This is where I'll be.

Off to the land of drunken fools where everyone is not yet my friend.
I'll cross my fingers for another sing-a-long in a old dive bar.
With a woman with a deep voice and a man with a pock marked face.
The bartender, a lady who smokes to much.
She gains youth through watching youth.
A jukebox of my childhood.
My heaven, under a smoke stained roof.

Just Hold

She has rats in her hair and smells like poison.
Like blood and fire and too many tears.

Her eyes, so dull, they hold no passion.
Only look on to no hope and all fears.

Her skin is pale but etched by emotion.
The only way she knows to escape the hell.

Her mouth is twisted like it’s never smiled.
Small, lips stitched to the face of a doll.

Her body, so small, it lacks all substance.
Just like a bird, so brittle, so frail.

Her hands, they clench, afraid to let go.
Her grip, so tight, everything shatters.

She keeps quiet, but her pain it is so loud.
How is it no one can hear her?

Just hold her, please hold her.
Tell her it’s ok to be scared.
Just hold her, please hold her.
Show her the scars you bare.
Just hold her, please hold her.
She may not know you care.

R.I.P. Pioneers!

Since I am already on the death of things loved kick....

In the last week two creative, talented and brave pioneers have moved on.

Bettie Page.
April 22, 1923 - December 11, 2008

Forrest J. Ackerman.
November 24, 1916 - December 4, 2008

You have both changed pop culture, influenced many works of art, inspired many people, molded, formed, changed minds and because of you things will never be the same.

R.I.P. Bound paper.

Libraries everywhere are losing funding due to population losing interest.

This one, The Donnell Library Center in NYC, is being demolished so that a hotel
can take its place. They are "relocating" it to the basement, where it will be a
fraction of its original size. While a basement library could be a neat thing, the only
reason it's even happening is because a law mandates it.

The above picture tears at me. It looks like they are in body bags. Dead and only missed by those who care.

I wonder if public libraries will exist by the time the next generation is my age.
Fortunately, there will always be those who find nothing more comforting than
the smell and feel of sheets of printed paper.

Where are my walls?

I feel extremely vulnerable.

Like a scared little girl.


and I hate it.

Life Was Loud.

Sometimes life yells at you.
Like I heard my father do.

It howls and shouts.
Like the kid wanting out.

It screams and cries.
Like those hidden lies.

It bellows and roars.
Like those swinging doors.

It shrieks and whines.
Like those ties that bind.

It yelps and weeps.
Like heartbroken sleep.

Sometimes I wish it would whisper.

Fuck Planet Earth

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