'm at a standstill wondering how in the hell will I afford to make my dreams come true when Beyonce could've made them happen 100 times over and then some...
Feeling unlucky, unwealthy, and under qualified
Then a friend tells me "cast your anxiety upon the lord"
Deep breath in.
Exhale. Something greater is coming my way.
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 9:43 PM UTC
On the first day of Christmas
Old Rupert gave to me
Papers full of right wing bull ****
On the second day of Christmas old Rupert gave to me no more free to air Simpsons and papers full of right wing bull ****
On the third day of Christmas old Rupert gave to me ****** tabloid journalism, no more free to air Simpsons and papers full of right wing bull ****
On the fourth day of Christmas old Rupert gave to me high price for comedy channels, ****** tabloid journalism, no more free to air Simpsons and papers full of right wing bull ****
On the fifth day of Christmas old Rupert gave to me pay rises for Wall Street, high price for comedy channels, ****** tabloid journalism, no more free to air Simpsons and papers full of right wing bull ****
On the sixth day of Christmas old Rupert gave to me copyright enfringements, pay rises for Wall Street, high price for comedy channels , ****** tabloid journalism, no more free to air Simpsons and papers full of right wing bull ****
On the seventh day of Christmas old Rupert gave to me FOX FOX FOX, copy right enfringements, pay rises for Wall Street, high price for comedy channels, ****** tabloid journalism, no more free to air Simpsons and papers full of right wing bull ****
On the eighth day of Christmas
Old Rupert gave to me world news in the eyes of the rich, FOX FOX FOX, copyright enfringements, pay rises for Wall Street, high price for comedy channels, ****** tabloid journalism, no more free to air Simpsons and papers full of right wing bull ****
On the ninth day of Christmas old Rupert gave to me expensive live sports events, world news in the eyes of the rich, FOX FOX FOX, copyright enfringements, pay rises for Wall Street, high price for comedy channels, ****** tabloid journalism, no more free to air Simpsons and papers full of right wing bull ****
On the tenth day of Christmas old Rupert gave to me problems with channel 10, expensive live sports events, world news in the eyes of the rich, FOX FOX FOX,copyright enfringements, pay rises for Wall Street, high price for comedy channels, ****** tabloid journalism, no more free to air Simpsons and papers full of right wing bull ****
On the eleventh day of Christmas old Rupert gave to me lots of canned laughter, problems with channel 10, expensive live sports events, world news in the eyes of the rich, FOX FOX FOX, copyright enfringements, pay rises for Wall Street, high prices for comedy channels,crappy tabloid journalism, no more free to air systems and papers full of right wing bull ****
On the twelfth day of Christmas
Old Rupert gave to me trying to put a cost on YouTube, lots of canned laughter, problems with channel 10, expensive live sports events, world news in the eyes of the rich, FOX FOX FOX, copyright enfringements, pay rises for Wall Street, high prices for comedy channels, ****** tabloid journalism, no more free to air Simpsons and papers full of right wing bull ****
And that is the pain we suffer under Rupert
Nov 12, 2017
Nov 12, 2017 at 12:10 AM UTC
Mount Kenya University; our school
Has really scaled the heights
Climbed the mountains of education
In and outside the country.
However, we as students have to sweat it out
To climb personal mountains of education.
That’s why am not happy
From Monday to Friday
My precious time and fare
Gets wasted
So that I can attend lectures.
Here I am
A digitalized engineering student
Who has designed a robot
For taking me up there above the clouds
To punish they who brought
All this book-struggling to us.
The robot is climbing up
The steep steps of the atmosphere.
In heaven I am now
Holding a cane.
I dispenses three hot strokes of the cane
On Eve’s buttocks
Then advances towards her husband.
But Michael the Arch-angel
Kicks me back to my seat
At Uniafric house
Where am listening to a lecturer
Who is possibly lecturing for eternity
He does not seem to understand
That my dry throat needs some unlocking
That my lover
Is waiting for me.
Have a look at Nairobi city!
