17 thoughts on “My computer is broke, just so you know

  1. bwahahahaha. aloha Disatress. i have plenty of computers like that. and the one i’m on is fast melting into the downed puddle of life.

    it all passes away.

    and we still have pencils. (yes?)

    color on.


      • Spelling is the least of our worries, and often add spice to an otherwise basic sentence … So, there’s that benefit.

        Disa-tress sounds really mysterious to me. It’s me, when I say dis-a tress, referring to these, um, tress (trees said much more elegantly) – with maybe a French accent? Oui?

      • cool. i’m good at miss-spelling.

        yeah, two. disa-tress.
        like the feeling i get of being dizzy walking across a train trestle miles above a dry creek.
        the exotic lock of hair from a muse—disafying. disafying into sacre blue. oui. wee. shee-sh, yeesh.

        maybe just resulting in manic mbwahahahahahahahahaha.

      • Manic is the muse, and much more fun than depressive; it whips Chicago in the face, some just out reach (tricks us with treats when she comes, takes our roots with her when she leaves with her leaves) Summer – what I wouldn’t give for a locket of humid air to gaze at secretly and long locks of hair i could pull to wiggle the bulb entrenched in muck- and shed some light, sun or moon, my strings are too short. I would revel in that kind of pain, would pay for it.

      • manic list
        bed lain
        the muse o laughter
        inane insane light rain
        that lock of hair
        ultramarine blue spice
        glow of summer ice
        winter sun (or moon
        if you prefer) pre fur
        unfurred refurred shorn
        shaved delaid unwritten
        in the priest wind
        the moon cathedral
        altar altered to collect
        pennies from the pools
        of billiard halls hallowed
        halo’s eve uneven
        risen from the unseen

        or perhaps. if you prefer. on a phone.
        manic list. I rest. listless. bedlam
        bed lain the muse-o-laughter
        inane insane light rain
        that lock of hair
        the ultramarine blue spice
        glow of summer ice
        winter sun (or moon
        if you prefer) pre fur
        unfurred refurred shorn
        shaved delaid unwritten
        in the priest wind
        the moon cathedral
        altar altered to collect
        pennies from the pools
        of billiard halls hallowed
        halo’s eve uneven
        risen from the unseen
        undred bed red read
        in bed tonight the wind
        winding up into onto
        above alone that quiet moan
        is silence spoken with a rush
        slosh and slush the wet streets
        of the Chicago baboon
        fire. light. exquisite delight
        the shadows approach
        I poach another

      • eggs, i love them floating
        foetus feed us fetus
        without feet, just
        slippery white
        and solid
        anemones haven’t a moan
        the yolk is a sunrise, lost where
        sleep speaks easy, drunkenly
        courageous, assertively
        ascertaining absurd
        pooling breath
        to bubbles
        bottom feeding
        in the muck
        of a horror camp pond
        and what is it that emerges?
        the moment… we finally
        set down our “guns”
        oh, swamp thing
        giveth shaky knees
        funny feelings, we thought
        smallest lightening
        rising hairlings
        when his
        back to back, under
        an afghan, we shared
        irises and pupils, and
        soldiered on in fear
        the ’80s aren’t just hair
        that lock we locked down
        but the young confusion
        of the unfurling weird
        too soon-
        too soon-

        have you ever…
        heard the call…
        of a loon?
        walked knee deep in midnight?
        the squeak of wishing for waders?
        dusted in dew, fingers clasping hers?
        stretching to the coveted nucleus?
        planting an electric seedling?
        and what will grow?
        plantain, pain, slain sow
        to rest, is a terrible test
        of obsolete time
        comsi comsa
        here nor

        our baboon was in June
        he brought things
        with wheels
        3 yrs
        it was my dad, ‘course
        rollerskates, a bike
        how special
        to shoes
        they call that the gaze
        everything goes back to

