I feel very Presidential.  Yes, I do.  Sitting on the steps of Pres. Garfield’s monument, drinking beer, tapping on laptop, sending blogs into outer space, I feel most majestic.  But I’ve poetry to write about things dear to my heart and troubling me.  So fuck the public service thing.

I’m never going to love again.  No, this doesn’t express my inner feelings.  This expresses my premonition about the way the world has for the last several years and continues to dispatch me.  Love is always just *this close*.  And then, with no warning and often little explanation, it goes away.  Poof.   Yes, some couples fuck.   My intended just *poofs*.  Of course, my intended may be just a construction of my imagination anyway.  Rumya (Rumi) is actually my sweetheart, of course.  And she says she's 'pissed' because she claims she has had writer’s block for the last couple of weeks and hasn’t been able to continue with my (our) ghost-written story.  I think she and I were just about to make love during the thunderstorm in Chapter 7…  O my god, I wonder if she’s about to go *poof* too?

Scribbled on a subway wall:
“Is there any intelligent life left on Earth?”
Scribbled underneath it:
“Yes, but I’m only visiting.”

The shadowy voice said: “Just punch it.”
So I punched it.
Then, feeling its influence upon my psyche, the voice urged: “Spit.”
So I spit.
Then the voice commanded: “Fuck me.”
So I punched and spit on it.

We do not dream dreams.
Dreams dream us.
But you can own them.
Dreams are only good if you own them.