daily ruzz

trial ruzz: nearly expired.

seems i have 20 days left on my typepad trial. 20 days of daily ruzz remain. This was an experiment and though i got frustrated from time to time--i think it was a success.

I would, were it possible, continue here till for some time, but i surely can't afford these digs. It's a shame too because typepad kicks some ass. The new wysiwyg editing is the bomb.

that all said, i don't have the $15 a month US to keep this lifestyle up.

I had planned,

if this went well to try to convince you readers to pay for my next year. or some portion of it. but the realization is that wouldn't happen, so we gear up for goodbyes. this is your heads up. 20 days, and ruzz.typepad.com is gonzo. y0.

dour

"Midnight in the subway
She's on her way home
She tries hard not to run
But she feels she's not alone
Echoes of footsteps
Follow close behind
But she dare not turn around"
subway song - the cure

im frustrated.

my eyes blink, body moves. i watch through the lens and life swirls. it pulls and tugs, screams and lies. it slaps the inside of your thighs and if you cry out, thats when it gets really turned on.

sometimes, i can count the layers of light. i hold my eyes open longer than eyes want to stay open. straining. resisting that tired urge to close. to close and refill those cones and rods and nevermind all the light, the layers, nevermind that, we want the dark, and the refill, so we can bring you the lush-lush greens and make you puzzle over the particular density of treebark, or make your skin crawl and your mind race when you ponder what might be growing in that murky cigarette water. they have such long tails and they curl into s and c and w and the alphabet unfolds before the disease ridden beasts reveal themselves. even so, we still want it black. want it back.

give us what we want.

and it starts to hurt
just the right kind of hurt
so i close an eye
take a breath
and close another

there's a deep tribal beat driving us. its angry timber strikes a cadence unsoft, arcing through our hearts like a thouand fat cheeked babies. the dust, free-riding ridges till now, finds the deepest recess. the boards shake and hum. there is nothing but the staccato now. nothing. our hopes and dreams have dried, failed, abandoned us. we wave them off. unchain them for the cacaphony of browns and blacks. there is nothing left but the richness of our fat fingers and all the tastes we can pass over our tongues. everything is lost. i cried out. everything is lost. but this, this simple rapture, soft as a lover's hip, is found. i hold it tight.

i shimmy. shake. move. walk. humanquake. pound pound pound. is it blood in my head? driven up through me, by the force of a heart? is it the blood? my ears full with its recess and attack. is it the blood? or maybe the bounding-footsteps, throwing thumps, down long, flat boards? yes. its that. the boards. the dust free-riding, and the boards. nothing is being driven up through me. nothing ever will be.

i will sit now. and listen to each step. this walking orchestra. this medley. still-song. a beat custom craft by legs-length? a sore toe? shoe height? attentive parents? something silly and ridiculous. something so banal we won't even admit our knowledge of it. no. i will ignore all that. the why. the how. the lift-light list of particulars outlining exactly why this step-after-step concert of vibrations is happening. I would rather die here, now, than look at those promises, brother. don't tell me why, ever again.

don't tell me anything
again. just lets sit. just lets sit and listen together. i hear your breathing and now, we play jazz. our breath pushing the smallest specks of nothing around the room. they dance and foil. they move unknown and unseen, they move. to these specks, we, are gods, and we take this moment for what it is. the singsong of two people about to speak forever. the herald of breath in. the lips partway open. the eyes stuck on that: oh-oh-i-ve-got-to-tell-you-this-now-or-i-will-burst like a four year old scratching and wailing i don't want to go, dont want to go, you're not the boss of me, your some fat assed pimply girl they found in the buy-and-sell and i dont,

i just dont want to go to bed,
just yet.

yes it's like that. there is a swirl of arms and legs, and we just marvel at how anything so small, so meaningless can expend, can engage, can manipulate so fully.

it can either just slip out the corners of your eyes, like the free-ridge riding dust, or it can rip your guts inside out and count. whatever you decide, i dont' care, brother. just don't tell.

Gmail Invites

listen. let me first say, dibs to my homies. dibs to my regular readers, and regular commentors and the ones who blow me after parties. those ones, you get dibs.

i have 4 gmail invites to share.

but.

i wan't a story-comment. you want a gmail invite, i want a story in my comment. i don't care if it's about how angry you are at your accountant, or how you were doing lines off a teenage girls belly. I want it. and because i don't believe there is such a thing as truth, you can play jazz if you want to.

if your story requires links and pictures and music and live webcam chats, well, then post it on your site and link to it in my comments, or use the handydandy trackback feature.

and don't waste your time surfin in on google trollin for invites.
if i get one "oh, i would like an invite" comment, just one
im taking this shit nuclear.

bring it on people.