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Mon Aug 21 2000 at 13:31:11 (21.3 years ago )
last seen
Fri May 4 2012 at 05:55:27 (9.6 years ago )
number of write-ups
57 - View Simpleton's writeups (feed)
level / experience
10 (Polymath) / 5984
C!s spent
mission drive within everything
intense literature and bare metal programming
[see above]
most recent writeup
Fear in a Handful of Dust
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back..... 9/15/05

c o n t a c t

• j o s e @ j o s e w e e k s . c o m •

• A I M: j o s e w e e k s •

• ( 6 1 2 ) 4 8 1 - 1 4 5 2 •

p r o j e c t s



Poetry & short fiction:

a b o u t   t h e   a u t h o r

                      Simpleton   is   Jose   M.   Weeks--
                      by night,  a  parking  lot attendant
                      in  downtown  Minneapolis,  also  by
                      night an unpublished  writer working
                      on  a novel  about  the  only  thing
                      anyone ever  seems to write  a novel
                      about anymore,  which is everything.
                      By day, he sleeps.

w i s d o m

                  that's what you sort of wanted that person to hear 
                                   the sun slants in
                                   like a golden sword               t
                                   as the odds grow                  h
                                   shorter                           e
                                      Charles Bukowski               i
                from The last night of the earth poems               r
     The waitress brought me another drink.  She                     t
     wanted to light my hurricane lamp again.  I                     u
     wouldn't let her.  "Can you see anything in                     a
     the  dark, with  your  sunglasses  on?" she                     l
     asked me.                                                       
     "The big show is inside my head," I said.                       i
                              Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.                     r
                     from Breakfast of Champions                     s
     ___________________________________________                     t
                    Complete Destruction                             e
                    It was an icy day.                               r
                    we buried the cat,                               t
                    then took her box                                .  ToasterLeavings
                    and set fire to it
                    in the back yard.
                    Those fleas that escaped
                    earth and fire
                    died by the cold.

                         William Carlos Williams

is a great way to meet people
          unamerican activities

               All things considered, it's a gentle and undemanding
                       planet, even here.  Far gentler
               Here than any of a dozen other places.  The trouble is
                       always and only with what we build on top of it.

               There's nobody else to blame.  You can't fix it and you
                       can't make it go away.  It does no good appealing
               To some ill-invented Thunderer
                       Brooding above some unimaginable crag...

               It's ours.  Right down to the last small binge it
                       all depends for its existence
               Only and utterly upon our sufferance.

               Driving back I saw Chicago rising in its gases and I
                       knew again that never will the
               Man be made to stand against this pitiless, unparallel
                      monstrocity.  It
               Snuffles on the beach of its Great Lake like a
                       blind, red, rinoceros.
               It's already running us down.

               you can't fix it.  You can't make it go away.
                       I don't know what you're going to do about it,
               But I know what I'm going to do about it.  I'm just
                       going to walk away from it.  Maybe
               A small part of it will die if I'm not around
                       feeding it anymore.
                                                         Lew Welch
                                                         from "Chicago Poem"