The Panther Prints ¢

ereative writing

Downtown

We fall into those small cracks in creation Tiny claws reach out of crevices & catch onto our tangents

(the tangents that we sproutias we continue

to continue...)

Our bodies crash & cram as we writhe Out on those dancefloors,

Those freedom-painted dungeons

The meat market mentalities

We cling & cling to nothing

Clutch the hands that feign to hold

Click into the voices that sing

Promises of later

Promises of something we might need

When we run out...

When things run out...the energy

the liquor, the new credit cards & dreams ..someone to drive home with when’

the cops are out in squads

& the mind isatornado, |

the stuff that’s left inside stands still

the eye inside a storm that swirls

& swirls

| Bits & tattered shreds of love affairs & almosts,faces dancing, maelstroms of connections Sey made &. scarcely missed...

We're tired.

& we forget, no matter hits we cling We do forget

who we saw those movies with

who we those songs to

who we scribbled out those lovesick rambles for

who drove the th s that |

t us up & wishing through long nights, listening -

for signs on fm radio

» God. . Who we bought those dresses for

Who we loved & loved & walked away from

in mad fits of pride & drama... Or who the hell we lived for, when we were busy living???

It must have been ourselves

it must have been our whirl, because in the end

or at least in the meantime,

the tears run down our own chests & the fantasies are stamped

with seals of self, our dreams bear the marks of the personal & hand carved, anvils

we have fashioned out of selfishness & boredom

Who we are (though really)

shines siepaas the whole ‘ mess

great glimmering towers, lighthouses

of so’

The paths we choose to walk are incidental

nothing in the long run can be relative or free

< clear our ways & swim our streams dless of the clashes, or of coincide we find our places.. putea. shouting screaming, orving: ME! me me

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E E & & a | | & EL. a:: a *g a a:

March 25, 1997

Sewers, under my feet, calling me sweet to the sound of inspirtational content. I could thrive to survive in a world, who’s pollution exceeds my level of durablity. Come watch the television blare in a corner of a room with no life, or life, or imagination. We could fade like stars at dawn. Little leopards in the jungle, in the mother land to all leopards.

Is this thuoght valid, and if not, is any thought worth thinking. I don’t question my mortality, ijust question my existance. I find it hard to comprehend, that for every possible action, there is a reality parrellel to the one in which I live. There is a reality where I kill and eat this class.

Ode to the “Foxymophandiemama” kid

do you remember, no well i’m not going to remind you. its not my job, its not my fault. do you remember, no well i’m not going to remind you. its not my job, its not my fa shouldn't you be reading, why because all the rest of the class is on page 7, hey, you 'reonly on page 4. hey, you're only on page 4. the rest of the class is on page 7. you're only on page 4. Be why are you so much behind the class... well, you shouldn't be acting up... why, because you'll get detention, and have to stay after school. why do you want to stay after school. don’t you want to go home. what is wrong with home. whatis wrong WITH NOME. | ics. <cxccescesss i don’t like it when you put that mophandle there, why, because it hurts, and i don’t like that hurt. i'd rather if you spanked me, why, because it hurts, © but i think i like that hurt...i like that hurt. please don’t stick that thing there anymore, what thing, that thing...that, that mophandle... i don’t think i like that hurt...would you?

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