(oww. when will it stop?)

hiyeh. it's early. sun is still out. i didn't go today. i feel like there is rust on my muscles and bones; i need to be oiled and given a proper-functioning heart like that dood from the Wizard of Oz.

boris the cockatiel is in my room. he is making squeaky sounds, and i am whistling at him. maybe i could figure out how to post a photo of him.

all right, i think i'll post a poem.

Reading Group Questions

1. Where does the poem take place?
2. What drug(s) do you think Jamie was on when she wrote this? Why?
3. Does the poem make any fucking sense whatsoever?


Walter Rand Transportation Center, Camden NJ

motor is pounding
cantankerous bus engines,
thick wails of commerce
chewing gum tattooed on the sidewalk

of greed she comes and goes
eyes like tropical plastic snow-globe tide waves
car horn bleats
heats my glands whistles
of a hill by an overpass
[Not the badlands
just vacation-spots
for the tainted and doomed]
O where are you, my friend, my matador?

Blisters,
extrafluid for over-wandering
Bleed to calm the hissing hydraulic
shuffle in my chest
Wailing engine blast crying for lost flames

Dont' grope don't cling to them as they run
out your eyes our your nose
Fortify yourself among the crest
made by bold pontoons of science
parting the heart's bilge.


JLR copyright 2001, some rights reserved.