supposed to be working on a paper.
Next semester I'm starting an organization called Brockport Students Against Work.
Here are some chants/slogans:
Housework not Homework
No Class but Class WAR
Social scientific inquiry into liberation theory, scientific socialism and critical theory perspectives on contemporary culture.
Tuesday, April 29, 2003
Sunday, April 27, 2003
I want to thank all the people that came to the show last night. It was a good time.
Here's a poem...
Touch the mirror to feel the tears that smear across my face
Mirrors make you feel yr own skin
Or sometimes reexamine the very air you breathe
A study in black and white of the noxious pheromones that drip from the trophies of sex
Why do so many people die in bathtubs?
Cornered by the swine of dreams policing thoughts
Bawling in the bathroom for two hours exactly and promptly at 2am the tears disappear and a smile creeps in like the rising sun
And when it all ends I want to look back and say it was a good trip
Follow the river of sound to the apparition of cardboard skulls and salt stained bricks
I'm hoping to find you there
But even if I find you I'll still be lost
I'll pull you aside promising brilliant and epiphanous revelations but only tripping over words on the way to my admission of things that make me feel like a little boy
Tell the people you love how you feel
They'll love to hear it
And you never know how many more chances you'll have
Every day an angel loses its wings since there aren't enough to go around and the young Cassanovas and Cassanovettes are using them like gasoline is free
The night before I told you I wrote this poem that was so honest and passionate
Bees come from Indonesia to get stuck on honey-flavored fly-paper
And somewhere in Amerika a kid played his or her first guitar chord
But mostly I finally made up my mind and I guess it feels good
Or maybe I can't feel anything
Here's a poem...
*Ideals on Wheels*
Touch the mirror to feel the tears that smear across my face
Mirrors make you feel yr own skin
Or sometimes reexamine the very air you breathe
A study in black and white of the noxious pheromones that drip from the trophies of sex
Why do so many people die in bathtubs?
Cornered by the swine of dreams policing thoughts
Bawling in the bathroom for two hours exactly and promptly at 2am the tears disappear and a smile creeps in like the rising sun
And when it all ends I want to look back and say it was a good trip
Follow the river of sound to the apparition of cardboard skulls and salt stained bricks
I'm hoping to find you there
But even if I find you I'll still be lost
I'll pull you aside promising brilliant and epiphanous revelations but only tripping over words on the way to my admission of things that make me feel like a little boy
Tell the people you love how you feel
They'll love to hear it
And you never know how many more chances you'll have
Every day an angel loses its wings since there aren't enough to go around and the young Cassanovas and Cassanovettes are using them like gasoline is free
The night before I told you I wrote this poem that was so honest and passionate
Bees come from Indonesia to get stuck on honey-flavored fly-paper
And somewhere in Amerika a kid played his or her first guitar chord
But mostly I finally made up my mind and I guess it feels good
Or maybe I can't feel anything