Thursday           12 ~ 9 ~ 99
   Seared through with the dull duties of another day like slats of sunshine through venetian blinds.  Winding down doesn't occur before aggravations compound and congest metaphorically like the traffic that can bring it on.  My tight ass is hist'ry after another day fists me.  Little merchants walk 'round the deep dugout sockets of my eyes.  Coca~Cola Ahora!  Maybe it's Maybeline.  Think different. Just do it.  Get a life.  Tell me how?!  Pulsating under pent up pressures, pushing the limits of what I can endure and I think I can't take this shit anymore when...ahhhh....a pungent stench blasts forth like a thick plume of filthy pollutants from a smoke stack.  The searing, the aggravation, the congestion, the pushing pressures, they were all just a little gas in dire need of release.  I don't have to take this shit anymore. 

Kirsten and I went to an open mic benefit last night and the first poet up, while searching for a poem somewhere in the tattered notebooks he held, made a remark in an effort to relieve the silence from the stage that struck as me fearful and somewhat altogether wrong.  While reading poems that dealt with the issues of southern racism he inadvertently brought up prejudiced view of the technology that is allowing these words to exist here as an html file on a server far far away that is accessible to all who want access. 
I do not feel the need to defend the internet anymore than I feel the need to defend newspapers, novels, music, telephones, movies, photographs or even poetry.  What he said was that the internet lacked a human touch.  If it isn't humans that make up the meat and potatoes of this $19.95 per month buffet, then I sure as hell don't know what the fuck it is I've been digesting or for that matter, serving up as well.  I kind of sort of thought that maybe I was putting a touch of myself onto this thing with the writing and the pictures and the 'hi, how ya dos' of the e-mails.   Well, it's a common attitude.  One that will slowly disappear with time like feeling uncomfortable talking to answering machines.  I'm sure telephones were weird to use at one time.  Old great aunt Charlotte trying to get use to the spookiness of Mabel's disembodied voice echoing out of the ear piece.  These are things we go through.  And if any of you are worried, there will always be cafes where pen and paper poets can read their little literary atrocities to unsuspecting coffee sippers.  And, likewise, disturbed youngsters will continue to upload their poetry onto the web for anyone and everyone to read.  Some will even throw their readings on in wave files.  
The human touch goes on.  Shit.  I really don't like humans or their touches.  wish the poet was right.

The time has come again to start the day with a shower, an egg, coffee, shopping, and then reworking the links page.  Adding pictures to it and cutting back significantly on the number of links.  Only the best survive.  

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