Every time I try to ‘facebook’ thunderbolts of complication seem to rattle my roots. The good thing is they usually fade off into distant tremors after a fairly short time. However, I have been known to pike halfway through this waiting period.

It seems to me that mobs of humans base life around facebook… and not so much Twitter. I’ve managed to have not one, but two Twitter accounts for some time floating along finding friends, family, and cult members quite breezily.

Alas, many will never stray from the big FB and so in the name of the tribe it’s back on the scene.

From odd assumptions to new flavors of spam… historically, Facebook has and continues to shit me. However… I shall persevere because there are far too many pretties hiding amongst FB to boycott it the way I have tried so many (many) times before.

I accept this.

I wrote a poem on the train this morning. Train poetry is the best thing about public transportation. Hands down.

a basket full of wet clothes

We live in a house without closets.
So I never had any place
To hide things, out of sight.
Out of room to conceal.
From places and things
I prefer to remain
Unrevealed. I suddenly can’t
Have that. A residence of where
Nothing is private.
Riding a packed train
With everyone resting too close.
Exposed fabric, unwashed.
Brushing against my bare skin
With nowhere to pull out
A fresh outfit.
Not scented with your
Cotton trails.
Exposed abode
Tiled with dirty laundry.
No consideration
For what should have been
Tucked away.