it' late I saw scott nolean and had a beer plus...

i put down harry potter for you,
this means i like you...

he says type it myraid.. so i do
damned slave
think for yourself you work in four hours.

round and round we go

I miss the days of high school where we'd skip class,
drink tequila and smoke dope,
while basking in the sunshine
disussing Thoth and flowers of life.

I miss them simply for

sorry for all the melo-drama...
sometimes I'm a bit extreme.

i don't know if i'll make friends

the first comfestion of the day startes like this...
i steal when I'm drunk
some find this funny
otheres not so much.

Last night i almost stole hash from this guy, i didn't then tryed to make jokes about it, i don't think he laughed nor appricated it when i went on about how i wished it was opium rolled in coke.I bought the hash though, it's really nice. too bad i don't have any friends to share it with.
Well i have a few friends but i think they might need a brake from me today, you know how i get when i drink straight gin no rocks.

the second confession goes like this...
i'm listening to ...
tina turner... private dancer smoking the tobacco i stole from the guys girlfriend last night.
both bad habits.

I miss you and the way that you got me, let me be myself and saved the judging for God.
Ba,
hows your day going?
better i hope.
i'm gonna get high and watch t.v
lame but true.
feel free to email me a project idea.
love julie

maybe i blog too much...

it's nice but i've got writters block.
if i could explain it i would use this analagy (i think this might be a metaphor);
it's like when your so horny you spend the day getting high and jerkin', the fantasies are fresh your own touch a relife from an akward lovers yet still no orgasim
because in the middle of an almost peak you loose it and start contempleting the demise of your last relationship. ya thats the way this writters block feels.

My friend mike referes to me as a poet and it makes me blush and feel uncomfortable.
not that thats a new thing.
i'm gonna try anyways bare with me.

it starts more beautifully then it ends.
since when it that new?
i see you
it's been along time
and i can't help but skipp to your embrase.
All six four of you curls around my body,
my friend from kamloops watches as he walks away
he smiles because he can see how happy we are.

This feeling lasts for a few days
though we are so drunk neither of us have a clear memory of it,
since when is this a new feeling?

as the weeks go by i distance myself
since when is this new?

we end up laying on red velvet
in a public space
you start with a text message to another whoes far away
'it's over'(reads the text message)
'now it's your turn'
...
i stare at him waiting for a clue that this is real.
I refuse my own dialoge
and demmande that yours becomes more lucid.

your eyes bat lashes trying to tell me stories
but i ran out of money to buy your lies
in fact i forgot altogether.

it ends in a story regarding the tale of a purchase.
and quickly forms itself into a
fable about a bottle and too many thank yous.

end, the.

ya, is that a poem?
kinda but how?
has the peoets job always been to tell the stories but in a dream like perspective?
what is the relationship between the story teller and the poet are they one of the same cloth?
things i can't help but wonder.
cheers julie