real and imagined

the disparity between fantasy and reality is lately shocking me. i try to uncover the moment of fissure whenceforth my mind continued on the course of things expected while reality turned and took a different path. alas, said moment alludes me.

little river flows

eyes closed in joy do not see

rocks changing her path

and there you have it...there's the reason i'm not "a writer." you should see the equally lame poetry from the teen years.

speaking of which, check out the show mortified the next time it plays in your city. maybe even pull out your old journals and audition.

(btw, like the little rock art we found at babgy by some andy goldsworthy imitator?)