Imprint.

I would like to say something special. In order to pierce your brain and satiate my thirsty idiot itch. No worries, I've been devoured from the inside out. Poking me under my chin, forcing me to look up. And still, my minds been dammed. I've tried to say it, but it doesn't come off the rope.

Once I tried to type about a cardboard box and yellow parchment, but that fell out like draining. I can't even feel my fingers. I've just about woken up everyday with a numb head and a sore back and dried blood in my throat. All I've been told is that I want to come home.

Maybe I will take my cardboard box and yellow parchment, make a home for myself. Breathe in dirty creek mist and drink dirty creek liquids. Build stick rafts and cross stick made bridges. Close my eyes and press my face onto the yellow parchment to see my face and what it says. Lick stamps and press them ontop my brown paper house and mail its objects to a titled dirty alley. Start over and live on scraps and heavy dark brick moisture. Find my nook and tap on my home until my knuckles beat and scrap and sink. And when I open my eyes I want to see what picture I've made. I'll write "DONE" in thick red and see who picks me up. Maybe I'll end up in the sea or back inside some scenic television mess where I can't breathe and scrap or shake. And I'll cut open my box with my bare hands and wrap the creases around my own. I'll leap off the highest tower and make sure my eyes are closed. And when I hit the ground, please make sure to see what portrait I've created. Tell me if it's nice.

I miss everyone.

Something I cannot recall.

I picked it up and it was empty. Brown, creased, minipores dispersed throughout its smooth terrain. In my left hand is yellow parchment and a pen behind my ear. As I press my face against the floor I hear the hum. It's a constant hum and it's so simple in itself. But I still don't understand it.

I walk outside with silent steps to sit and watch the stars.

Electronic mail stands for email.

"Well, I'm lonely, internet."

It captivates us, engulfs us as postcard beings and soul searchers. We long for it, because we long for reality and how it grips us. We wait. Watching those who are idle, behind that encrypted door full of code and false pretenses. A fantasy that is drab and boring and mechanical, yet so rich on its outer layer that--we wait. We sit and pretend to hear is digital chirps while it whirls its motors in ways we could never understand. We write only to rewrite without the consequences of how we are erasing history and chickenscratch congruently. We miss the point of real relationships and force feed fake laughter in rendered scripts and smiley faces. But we still wait. It's like our own existence is cut off if we aren't waiting. Wondering if you're the only one there. Wondering if everyone else is cooking or loving or playing solitare. Pretending we read ink when there is only really words. Words that aren't real. Because you can't taste them, you can't lick the bitter pages and you can't smell the oils and skin that make the book real. You're tempted to click. To sign your electric blood onto this network that weaves and controls your emotions and self-confidence. But you're missing the point--and so am I. But I can't help it. I can't see you. Or smell. Or taste. And those chirps are nothing but whirls of the clicking motor inside its plastic shell.

All I can do is wait.

Letters From Outer Space.

My spaceships counting off! I'm manning this alone, alone.
Into the metasphere I've felt no other senses dear in this dark home!

Can you anticipate the feelings that I have, I have.
A quiet menace is including me, oh my, so long, so long...


I've yet to feel the fear that all those men instructed me to feel, oh no!
I've packed a dictionary in order to break the barriers of unknown

Languages I've studied but I fumble

Impossible to carry on a conversation.

But I've allowed myself to stumble
Purposely on such occasions
Noticing, I'm scared by

Nothing...at all. Nothing at all.

Do you appreciate the lengths that I have gone, oh no!
Instead you scoff and spit and blemish all the people that I've known, oh no

So fire off, ignition 1, 2, 3 I'm going on my own, my own, my own...my own
Into a different set, a place where I can breathe all of my own, so long sweet home.

Thoughts on Coming Home.

I could imagine you,
Picking bones alone!
By your TV satellite,
Counting off, to your days circa home!

In this foreign waste, land of ignorance!
Catch the crowd in you eyes tonight,
making love, to your impotence!

And if eyesight was some dream, have reasoned your right to speak?
And if it's manic self-remorse were your manners left to breathe?

I couldn't picture you,
Picking bones alone!
By your worn-in paperback,
candlelight, circa manic poems!

In this fucked up town, savvy words a thrift!
Catch the crowd in your eyes tonight,
making love, to your impotence!

You Were My Favorite Moment.

Look at this desk. It's so cluttered. 3 pictures, two portable digital mp3 players, 5 books, one blank halfway through. There's an opened package of fruit snacks, an open package of blue ink flexgrip pens. The mug that always smells of old coffee is on my left. There is a thin, worn pick, a calculator from grade school. My first tuner sits by my side and a handheld recorder for intimate feelings is adjacent. Other things clutter my desk, but they're not worth mentioning.

Look at this crowd. It's so cluttered. 3 foster kids, two portable digital mp3 generations, 5 tools, one blank of half his sac. There's the art kids over there opening their new-age vinyl. They swear that hipsters are for kids, but maybe they aren't--and maybe they are. Who knows. That Nordic boy that always smells of tea is smoking on my left. Coughing up his right lung in the process. My first love sits by the wall, soaking up this genders endorsements while she bobs what's left of her own self-pride. Some selfish kid is poking a hole through the wall and viewing the night life of what's left of it. Of this generation and the one before it. Or is it after? Other things clutter in this mess, but they're not worth mentioning.

I don't know how to end this. So that's about it. Goodnight from a lonely, cluttered desk--full of things that weren't worth mentioning.

Like my digital camera. And my oversized pen. And a pair of arms. And couple of breaths.

