a_bit_part amy eyes closed, listening to bounciness and birth giving. one lands in the lap. he says, wake up. the only one with ribbon, tied around her neck. adjusted to level. and so after, she refuses a noble gas filled one in favor of a bouncing on her chest. attaches it to the ones that lift. it is small, reaches down. and then again, he rises the story up. 031102 ... cr0wl look there i am stealing the show they watch me wishing they were me i am not there i am enveloped by a dyonisian bacchanalian fever 101010 ... amy the other side of this story really did look like that, crowl. i was trying to ameliorate the situation with this poem, i guess. it truly wasn't a good scene for me to be entangled in. i don't take well to the bacchanalian, i think, for brain chemistry reasons and maybe for being just a tad on the apollinian side of that mountain. i suppose i could rename the poem "here is my compromise". but you can't really convince people who have grown fond of drunkenness that you really don't have time for revelry when you're losing your mind, career, ability to relate, and whatever else i was dealing with at the time... and it's not that they even knew or needed to be convinced, it was mostly a conflict of fun-and-freedom that i was duking out in my psyche. in retrospect, i was right to have a problem with what these people represented, for my own sake, but i was not right to obsess about it to the detriment of my work. but, again, brain chemistry absolves me of this guilt, somewhat. it's just that this poem reminds me of a pretty deep fissure in the system of growth that would've been a successful completion of that decade of life. whatever though, it's okay. i had forgotten about it. 101011 ... cr0wl it could have even been considered tribal rite of passage. they simply offered themselves and we eagerly accepted, ravishing them unabashedly. 101012 what's it to you? who go blather from