by Ksennin
February 29, 2004

The blood within me, rich and warm,
  once flowed through ancient godly kings
who slew the demons, won the world,
  brought order from chaotic things.

Their life incarnadine did flow
  across the land in crashing waves.
And by that ransom, bitter loss,
  were roads to future glory paved.

The dying breed is stretched and worn
  the sanguine trickle now runs thin.
Just remnants now remain of any
  valor that existed then.

Their instincts still persist in me
  though lying derelict so far,
but someday glory will be won;
  I'll join the kings among the stars.

I don't get to say what I want to say.

They graduate. Somewhere far away they're all drinking underneath yellowish sixty-watt bulbs maintaining thin connections through slim excuses. 26 months of service and you're out. She's done this before too many times and she still laughs to herself on the subway.

26 years of a life and she's old. Gotta marry, she says. We make jokes that might mean something but we're both tired so we stop analyzing and watch our mouths talk instead.

Graduation and the lack of a real job means that you're marooned forever temporarily, she said. Filling out job resumes and working at airports helping people help other people. Streetlamps at 3am make the river next to the highway turn orange-yellow, she says.

I keep silent because I can see her twisting her face around. After a while her mouth finally finds a smile and slowly brings it up.

She smiles.


Venus is sinking in the evening glow. it looks like you, you know.

I'm really protective of what little bandwidth I can get to come into my laptop, here at the cafe. The cafe employs a wireless network for its customers and has been my only source of online access for the better part of two years now. The eggheads who set it up managed to get two separate transmitters running, one for the front of the cafe and one for the back porch area. The back porch area, which now serves as the smoking area and is fully enclosed, has a roof topped with tin. Tin is a piss-poor conductor and, what's more, wireless radio signals apparently are having a hard time getting through. Nevermind that the cafe's attic, which is where the back transmitter is located, is filled to the brim with various and sundry metallic restaurant equipment, which further interferes with the signal transmissions.

I have learned, recently, that biomass (other people) also gets in the way of the signal here. Whenever there's a large group of idiots standing next to the doorway the signal drops to practically nothing- and sometimes cuts out altogether.

Who walks into a room full of chairs and doesn't bother to sit in a single one of them?

Kids, trying their best to get as much attention by being "seen" as possible, that's who. Well, the meaning of "kids" is rather loose for me these days- anyone who acts like they're 13 and still in junior high is someone I consider to be a kid, regardless of their age.

Here I am, turning into an old fart, careening down the path towards perpetual grumpiness.

I fucking hate kids.

Age is not necessarily an indication of maturity.

So, I was cleaning off my homenode, trying to get rid of stuff. And, I really really liked this poem I wrote about 4 months ago about Grove City, where I go to school. I decided I couldnt part with it, so I figured "HEY! DAY LOG IT!" Heh. so here it is:

Light rains and warm winds
a hint of spring that
is melting the last;
stubborn patches of snow.
- March 1, 2004

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