in san pedro, car dealerships always hang in groups - like a posse of silver haired fellows kicking it in xxl tees along the pacific coast highways. sweet oranges are hard to find, especially when you've decided that you will no longer support supermarkets and walmarts (fuggem, don't needem.) los angeles makes it hard to maintain a liberal lifestyle - you have to continuously reload your gas gussler (sorry tommy corn) wherever you go. i think, i don't want to live here after college (one month to go, yikes.) but maybe i won't have a choice. odb is singing i let it out like diarrhea off my brother's radio as we try to drive home, the 405 barely moving, and all those red brake lights staring back at us. there should be more dance parties on the freeway. what i wouldn't give to do the electric slide on top of that truck.

the mexican cabdriver's poem for his wife, who has left him

We were sitting in traffic
on the Brooklyn Bridge,
so I asked the poets
in the backseat of my cab
to write a poem for you.

They asked
if you are like the moon
or the trees.

I said no,
she is like the bridge
when there is so much traffic
I have time
to watch the boats
on the river.

by martin espada


30+ pages or research due tuesday, plus a short film and some physics. i'm livingoff tea and honey, super sugared donuts, string beans and mushrooms, cheeseboard pizza, and stacks and stacks of new books (martin espadas and stolen murakami books.) my lomograph is neglected.

tom wiscombe's lecture: dude showed pictures of b-boys breaking to his buildings, "i wanted to make an urban beach," he said, "you know, a place with shade where people wanna get naked." those cats from coop himmelb(l)au are crazy.

more gorgeous at kathy's.

eddy zheng got recommended for parole!

summer snuck back in, with a tri tip grin and a dash of chicken salad by her lip, on saturday. she said "FUCK OFF!" to fall, who sat around in a member's only jacket and some black lebron james 2 (why is fall so effin trendy?) winter wasn't invited, she smelled too much like cigarettes. and spring, spring's studying abroad.

the sun was out, and cyrus found a secret beach, he did. the montara down by pacifica, just a breeze past the animal style fries of daly city. we hauled the air in like it was made of fire, and some light had gone out behind our eyes. we dared the ocean to extinguish us, and screamed at it, garden state style supposedly, i wouldn't know, i don't want to watch the movie (how hype can kill something beautiful.)

buttteeerrr fish and green tea ice cream, i heart huckabees for the 2nd time, korean bbq in oakland, food coma at home, jose's birthday in northside, and video games at the alex choi playground. this weekend was about escape. last night i couldn't stand my bed so i brought my blankets to my roof and slept there. couldn't see the stars, but from my roof you can see all the dim lights of the berkeley southside.

good night, iris chang. peace, david miyasato.


tonight at 2:58 am, there is nothing in the sky. no stars to be counted, no goodbye letters, just an empty mess left behind in a hurry.

something blue for rental car





a product of pizza crusts, photographs in the rain, getting lost on the 280 west, a gay porn star, too much paint on the sidewalk, bad e-mail manners, cell phone complaints to s ("damn i hate this job"), old vinyl records, 3d studio max, and a friendly pair of power drills...

you know what, i posted a bitter "fuck the youth who didn't vote" entry... but i just re-read it and felt that it was all bullshit. not bullshit in the i don't mean "fuck the youth who didn't vote" (i do) but bullshit in the "i am so full of despair and self-pity" sorta way.

none of that shit. i went to an open mic today and felt incredibly lifted. community events do good. poetry slams do good. benefit concerts do good. block parties do good. we do good.

fuggit, let's bring it. no pity. word to camilo: vacation's over, time for the takeover.

mike: dude throw a party at your place
bruce: if i did it would be a forget everything that happened in the last 3 days party
bruce: a shoot yourself in the face with a shot of vodka party
mike: ok fine have whatever theme you want
mike: but, a party nonetheless
bruce: a dance til your feet break and can't kick your own ass anymore party
bruce: a fuck anyone and pretend their bush party
bruce: not a cocktail party but a molotov cocktail party
mike: hah shut up man
mike: i get it i get it
bruce: a let's burn all our fucking kerry buttons and dance and revel in decadence party
bruce: FUCKKCKFKFCUFKKCKFKC

did i cry? with the wildest throat. i cried so hard my heart is half-gone, snatched up like a red balloon in some awful wind. tonight was like a pitch black ford explorer mowing me over, again and again. what can i say, i just feel ill all over.

i am devastated and defeated and unbelievably worried and utterly lost.