      • music. bye bye the day the music
        yes, i’ve heard that loon
        i’ve walked the core
        of granite
        from here
        to the moon
        as well as waded
        in the scream
        of a marsh.
        the marshes
        of glenn
        of glynn

        inward and outward to northward and southward the beach lines linger and curl
        as a silver wrought garment that that clings to and follows the firm sweet limbs of a girl

        (as best remembered from 8th grade and Sydney Lanier)
        and here. and hair. and hear i dare you all
        to touch the sand that slips through hand
        in yellow drops of dry powder pollen
        from the knees of bees and aptly flying
        winged creatures of the sun
        along a silhouette a long silhouette at dawn
        the music died
        down, low a soft mumbling
        in the reeds,
        flutes and muses tumbling
        from the sky
        rose and ultramarine blue
        the pool
        that flows from my soles
        into the shadow of my soul
        i drop a coin
        two coins
        a bone
        the hour
        glass of time
        clogged with blood
        not mine to rinse at dusk
        with dishes in my kitchen sink
        the veggies washed the table set i bet
        a visitor requests an ale i once drunk and now
        cannot find
        the horses that fun run
        the fields whisper free
        a canter on five drums
        the kit with double base pedal
        a yellow petal
        i hear each day
        and accompany
        in my skull
        upon a flute
        the notes let fly
        to the wind
        music all again
        in the morning
        sun. and still
        another day
        i begin.

      • at least you start
        sometimes it ends before it, uh…
        is lifted up by the gargantuan
        hands of a space-age
        and we, walled in wells
        bottom, listen, feeding
        catch a wing’s flash
        and lay more
        down, down, down
        you see my back
        walking away
        and smudges of
        drying cement
        on my quick
        the skeletal ink of dead trees
        falsify post mortem, they’re
        alive and well, my friends
        just playing a silly li’l
        game, awe, cute
        so don’t you
        be a fool
        caught red handed
        with chapped knuckles
        smearing fake blood on
        incredulous foreheads
        stupefied by boom-
        er-angs of geese

        in the crook of the V
        it instinctively forms
        a cozy li’l seat
        for me

        yes, li’l

      • oh. curmudgeon glitter. please change that third line from:

        “i’ve walked the core”


        “i’ve walked that core”

        these typos are hard on my fingers. maybe i should wash them soon.

      • the start. a flow.
        no end. a flow.
        no beginning. a flow.
        a fire. bonfire.
        the fire.
        a flow.
        a start.
        matches. and hatchets
        kindling in the woods
        a start
        a brick
        floor down
        walk away. down
        the steps. spiraling.
        a fire. plays. the light.
        on walls.
        a stall.
        the fall.
        each hall.
        a silly game. life.
        it’s only blood.
        it’s only bones.
        only moans.
        and twinkling eyes
        the stars. on fire.
        in the sky dark
        night embers.
        full i walk.
        listening for sound.
        the sound of sunlight.
        from a distance
        chapped lips
        the sound
        of a flute
        chapped hands
        snow numb
        in winter wind
        the geese.
        a sign. the V
        a warning
        fly north
        fly south
        warmer hands
        warmer games
        warmer names
        warmer lands.
        so little a little
        and all the time
        of worlds
        collude collide
        the lilies wide
        white as snow
        the song

  2. I have to assume that you’re saying your computer is out of money; if you are using “broke” when you mean “broken,” then my stomach is turning over the “typo.” 🙂

      • aloha Little Me and Disastress—wait. you mean computers are supposed to have money? no wonder my computer isnt doing so well. yeesh. yeah, mines broke too. wait. can it be broke if it never had any money to start with?

      • my computer is soooo broke-ass. it keeps borrowing dolla dolla bills from me, and it owes me big time, man. just last night, i said, bitch! betta have my money – and i gave it bug eyes, but its cyclops eye just kept swirling and swirling, like it was thinking or something? i don’t know, and swirling, and swirling, and so, i finally just said, screw this, and closed it’s eye and put it in the other room. let it collect dust somewhere else, because that’s about all i’m gonna get out of that guy. particles of my own toil.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s