there are some things I like to do.
I like to rock and roll with you.
I like it when the band plays funk
and we have champagne in the trunk.
I like to ride on red eye trains
and stir my drinks with candy canes.
I like to see you now and then
on a scale of ninety, you're a ten.
I like to write you silly poems
and outlet shop for mustache combs.
I like the air around your lips
and your profile in an eclipse.
I like to like to like your heart.
when I see the end, I'll seethe start.
I like to think of you and me
and all the things that start with 't'.
it gives me a comfort in this empty void of existence that 16 million people tuned in to an hour of poetry last thursday at 9/8 central when Lost premiered its fourth season over the airwaves. it's a new show now: a new premise, a new story, a new way of telling the story, amazing invention that still preserves the characters that have been so carefully and gracefully detailed during the last three years. Lance Reddick from The Wire is an amazing and intense actor who played the bad ass and mysterious Matthew Abaddon in Hurley's flash forward. Ana Lucia's old partner is off put by the coincidence of arresting a man who was on the plane with her and he displays this frightening uncertainty that all the characters are adopting on the show. nobody seems to have a clue what is happening and things are sliding out of control fast. the only one who knows what's up is Locke, but he's been hanging out unseen in Jacob's shack with Christian Shephard wearing only one white tennis shoe and presumably Walt is around there somewhere too. Michael is returning to the show in the next couple of episodes, and it seems that Hurley, Kate, Jack, and three other motherfuckers are in the same boat that he was at the end of season two: they've sold out the rest of the group and their conscience is making them pay for it. It is genius the way the season is headed toward some unavoidable catastrophe.
soft. heaven will not allowthe forgotten drums of Babylon
to thump against the foreign wind
and die before the ages end
tonight is tomorrow is the last seven years
all forgotten with pints of tears
together, we shall overflow
the mighty toe that drags to show
frayed corners of dirty rags
sooty webs and damp stone bags
wallops happen for a reason
no, not really, only teasin'
eventually the dirt trail widens
room to walk but no where to hide in.
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