Lit like a bush
Full of countless glow worms.
Look at the beautiful
Gleaming lights of Tribeka club!
At the cheap hotels
Located at Odeon Cinema
Am forced to take lunch
Of chips which cost thirty bob
They say it’s usually prepared
Using some poisonous electricity transformer oil.
My pockets are
really too small
for the likes of Java.
But my fellow mountain climbers
Let’s fold the sleeves of our shirts
To hold onto the mountain’s
tricky walls for guidance
To climb all the way to the top.
And of course
We will have plenty to enjoy
In the snow capped peak of the mountain
Armed with huge jackets
For preventing the destructive advances
Of the then present world.
©2013 Vetelo Ngila
The writer is a Journalism student at Mount Kenya University, Nairobi campus, Kenya.
Contact: [email protected] OR [email protected]
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 6:31 AM UTC
Soaked senses tell me
the top of the "mountain" is dry
like ice.
With a hyper-awareness
I clatter along,
with a warm coating
of ever-changing plaid
warmer than flannel-
burlap bones
wrapped in velvet veins-
and all of these observations
report to a head of fuzzy stars.
So when this stairwell
feels like a scene from the Cold War,
with its chilled chipping cinder block,
violent eruptions,
and moaning drafts-
a cause that my allies
in the self-flushing latrines
have long forgotten-
I will understand,
as they will,
and you'll just have to trust
the facts reported to you
from yours truly.
-Gonzo
Feb 8, 2013
Feb 8, 2013 at 7:26 AM UTC
Waiting my turn to pay
For the items we need today;
The beans and the chili
And some picklelilli
And costly imported pate.
A headline that says glaringly
What some starlet does daringly.
What I see before my eyes
A big edition full of lies
They put here to tempt me daringly.
Where childbirth oddities
Are viewed as commodities
To put onto the front page
Soon, to become all the rage.
And two headed goats
Get the kind of public note
That should be reserved
For something more deserved.
We all know these stories
Are anecdotal glories
Made up by the magazines;
The tawdriest ever seen
And they don’t mind getting gory.
It’s yellow journalism
A sort of print format ****
Intended for the kind of fool
Who never finished school
And falls for jingoism.
Where childbirth oddities
Are views as commodities
To put onto the front page
Soon, to become all the rage.
And two headed goats
Get the kind of public note
That should be reserved
For something more deserved.
Brent Kincaid
4/18/2015
Apr 18, 2015
Apr 18, 2015 at 9:19 PM UTC
why make videos these days...
they're easy target,
for people who read,
or largely (pretend to) read...
the bare minimum...
journalists with the equivalent
of the bare minimum of
journalism:
namely?
literacy.
a journalist these days...
wow!
they can read! they can
write! read & write?!
**** me! a double whammy!
you sure we shouldn't ascribe
them policing stature &
authority?!
like...
simultaneously?!
let's face it...
they have investigate
the double curriculum venture...
we know how donkeys play
the bet...
they gamble with a
worth of a carrot,
and always return with
stick's worth of motivation
to gamble stupid once more.
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 9:15 PM UTC
. i'm not an alcoholic, i'm an intermediating construct of blues... i think more about blank canvas i am to fill, than the next drink 'm about to have....
why give a dog's bollock's care
concerning yourself with
whst other other,
proper, "sober", sensible people
make of your?
i guess an inhibition of
a lost verse...
in poetry we call that a quais
take on a paragraph...
something akin to:
the same worth of the worth of
something worth losing...
get the drift?!
Clive Owen...
Denzel Washington,
Brian Molko...
now?
breed me, a ******* hybrid Q
your nag hammadi perfectionism!
you trans-gender
eucharist!
breed me an example
to my specification!
breed it!
show me the Frankenstein!
breed it!
i want wolf ***** "ingested"
in women subjects!
i, WANT, THEM!
you want the Frankenstein
monster?
first you need the mad doctor...
you have me...
cuffed and teasing!
i am,. dying to waake from
what is death, and what is death assured,
in the fork form of, shadow...
you, want, the monster...
i am giving your the antithesis
of the nameless
caricature of
what man's capability!
i need it, whatever "it", is...
i will not sleep till this "thing"
is awake in the womb
of my cognition...
and i know of its wake!
it's funeral a birth,
it's birth,
banshee screech!
the failed Polish
winged hussar charge against
the Ukranian Cossack upriing,
thick, in, mud...
i have the desires
to damage marking
banknotes...
