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
     
    
   
   
    
     
        
     
     
       
     
    
   
   
    
     
       
     
    
   
   
    
     
       
     
    
   
   
    
     
      :
     
     
      z
     
     
      z
     
     
      5
     
     
      q
     
     
      §
     
     
      E
     
     
      z
     
     
      E
     
     
      g
     
     
      é
     
     
      z
     
     
      z
     
     
      1
     
     
      2
     
    
   
   
    
     
      ll
     
     
      Al
     
    
   
   
    
     
      <
     
    
   
   
    
     
      ,
     
    
   
   
    
     
      ¥
     
    
   
   
    
     
      z
     
     
      .
     
    
   
   
    
     
      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?
     
    
   
   
    
     
      AMS
      SEB
      Eo}
     
     
      SE