I hat e to b e a flak e

Lanni e ,

I hat e to b e a flak e . But th e l e ast I can do is to b e an informativ e on e . So I must go ah e ad and dash your hop e s of s e e ing m e tonight ;) b e caus e I will unfortunat e ly not b e abl e to mak e it.
On th e bright sid e , last night I cam e up with a compl e t e ly diff e r e nt v e rsion of a song I wrot e . It's slightly out of control.

Brothers don't shake hands...

...they write emails.
--------

You should see the wind blowing up here. I've never seen leaves with such resilience. It's like a one-legged Eskimo frozen to an iceberg, fighting a tidal wave. But the temperature is pleasant and the company is good so there isn't much to complain about. I had just forgotten the way the wind can make leaves shiver.
I've been listening to a lot of Elliott Smith and The White Stripes lately. The Icky Thump album is one, big, welcome-to-Jack-White's-cerebellum album; or at least was my impression. As far as E.S. goes, I've noticed that there are times while writing music that I slip into this state of mind in which I start channeling certain aspects of my current musical infatuation. Vocal tone or whatever it may be, it's an odd feeling but not one unwelcome.

Hope all is well.

Peace & Love,
Brennan

Funny Face

Stanley doben
what's your problem?
i can't release what I can't sell

It doesn't speak
It can't - lack of vocal chords you see

D is for deathly dim
heroine heroes, big time zeros

what a woman ought to think
pink shampoo, pink toothpaste

Rosey analogy.

Don't get caught
salmon lips rot
long looks lack the lost latch hour
try again mariam, try again to win

---

(Planes are landing and I'm not cohesive.)

Machine Gun

Ratt-tat-tat. Everything begins.

When is the ride coming? He's already 10 minutes late.
When is a man afraid no more?
Don't you shoot him down! He's got to stay here. he ain't going nowhere.

The Odd

(always pictured a female reading this)
We are the odd. We are the losers and winners of tomorrow. We are those that can no longer skim and now must really read what we've not really been reading.

It's a plow scraping over the concrete. This is the sound they make. They are those that skim along the top; the writer's that merely write. They're trying to reach the depths*, separated by a turtle shell of concrete. Each day, scraping along, trying new spots, trying to knock the loose bit that'll pull everything in along with 'em.

*deep mossy green that coats the outer blue

The pot-hole feet of the few that manage this shudder at the awesome feeling of the water. The weightless playground hangs suspended. Clear blue. Light shines through, connecting everything instantly.
Unsure, they prod the water cautiously. Who will go first? Their eyeballs rattle across each other; not so much connivingly, but rather in the eager sense of wondering: will it be me who goes first?
The surface-kids do not know of perfect. But that is alright. Neither do we.

......

Rent's Due

I wish I had family in the mob.