Lady Like, In Summer Clothes.

I was surrounded by cardboard cutouts. Dastardly beings! All speaking in different dialects of poverished ghetto Russian. Countless sparrows marched through the dusty air menacing whichever hope was left in their manic path. Sparking this witchism with misty eyes was this dancing girl spitting ice through the crevices in her dirty dress. She missed me by just a pinch!

See was nothing but lies and a mixed descent was the look of her cream white skin and lime green eyes. How they shone! They pierced my heart and my mind and my ghostly soul. With those eyes she peeled my shoes and crinkled my trousers. Clinging to her with every one step and every soundless movement as I paced myself to her rhythm.

"I have to get out of here! It's full of dirty old men!" Cried this mystic gyspy of a girl.

See was petite with a pomegranate in her left hand while the right made its tangent towards the moonlight that painted her skin so soft. And she glanced once--towards the bastard that popped his knuckles and gleamed trident squares out of such a black hole you couldn't imagine how his lungs could exhale. He sucked in everything--this included the color of my face, the green of the leather grass, the grime of the dirty streets of Austin. Hobos backed into playgrounds while the fuzz would muffle their alarms. This muting of the whining attracted the pigeons, to the displeasure of the vigilante who had his eyes set on that pearl. That pearl with her green mystic eyes and cream soft skin.

The vigilante dueled the black hole boy with his trident square teeth and his pocketfulls of cash. And all I did was follow her, slipping past the dust, grime, hobos, pigeons all gravitating in this mess of blood, hair and the initially mentioned black hole (bleeding, now it was).

I followed her until time was not a factor. Days blended like creme into the week of its soft tongue, quite like hers I would imagine. I could not brake from my obsession--to speak in those terms frightens--no!--offends me, yet I cannot press the earnest endearing love for my distant prize to you: the attendant, the audience!

And there she pranced, this greenhorn unknowingly twirling away in her petite, creased, mystic dress. Complete with emerald green mystic eyes and soft creme skin. In the blues of my own street, my own mystic longing.

Self-awareness Day.

I saw my reflection today.

It was muffled, with a murmur of a sound.

My eyes shifted down and adjacent.

They refocused.

They rescinded.

They are round.

I saw my reflection today.

There were pixels,

techni-chaos,

tapeover sound.

My eyes were defocused and both shriveled.

And spun inwards to release and dismount.

I saw my reflection today.

It was foggy.

And disheveled.

Kind of brown.

The latch followed "up" with one finger.

And it went round and around and then down.

Greetings from Office Town

It has come to my attention that my online stash of endearing words and gossip/tabloid banter bullshit hasn't gotten the treatment it deserves--or was promised. My life in Maryland is neither extreme; it has been neither horrible nor splendid. Unlike last year, I have found a new comfort in small town life, with my retreat a small paperback embellished refuge. I've moved into the "other" room, away from the other side of my dad's bedroom. The man snores like he's possessed and 6 am wake up calls weren't making the cut.

Since the last time I updated not much has happened, although, I did spend a hazy Sunday afternoon with my old dear friend Mindy in the street traps of downtown D.C. The glam of the Ritz Carlton and the knee-buckling height of the Washington monument were pleasing--plus the expenses paid brunch at some politick-stricken fancedance restaurant/pub located across from Uncle Sam's capitol was very appetizing. I still wish I didn't forget my camera; it was specifically charged full the night before for such memory capturing purposes. After glancing through a comfy old bookstore we parted ways and agreed to meet in the next couple of days back at her mother's business suite, with my roommate Ricardo in D.C. for business also scheduled to meet us after his company's affairs were done. Unfortunately, both options of my D.C. acquaintances fell through at the very last moment and back I went to work my 2 hour overtime shift.

Oh, and work.

I don't do that much. To be honest it feels as if I do less now than I did last year. However, I keep my ground and bite my lip, asking to do petty things that any analyst 2 or 3 asks me to do. All of my colleagues are rather nice, a majority of them women with a couple of dudes here and there. Frederick, Maryland is office town, sadly. It's filled with over-priced townhouses and overweight restaurants. Golden Corral and Applebee's squeeze this towns love-handles, tickling them to their table-tipping brink. Oh, and I've found the beautiful people: they seem to congregate at the newly opened IHOP.

I've been on a fantastic reading binge; while idle in my apartment for the first two weeks I made a daily trek to the Man's typical neo-bookstore, sat my ass down on those fake suede seats and dug straight into the likes of Thompson, Kerouac, Chbosky, and umm...Rowling. Onto Catch-22, in case any bookworms out there are wondering. Other than that the World Cup, bootleg movies, bootleg concerts, and father/son tennis have been made into outlets towards normal life and away from seething tremendous boredom. I apologize for my lack of communication from, well, anyone really. I've come to find myself playing dominoes online until my eyes sag shut and my mind falls into a technological slumber.

So there it goes, something up and done; painted and pretty, technology's children at its most dense and hissing best. Maybe this will continue, probably so but no promises. I have decided to change bits of my life for the better, forming a comfortable mix of pieces of my former personal pros into somewhat of a quilt for the instant future.

Ingredients:
1) Keeping healthy
2)Scheduling rather mad incentives to equal appropriately mad consequences
3)reading like a frenetic
4)preparing for the upcoming Austin journey (meaning school and such)
5)being a good (currently) Texas removed friend

And thanks for the birthday wishes. Really, I haven't been that happy for a very long time.
With much miss; read to you soon.

Henry