Saturday, January 19, 2008



I wanted to bring a website to your attention:

Friday, January 18, 2008

Just a Thought

I would like to take this opportunity to point out the justice of Catholics identifying the origin of their church with the line: "Thou art Peter, and upon this rock (petrvs) I build my church," especially considering how overly concerned Catholics seem to be (especially of LATE! My GOODNESS!) With the peters of their officials.

Thank you and enjoy each your weekend.


A Poem

As found in notebook from 2003, with a drawing of a one armed robot.

i buried a treasure in my backyard.
i dug it up and found an arm.
it happened to belong to me.
somehow i didn't realise it was missing.

Yeah, I don't know the context either.

Thursday, January 17, 2008

natural beauty

Natural Beauty

Walking by, I slid my gaze up, up, up
and there you were,
crouching in the arms of a tree.
Your fingers splayed out on the bark;
your feet were unshod, one in a birds nest,
lazily crushing the shells,
the albumen oozing between your toes.

I looked up, and the sun was glaring, angry,
and you waved to my face, your hands playing
signs with the shadows.
Your smile complemented the hue of midday light;
I could never stay mad at you,
and I hated you for it.

It’s funny how, as the day cooled,
the bluebirds came
and whirled away to the whine of your cell-phone.
You grinned at the beauty,
never realizing it was your fault.

I looked up, and as you
shifted your position,
bits of bark drifted down the breeze
and into my eye. good; I was afraid
that when I ripped off my shoes
and dug my toes into the trunk,
flew my fingers up that tree to meet you
face to face,
to look in your eyes,
all I would see: a blank white orb
that sets off the highlights in your hair.

~jss, 3/07

(x/p to cellular theology)

The Story of the Man-Robot: A Koan

One day, Master and a student were sitting in an outdoor cafe when a man walked past. He was draped in toilet paper and walking mechanically.

The student said, "Master, why is that man covered in toilet paper walking like a robot?"

Master replied, "He is a toilet-paper robot."

Upon hearing this, the student was enlightened.

Wednesday, January 16, 2008

A sub-par analysis of Shakespeare's Twentieth Sonnet

I dug this nugget up from three computers ago. I hope I didn't get a good grade on this assignment. I totally didn't get The Bard back then.

Sonnet #20
A woman's face with Nature's own hand painted 1
Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion; 2
A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted 3
With shifting change, as is false women's fashion; 4
An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling, 5
Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth; 6
A man in hue, all 'hues' in his controlling, 7
Much steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth. 8
And for a woman wert thou first created; 9
Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting, 10
And by addition me of thee defeated, 11
By adding one thing to my purpose nothing. 12
But since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure, 13
Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure. 14


Lines 1-2: You have a cute face like a woman.
Lines 3-4: You are kindhearted like a woman, but you do not have mood swings.
Lines 5-6: I can see your sincerity in your beautiful eyes.
Lines 7-8: It is hard not to look at a woman.
Lines 9-10: The creation of woman was an accident.
Lines 11-12: You have defeated me.
Lines 13-14: Nature decided that it is natural for a man and woman to be intimate, so I will love you but not have sex with you.

Although I love you, I will still sleep with women because it is natural.

Yeah, I totally missed the point

-R' Rutta

Tuesday, January 15, 2008

why love is not like poetry

the key advice to young poets is to show
and not to tell
but you told me how you loved me
and i believed you.

(x/p to cellular theology)

Monday, January 14, 2008

another poem from high school

although, it's possible that this is from middle school.
i have edited it somewhat, though, since then.

lost generation

We are no lost generation
rambling back home to wife or kids or bottle or job
with barbed wire lining our brains
and national anthems resounding in our heads
images of disintegration and madness do not
replay ad infinitum in our young and tender minds
images of friends ripped from this world like vacuums and abortions
or cut in half by machine gun fire
or mashed into the groung in a tire tread pattern
do not haunt our memories or dreams
We are not the Lost Generation

We are no Lost Generation
We have no Hemingway to expose and die for our sins
no one with the courage to plead utter confusion and desperation
to a world wanting answers
No one who can say little and do much.
Who feels the shock now of his shotgunned brains in the woods?
We have no Fitzgerald
to help us laugh at where we have gone
terribly wrong. He sees our empires built on wealth, constructed on sand,
and F. Scott rolls his eyes and hisses through his teeth
like the opening of missile silos.
We have no Ezra Pound to write about the mystery
We are not the lost generation

We are no Lost Generation
We have been breathing war’s odors since we were young
and we have not been betrayed by a world we never had
we are not staring at walls forever at walls forever
staring at walls
We know the intimacy, when screaming ends and waking begins

Death lines our coffee cups and cigarettes
our paints and our automobiles
our sports and entertainment
our dreams
our despairs
Death waits in every corner
and in every doorway . Death thrives in between
Death does not wait for us overseas
Death has encountered us, acculturated and docile
Death has played with our childhood friends
Death hums the same songs on the radio
Death watches our TV
Death enjoys our company. Death works for our boss.
Death would live among us:
His Found Generation.