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scribbles somethanes
by quinn



...and at times she introduced herhself as eichornia magnavox, snarling in inane insanity as the wind cries mary, the smokes from the pipes smoke on by, and while my guitar gently weeps, there's something in the way she moves

i begin to think of the perfection of the underside of a well shaped breast and how this table keeps spinning and spinning and because she walked by and didn't smile i can only take comfort in the now

because the thermometer dropped by a good 33 and i found my old 45's yesterday and mr. michener is 90 and wants to die and as i'm not wanting to write wright now not frank not lloyd not wright write now this is where i'll stop.

but now i want to start again, and these five funny metallic, sort of steel drum sounding sort of pizzicato sort of staccato'd sounds pan and echo their way to the tongue of my brain and i don't necessarily want them to stop, just would like to have a little control over their volume as they melody their way to my brain, i think in terms of the camera, the love of the appropriated not procreated image of not quite originality and how that not quite originality has turned this century upside down with ithself, the power of the image, the image of the television, the power of the television, this century's conqueror, this century's pacifier, the conquistadors being the welles, the turners, kubricks, houstons, and gates as well as metropolitan goldwinning mayors. and of course many many others. have you disassembled your monitor today? have you? have you? have you.....

prophetic voice pondered two years later...
beyond the void mundane a fluid canvas leaks perfection.
sailboats red with toughest rye. i look two years and see.
division within the vision.
suck wicker lips beneath ear-viction. track lights shine. the halo line divides divine.
religion is sin nis si noigiler.

fried like chicken she said. we fried like chicken. my trip was burnt man. lights start changing and the asphalt, man the asphalt, echoed remelodies of freely taken liberties.

"no art here" said the curator,
"no art here, bill, danny, fred, and jamal, but no art here."

the panning of a string arrangement, trying no to lose control, trying not to lose control, speaking french, wanting more potatoes, really needing more potatoes, knowing, if she only had more potatoes, everything would be alright.

somewhere else in the world today, a girl who i'm sure is more perfect than alicia e.a. in every single possible way, will be born, will die, will see the dark night sky, all because that i know and that she does not. the long and winding road. there is no more u.s.s.r. it rains outside and black and white images show such a thing.

inside of me, how can i say? i can not and leave it at that. all of the incredible songs that have not yet been recorded, all of the great books that as of yet have not been written, even perhaps a few memories i have now, i'd trade without a doubt or shadow of a rope to be in loveralive with mrs. e.a. could she only be the unofficial unreligious and ungovernmental strictly emotional and electronprotonneutronfilled wife de solo man.

once i indeed did attend a wedding and really had a laugh because the preacher or is it minister did say towards the endo d ceremony that, they were now pronoun.ced man and wife and recognized in the state of texas and d eyes of god and jesus. and eye wondered how he knew.

sometimes a drunken musician being recorded in a drunken fit or rage of playing exercising the motion of his uncontrived fingers on his loving instrument knows more about god, comes closer to god than any fucking preacher or minister or deacon or priest or brother (or anyone pretentious enough and with such low hself-esteems as to call themselves a holy person) ever could attain. what a moment i just had. tingles run rampant.

spiders and cowboy boots and seeing as how i know what will soon be said in red text and knowing about a party i anxiously await i dream to awake in a bed with thousand dollar sheets wet with cum from both of us loving sweating sleeping loving together, miles away from each other but snuggling so close i don't forget about pillows, soft-floating-on-a-cloud-kind-of-pillows and how for kissing she likes me shaven but she doesn't mind the stubble so much for other things

and i think a lot about things like cactus and the santa maria and why do they always say the santa maria last, the nina, the pinta, and the santa maria and so often how jungerl college freshmen often graduate high school with long-sort-of-blonde-curled-at-the-bottom-prom-night-hair-but-soon-get-to-dorms-chain-smoking-midnight-coffee-house-a-little-less-make-up-kind-of-mentality and soon almost invariably cut off that hair opting for the more-practical-less-hassle-nevertheless-cute-sort-of-college-girl-haircut. let's get happy.

it's never too late to see the things around us never too late to take notice of the beautiful things that surround us all the way................. three people go for their drink simultaneously inexplicably, yet mirroring things. the syncopation of the menses in womens' communities among other things how schools of fish simultaneously magically electronically inexplicably instantaneously change direction................... and to change direction, there's the magic and dramatic dynamic of what it means to be jake and the characteristics that qualify what proffesors can only explain as jakeness..................... like chairness, tableness, and of(f) course appleness, being back from a vacuum tube and neverneverland and who am i to question who i am. who am i to go against the wind. i know what i know, i need what i need, and i need to write something that most people will never times most comprehend, not out of the nature of ego, but out of the nature of puzzle. hopefully, someday, some people might f gure shit out........................ like what's on the next page.................................




About the Author


quinn graduated from superhero school at the age of 17, and because he was a bit of an introvert, opted out of the sidekick internship search program. it took him a while during his senior year at school to come up with his name, while most of his classmates knew what uber-identities they would take on as early as freshman year, he knew that the process is the plan, so he took on a sort of "write and revise" mentality while searching for his super-name. because of his personal agreement with the old statement "the journey is more important than the destination" he toyed with tao-man and zen-man and various plays on those for a while, but thought that was a little too there-is-no-spoon-feeding for the general public. in his tenderness to their mind-potential, quinn wanted them to work a little harder, so he eventually, through a long series of ideas and edits, ended up with poosquared. it is a triple-play on quinnythepoo, referencing of course winnie the poo as well as a wonderfully written book called the tao of poo, and the idea of squaring poo to make poo(poo), which in his mind is a sort of self-defecation sense of humility. his skin-tight latex coated chest emblem shows poo2.

and his cape is purple.

because he operates in a "natural is the way, the way is natural" sort of super-hero mentality, he is always more concerned with how he gets somewhere than actually getting somewhere, and a logical conclusion (is there any conclusion when your not concerned with concluding) is that he never gets anywhere, and similarly, he never gets anything done. as a result, he is now 30 and has succeeded in no actual super-hero achievements, unless of course, you call his living super-heroic, which although he would never admit to publicly, believes adamantly so in his mind.

his influences really are too broad and numerous to mention, and by mentioning one or two, he believes, all the others are discredited, so he prefers to mention none. but he will say that art and music are the most important things in his life, and like schopenhauer, he actually believes that music is the highest form of art. his favorite things to do are to listen to as well as make music, and for this reason, his first concentration is on music, and calling all his writings "scribbles" is for him a specific de-emphasizing of their value.

the work shown as "scribbles somethames" are various words collected in no specific order from a not-yet-published book he has written entitled.

mon solo: an evolution