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April 14th, 2005

He's emitting his gamma rays; I'm having a hard time not ignoring the precautions. But I'm being good. He had an extra visitor today, and an open window until late afternoon.

It seems it was Paul Zindel who wrote both the Gamma Rays goofy-titled play and Pardon Me, You're Stepping on My Eyeball, which I liked rather much as a kid. It took a goofy title to draw me in---or something like that.

The Andrea Dworkin talk out there is making me nostalgic for a feminist community I never had. More of an individual interfacing with feminism, which was out there, and a strong feminist core which was/is in here (imagine me pointing at my ribcage with a thumb).

Nasty headache much of the day. VERY relieved it seems to have gone off on its way to invade someone else, or wither & die outside of all of us. Another night with too little sleep? Probably. Anybody else having a hard time hitting the hay these days?

Who's there?

Willie Nelson; Vancouver, BC; July 21st. You with me? (And you drivin'?)

Crawlin' from the Wreckage

Sing with me, everybody who can:

Got out really early from the factory
Drivin' like a nut in the rain
Don't think I was actin' so hyster-i-cal-ly
But I didn't see a thing until it came

Met the dumb suburbos in the take-away
Beating up the Chinee at the counter
I put a few inside me at the end of the day
I took out my revenge on the revolution counter

Crawlin' from the wreckage, Crawlin' from the wreckage
You'd think by now at least that half my brain would get the message
Crawlin' from the wreckage, Crawlin' from the wreckage
Into a brand new car

In walks Bud with his exploding nose
He's been giving it the maximum today
Shouted, How the devil, you in trouble, I suppose
All you ever do is run away

Gunned up the motor inta hyperdrive
I wasn't gonna take any of tha-a-at
Don't get bright ideas 'bout a suicide
'Cause all I ever hear is, Zoom, bam, fantastic


outstanding bridge:
crawlin', crawlin', crawlin' from the wreckage
crawlin', crawlin', crawlin' from the wreckage
crawlin', crawlin', crawlin' from the wreckage . . . [solo] . . .

Nothin' seems to happen that ain't happen-ed before
I see it all through flashes of depression
I drop my drink and hit some people runnin' for the door
Gotta make some kind of impression

'Cause when I'm disconnected from the drivin' wheel
I'm only half the man I should be
Metal hitting metal is-a all I feel
Everything is good as it poss-i-bul-ly could be

[chorus, then variation on chorus with the excellent couplet:]

Crawlin' from the wreckage, Crawlin' from the wreckage
Bits of me are scattered in the trees and in the hedges

I shall never forget BP's outrage that some people thought Graham Parker was cooler than Styx.


Postcard of the Day

(a feature involving a postcard on a day)

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For another postcard thing, see
my old postcard poems tumblr or
its handy archive.

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Many posts are friends-only; livejournal "friend" me and tell me who you are if you wanna read.


"What was once thought cannot be unthought."

-- Möbius, The Physicists


"The moment of change is the only poem."

-- Adrienne R.


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