Did i mention Kip Winger put his hands in my cement? care for a triscuit?

snake bite eh? don't make me suck out anything...

2 things: "With bare feet, and never a sock" redundant. feels like you were trying too hard. ending couplet suggestion: my head swung low, as retreated, the sun two holes now bled slow: so ended my fun.

did you at least pick up that snake oil i asked you to bring home? why, what was he asking for it?

the rhythm in this faulers, scitz. also, drop the last line. also also--you cannot keep your feelings secret; they will out. you just went to the wrong one, is all. too bad there's no way beforehand to find a match.

lots of vivid words in this, its very well written and the 1st yoga reference i've seen in a poem, i'm impressed. -9-

I think it is one of the great tragedies of Western Culture that that we live in such a 'throw-away' society. People will throw anything away these days - a used tissue, some trash, a light bulb, some crutches that have had some jam spilt on them, an unwanted child... ...yes that's right. You heard me. I said "unwanted child". Because in our obsession with materialistic wealth, we've lost sight of what it is that makes us all human. We've forgotten about the TRUE meaning of Christmas. We've started to treat PEOPLE as if they were mere OBJECTS... The "oh I don't want this baby I'll just get an abortion" attitude is so fundamental to our outlook on life that I think it's affecting our ability to operate heavy machinery.

After the first two lines, I expected some Sylvia Plath esque darkness was going to be there under the ironically placid surface. It never happened. Gutted.

don't forget that ugly lamp from 1972. i don't even think it has a switch on it...

very nice, except i'll fight you about the moral of the story. feelings should not and are utterly impossible to keep locked up or secret. they project from you in every way and from every orifice...unless you have none. remember, a blocked pipe will explode from the pressure.

i always meet the strangest people at the fair. families with no forking...creepy hairy things too.

make a good song...nice kinda feel to it.

see, my personal fear would be to sign over my work only to later here it coming from the voice of the latest bubblegum-popper. i would then carbomb the building they were in...

Soldier! you will respect the chain of command, and drop a chit in the chit box, and await your turn.

Chirp du wurp chirpe du wurp wu wurp e chirpe. That was Bach. Sebastian.

Sweet child, here it is. Here you have it. I will not criticize this because it is only a matter of small traditions, suh as puncuation and grammar. For now it doesn't matter, you are to young to be concerned with how you place your fingers, or exactly how strong or lightly the vibrato should sound. At your age all that matters is the ability to tap into the pysche and all its profound wisdom. Study every writer you love, copy them, ask for assignments. The precious thing that can't be taught I see here, in this poem. Focus on that for now. The direct link to the experience, make it all come crashing in. Technique is easy to master. Expression is a bitch. So for now, while you're still young and malleable learn how to express. It is a rare thing in men, and I for one, being a woman, am constantly searchig for insight to the other. I wilkl come back and edit this in a week or two. For now just be proud.

I love the title, completely love it, but the poem I cannot understand, nor its relationship to said title.

phoenix...favorite bird. the only one i know that won't shit on my car. here, have a 9.

Christ man, are there no officers in this unit? Such a rag-bag army of ruffians can have no effectiveness on the battlefield!

i usually laugh AFTER breaking wind.