MOVING

This blog is moving to:    www.jeffbazz.com/symphonie_fantastique

That's right, I have a website.  Cause it's fun having a website.

I'm no web designer, so I'm having a bit of trouble with formatting,  but it's up and it's there!

see you on the other side.

New song! (remaining nameless for the time being.)

She looked as if she'd seen a ghost
staring through her applesauce.
No moving muscles in her face;
well, who could judge?
Vacant eyes drooping down like a willow branch,
weeping silent remembrance
for what's in front of her
but somehow out of reach.

Then I said "Volcanoes blow up all the time..."
and she responded with and ellipsis and a sigh;
she said "I think my dogs are barking
so I probably should be going. Away."

The alleyway: Home to bums and kitty cats,
raining her balcony-spilled vomitants.
Under the fire-escape
a calico feasts.
The swinging door: Proscenium to the greater world
beyond the safety of the curtain rods.
Spewing her breakfast over the thrust
just to get it out of her.

Then I said "Volcanoes blow up all the time..."
and she responded with and ellipsis and a sigh;
she said "I think my dogs are barking
so I probably should be going. Away."

The Grey.

Her skin was cold and grey.
Her face was old, but had this glow
mostly reserved for candelabras
in the winter.

She reached into her head
through a hole where her eardrum should be,
pulled out something transparent
and held it out to me.

She sang:
"The only good idea I ever had
is sitting now in my hands;
the years have made it no use to me.
and in this cold twilight of mine
I'm offering it now for free."

I did as she bade and opened my hand.
It was warm and lucid, but somehow
not malleable for all its
pinkish gold.

Hesitating at first ('cause it was kinda weird),
I raised it up to my face
and shuddered as I inhaled deep
from the strangest musty smell and taste.

She sang:
"The only good idea I ever had
is sitting now in your head;
may the years find it a use for you.
Now I fear this twilight of mine
may well be through.
Goodbye..."

s'dark in here.

She said "Pull your head out of your ass."
Maybe I should;
it's more hygienic...
But it's so loud out there
and I can't hardly get any
thinkin' done
at
all.

songggggggg

A box. It exists.
On the floor. I wonder what's inside...
It's made of cardboard;
I wonder what it holds.
It's labeled in Sharpie;
fat streaks scribbled in black.
A hand while writing it that
must have been cold, perhaps lonely.

It's labeled "E-mails:
(all printed and stapled in two's)
Failed Conversations From Last June"
Subtitled "(no one cares about the Moon)"

A book. On the floor.
Near the box. I wonder what's inside.
Bound in mass market paperback...
Is it knowledge is it gold?
The pages are folded and kinda brown.
The bookmark's a yellow receipt,
that sees a new book every week;
it's from something like cigarettes a year ago.

It's titled "Land of the Living:
How To Return From Within You"
Subtitled "one hundred and fifty things you can do
(including walkin' off in somebody's shoes!)
(and maybe for once not carin' about the moon.)"

There

A post to appease...
but I'm WAY fucking tired.
coffee, bagel, ...work.

snow, eh? s'no way!

Agitated atoms

calm,

congregate

and crystallize.

Once again,

the world is a

colloid.