Shelley will always outlast
the credibility of Austen...
Mary contra Jane...
horror...
Frankenstein monsters...
vampires...
werewolves...
she's the third of the canon!
you don't do that!
you can't do that!
but you did, do that!
there is a shadow of man,
he dares to call history
to contra the visage for the excuses
of journalism...
not here... not now...
as a young boy,
i dreamed of mingling the ***** of
wolves, being impregnated
in human females...
i guess, as a treat...
to alleviate
the existing product
of down syndrome'
what?
what is science?
if not the reinvigorated
perpetuation of
trans-categorical inquiry?
p.s. when i drink?
the last "thing" on my mind
is the activity of drinking,
notably, for socially unhinged
barriers to be broken...
i'm an anti-social drinker...
i hate conversation,
esp. when drinking...
a ******* desert,
when it comes to
the calorie intake!
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 9:52 PM UTC
you were not the saint your yellowed hands
and stained, creased eyes would make you out to be.
you told me you had kissed some other girl and that she
was nothing like me and that’s what you liked about her.
you called her chaos and said that every time i locked my
thumbs together the bones began to decay. you said that you
hated when my hair covered my eyes because i never wore it back.
you said my voice never rose above a whisper and you were right
even though you never asked me why.
you were lying when you pretended that you were something
better than me. your ankles had grown together from the years
of letting them hang languidly and some ugly weeds (wildflowers)
had held them there. every word you spoke was folded carefully like
an origami bird that you spit out from the back of your throat, polished
in a sugardrop gloss sticking to the seams. you knew the presentation was
just as important as the message and maybe i knew it too once.
i started off planning to write about me but it never works out.
Feb 7, 2011
Feb 7, 2011 at 1:53 PM UTC
hardwood
and the smell of writing
writing
and the smell of hardwood
i could sleep here
under the disorganized desk
and wake up in
unequivocal happiness.
Feb 17, 2011
Feb 17, 2011 at 1:55 PM UTC
*i've become as lazy as composers
when writing titles,
example of tautology is as lazy
as beethoven's ninth symphony...
yeah, grand... but what a dull title!*
so i was reading this article
about bim adewunmi
about the singer laura mvula...
and you know how it goes...
leftist liberals tend to write
tautological spaghetti,
likened to bim's example:
'short-haired, dark-skinned
black girl', bim, we get it...
could have said rancid cinnamon
for all i care...
tautology is a logic of adding
more salt than the salt required
so it doesn't taste too salty when it
does... i could also proof-read
other journalists...
restaurant critics are the best laughs,
esp. when reshuffled like
a ****** cabinet of the labour party
to the opinion columns...
then it's not called opinions section
but table talk... a bit like saying:
do i woo the sea back into this oyster
before i gulp-down-the-hatch-it?
well what do you expect,
free democracy and subsequently
free journalism has a judas kiss /
brutus stab at everything,
why not laugh at it as a useless
get up in the morning read a newspaper
be pulverised by stories from kingdoms
far far away and opinions of people
who'd send ******** dubbed
soldiers off to the slaughter fields of Flanders
so they can keep erectile egos ready
for a salary readied...
journalists always divert the heat & fire
to the politicians... while
journalists get away with satirising themselves,
and i dare say, they are the clumsiest
satirists of themselves,
the most wonky ready to dismantle itself
noumenons in existence.
- journalist: huh?
- the public - (elvis') aha uh um (frolicking
without the stiff upper lip).
