8/5/03 SO I went to the 2003 Milwaukee Capoeira Batuque Batizado, and a lot happened and I saw a lot and felt a lot and drummed a lot, but I don�t really think I�m ready to start type-blabbing it all out right now, so I�ll just leave it at this: I�m a green cordel now & my name is Pirata. 8/6/03 I just want to learn how to really let go and play. That�s my Capoeira goal. * Every now and then I have to take a break from writing to live a little. 8/7/03 Capoeira is this lifetime�s expression of what one works on, through and across one�s various lifetimes. 8/9/03 Thinking about post-digital poetry, thinking I want to go back somewhere with lambskin & whaleskin & my own foreskin which off of me was cruelly ripped. God I want to smoke. * MOST IMPORTANT [PHYSICAL] EPIPHANY ON DRUMMING IN RECENT MEMORY: the key to the slap is relaxing. No, I mean REALLY. As much as you relax for an open, if not more. 081403 It�s difficult but not impossible to exist in Fuel Cafe without smoking (god I want to smoke like that hazelnut-skinned boy up on the poop deck watching the bare-midriffed slinky girl sex her way in and out. God I want to smoke like him And live a life of servitude. ) 8/14/03 She said, �Mat, you�re never going to be satisfied.� She was probably right. But at least I�ve got my TextWrangler. 081603 The older I get, the more important simple pleasures become. The �pfssssssssssstchk!� of a Pepsi can tab. Salted bread. The call and response of a simple but powerful song. Monday, August 18, 2003 9/16/34am Maybe I should just admit (don�t write this down!) that I want to write poems. But keep the idea of the teh-dsa alive. In other words, let the poetry engine be the real, mechanical, quantum, physical or what-have-you, and let the computer be one of the metaphors (yes, I know, metaphors, like characters, are anachronisms. So are monkeys). Because I can�t get there through the computer. I�ve tried (off & on) for three years. I stand a chance (albeit slim) of getting there through the poem. It�s time to practice my game. That way, when the meta-physical machine-organism (orgasm) arrives, it might really have itself a soul. And so, if I�m lucky that day, might I. Before I die. * Also, I think we should get one of those giant rubber yoga balls. It might help Ann�s back, and I just had a flash vision of how I could use it to practice capoeira (another powerful metaphor, full of joy and strife) moves. August 19, 2003 16:07:06 Much is broken. I�m hungry and depressed and hot and itchy and sleepy and queasy. Everything is falling apart and all I have to do is relax to let it fall the rest of the way. And then everything will be fine and fucked. I can�t think a nothin a tall. I wish I had a good book. I wish I could exit my head. I wish I had a stream of data that scintillated. I wish I wish I wish. Blah fucking blah so it�s back to this again, is it? When does it end? It ends when you drink the wine, and I walk away. Wind over the water between my house & the sun. I live on the beach. The only two concievable objections: 1) I�m just waiting for her to get miserable enough to leave me so it�s not my fault 2) I�m pretending to be gay so it�s not my fault, and in reality I�m just waiting for the first opportunity to run back to Katy. Tru? Fals? Neithe? You tell me. I�ll tell you as soon as something breaks. Right now this tightwire tension is enoug so sleepy Here comes Sruky. I like the veins down his biceps. Some polluted water breaks against the levy. You are thirteen feet above sea level--just high enough so you can�t touch. But you can breathe--barely. Get naked down here. Concrete cool & rough against your ass. What are you looking at, bitch? It�s raining sideways thru the slanty sun. Where�s the party? These kids don�t know or if they do they won�t tell you. They�re not going there. They�re wasting away down here instead. Broken green glass waves. The imagined sunrise. Stuck on a narrow strand. The levy. failure failure Sruky takes off his shoes in here. Why oh why can�t I? (I think I will.) Tiny delight star seen thru telescopes wrong end-- Most poetry bores. Not cummings, bukowski, some others. I don�t know how much longer I can stand being in here but I don�t know if I can stand going home. God if only she would be somewhere else for a few hours. August 20, 2003 18:23:16 the feckless moue. 2oo Polaroid snaps adorn the wall, each featuring an EXIT sign of some sort. It�s dumb. It could have been cool, if the individual pix weren�t mostly boring. schmoke. there�s a girl with nice skin the color of--what are those things that are like radishes only long & white? Jicama. Or something like that. She�s a tall-climbing Mexican vine (Exogonium bracteatum) with showy flowers and a sweet watery root that is sometimes eaten raw or cooked. She is flouncing her flip-flops lighty. She comes over here and asks me if I want to fondle her tits, I�m not going to say no. What the hell. Give me some almond oil. We do it under the sun while the drums and dragonfliez buzz. I kiss her once, on the mouth, and her high pale cheekbones shine with impermanence. Command-option-shift your way to coolzville. Jizz your bonez with Sam Caffeine! Let em in! Let em in! The door to the zoo being left open, we walked right in, and rode the giraffes around all the pebbly little lanes. her heart, the bones of her neck, her jugular, all close to the surface. Her skin is a placid sea, but it tingles with jealousy. August 21, 2003 13:10:55 I am truly bisexual. It is time to stop denying it. Not one, not the other, not even neither, but BOTH. I love stern-faced, round-titted mama and her buttery leather, AND I love big furry musky summer man. Got it? Both. And I can have them both. Because I am Pirata, and I deserve whatever I can get away with! Poems! From now on, if you want porn you either have to go find real people to look at, or create your own. My wife & I, we need to live, to go outside the badger hole and get in the dust and sun. Hey look, there�s got to be a way out of this fake rock enclosure. I don�t know what this place is, but I know we don�t have to stay penned up in here any longer. August 22, 2003 9:51:51 In the tee hee department: This website (http://www.bookblog.net/gender/genie.html) has an algorithm that�s supposed to tell whether any given passage of text was written by a male or a female. So far, 4 out of 5 times it has thought I was female. Tee hee! August 25, 2003 23:28:08 I hate computers. If after a few swipes at the keys, I don�t feel like myself anymore, then what�s the point? I don�t want to become a misfit mosquito. That�s not the point. The point is the letters and the words. At least it was. Once. When I was still myself. What the fuck am I now? Juno. The masked god. A surly thunderstorm that farted out a few gusts and then went home mad. The problem with computers is they don�t make any marks. And they have a delete key which you can use to substitute for genuine thought and mistakes. There. Type type type save close. It�s gone. What�s the joy of that? How will that ever get you wet? It�s nothing like a waterslide. You fat white miserable fuck.