sleep is tugging at my eyelids, but i have had a thirst for poetry for days now... months, i imagine, if i calculate precisely when the well went dry. perhaps i am waiting to be activated into a state of some sonic outrage... at the present moment, my emotions resist all mode of buildup. my sentiments sit like pellets of rabbit dung in different, disconnected corners --- a panging of resentment at government and the rhetoric of empire, a twinging sadness towards deatth and a solemn appreciation for mourning --- two things have happened in the past few days: 4 of my classmates (none of whom i had known) were killed in a car accident, and the US agenda of war further unfurled before me. i marched outside in the cold of dc with hundreds of thousands. i called my family to tell them i loved them. i paused to reminsce on the pathways of grief. its not that i don't feel.. (GOD, may i never be felled by apathy ) its just that i do not feel strongly, intensely, passionately enough. i know this because i still cannot write poetry. it is a kind of litmus strip. things are not right, i am too silent.

i need words text release. i need to create. i want my imaginative senses back. i want to express, i want to create. i want to lose myself in sentiment. i want words. text. i want to scratch my hand across the page and then sit before a foreign thing that i have produced, of my own subconsious design. i think i am liable to burst