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 7:50 AM UTC
When I laugh like a 65-year-old smoker,
when I fill in the lines of her face with my fingertips,
when my thoughts crash,
when I don't return my mother's calls,
when I apologize for stepping on your new shoes,
when I read Wolfe instead of socialize with the priests,
when I stare into open caskets,
when I microwave popcorn for all my friends,
when I throw nickels at Vietnam veterans' feet,
when I drink almond milk,
when I swear celibacy,
when I break oaths,
when I decide to write an epic poem that rips off "Howl",
when I browbeat idiot roommates,
when I buy books I never read,
when I hit on summer girls through text messaging,
when I wake up beside myself,
when I sleep on the tile by the toilet,
when I **** off the neighbors
when I hear someone say New Journalism died,
when I say they lied,
when I break my fourth finger against a wall,
when I listen to The Silver Jews during a heinous fog,
when I get to the table on time,
when I talk to Shorty about Waits,
to Zach about Springsteen and Ryan Adams,
when I'm surprised my friends actually listen to me,
when I straddle roadkill,
when I rock the proverbial boat,
when I lie with good intentions,
when I hook,
when I line,
when I sinker,
when I shift,
when I falter,
when I fix,
when I fake,
when I take the bait---
it's involuntary.
Dec 28, 2010
Dec 28, 2010 at 11:24 AM UTC
danke, und scheiße geruch um beachten! (if ungrammatical then ensure you do not waver to correct me, but speak as correctly as possible and leave me to my insolence and gratify my mistake as championing your correctness, at least thus i'll be glad to make you see what i too wanted to see with my imperfection the suggestive).
western society has taught me
that i'd be better off
not having educated myself -
and that reading philosophical
books is considered a mental illness;
such heightened literacy rates
i almost clamour to buckle
in marking journalism a synonym of propaganda.
no, of course i'm not happy where
i live, i what's deemed a civilisation or
an exportable social model,
a place where you say the word Kierkegaard
and people think you've said gonorrhea,
so the French kiss outlasts oral *** -
tongue here, tongue there, tongue up your ***
you're a credible ****** should it matter,
while all the menial tasks for the unruly
have been exported to made in China -
i ****** Poland for ever wanting to join
the E.U., thank god they didn't adopt the failed
Euro currency - the diversity of the project
would always fail - no slingshot Indians
or bow & arrow akin mattered
when the other Indians gave us the Taj Mahal...
wise too i would be as an Ewok... and a Vindaloo...
wait a minute, why am i writing
like a reformist coloniser? i've been duped!
i learn the english tongue i suddenly
become nothing less than a coloniser myself;
might as well be a viking in york
or a norman at the battle of Hastings!
otherwise i'm a concubine on a mechanised
dildo-throne while the irish are Yuppie
with psychos of american Wolf St. scenarios
awaiting the 1980s discography of
a lucid John Peel commentary.
Apr 23, 2016
Apr 23, 2016 at 8:18 PM UTC
I try not to heed news that yells at me that everything is going to ****
I do, however, read lots of news that leads me to the same conclusion.
Though I do care
how current events impact my fellow Humans,
I wish to form my own genuine opinions
based upon objective information;
Is that really too much to ask?
Seems like it.
Objectivity in Journalism is a dying breed.
Media doesn't like Objectivity anymore;
not since the inhuman atrocities of the Vietnam war
were so enthusiastically televised.
Now it's all sensationalism and demagoguery
and who **** X is ******* this week
and that's how they want it;
for, you see,
we, the People of Earth,
are far too dangerous
with accurate information
and a bit of vested interest
in what happens upon this,
our sole World
our soul World
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 2:16 PM UTC
i've been texting people for a connection.
our bodies search for vibrations,
short and electric but its an elaborate show.
who are these folks behind the curtains?
and through these notes, i am certain.
i cant write anything of substance.
i keep seeing your name and i try to change it
into something insignificant.
but that which we call a rose,
right?
i keep trying to escape it
but my handwriting is no legible font.
no respectable medium to my professor.
i cant keep in between the margins
how would they know the amount?
did i plagiarize the way i wrote
"I miss you." ?
so, we type.
remove the writer. its about the content.
did i cite your absence right?
is this journalism, biography or ********
it must not true, ****
but my fingertips reach
short distances on the keys
of my devices
and we type.
hashtag notice us, hashtag test us back,
are we connected yet?
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 4:49 PM UTC
*the new deconstructionism will focus on how you become a humanist after studying science into maturity, you will deconstruct being enmeshed in spider-webs and cobble-stones: moths in my wallet scenarios of complex greek alphabets given scenarios of constants - the circle of π (~∞°: well, approximate but i can still enclose a shape and not bother undermining the practice of architecture by bewildering myself over the geometry of the universe, it's a substance like water, a vacuum of infinite mirrors / black holes are two-dimensional objects in three-dimensional space, like in the first tomb-raider, the two-dimensional ferns and other objects on close inspection rotating) - randomised infinite negations of decimal digits in the spinning vortex beginning with 3.141... let alone state nothing as a necessary compounding of adjective purification of nouns or verbs - e.g. pure mind, true / undiscovered self, higher being... none of that crap. come back to π = ~∞°, well, that's because the shape becomes in transit, hence the "illogical" perpetuation of decimal points after 3, the shape is too useful to be a closed-case of Pythagoras.*
everyone knows the famous case
of the writers' block,
that big fudge-like-turd
of a blank page...
but no one really cared to mention
writers' claustrophobia,
resonating in the court of law of
proofs with such books as those
entitled: collected letter 1975 - 1992,
proof that writers who idolise
and champion isolation can't
handle the strain of filling a room
with so much of their own excrement
they have to whip the leash like
a horse jockey directly into someone
else's mind - mind you, that's better
than regurgitating facts, the now
famous form of journalism reciting
all the health parameters to basically
live on air and science, speaking out
the mechanics of someone's liver
with that tut-tut index finger pendulum
of whimsical scorn.
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 11:16 AM UTC
"...here, where the blades in the ceiling
interrupt...
this...is the place you left
home to get locked out from..."
--Sally Van Doren.
Step again, and we move along
the haphazard course of tragic occurances
expressed as the passage of news events.
Elegant, the couple has immunity by
the honor of necessary respect. In this
perspective, looking at the ceiling we, all,
see the patterns of the stars, currents
of speculation and the influence from space.
{ [ _ q int r ( q ) ] / ( d e , d n ) } =
[ d u _ ( x ) y ( N , Z ) ] .
After it had gone away, the memory was
a continuation. Each comparison left its
emptiness; only the universe continued to be
a ceiling above the (floor, bed). In the flowers,
the next springs bouncing through their
allotment, the years were reaching for
a prominent eternity. The change of phase
being self determined, like the space of
quotation, the resolution adjusted the course of
needed, pine forests, needed barrels of oil, rain,
sustainable living becoming the fire
of the rebuilding. This, we remembered with
journalism by interpretation, pointing to importance.
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 8:22 PM UTC
A cliche group of young adults
Sit around a badly-furnished living room.
One by one they go around the room
And express their (completely valid)
Insecurities
Over the future.
Four people
All paying tens of thousands of dollars
For a piece of paper
That may or may not even be useful.
Journalism. English. Farming...
All hoping to join
Various dying industries.
All being fully aware
That the jobs they want
Likely won't exist in five years.
All not knowing what to do.
Follow your dream
(Which is likely dying)
Or switch majors.
Turn the last two years
And the last forty thousand thousand dollars
Into a waste.
I could shun my English degree
Repress my hopes
(Which are now, at the most, three-quarters hearted)
Of becoming an editor
And becoming someone to help the world
Become more focused on literature.
I could be a nurse
Do as my mother did.
It's hard
Much harder than sitting and reading
For hours on end
But I could do it.
I could help people
And always be guaranteed a job...
I could not be useless.
Dreams or realities?
Jun 12, 2010
Jun 12, 2010 at 9:10 AM UTC