I met a man in Chinatown looking as lonely as an out of work astronaut in his silver suit. He was hocking his baseball cards and in the windows of the storefronts stapled to sticks, fastened to locomotives, shadows passed briefly in and out of comics.

He told me he was there because his well dressed friends, the Gingerbread Men, had ransacked his closet for sacks of flour and grandfather clocks, tossed couture from Istanbul upon a platform till it groaned under so many halter tops.

And they only left him two things—one was a photograph of him and his lover embracing a frozen ATM with a box of light bulbs underneath their arms and the other was a guitar to murder an opera which had been floating through neighborhoods filled with lazy huskies puking up their broccoli aperitif in a deformed grimace.

After he told me all this, out of a radio stepped the Lord God Jehovah saying, “This is My Son, Obama. Serve Him well and when you die—We’ll set you up with a Prius in the sky.” Y’know, good pay for writing Lazarus scrolls for the infidels or even stanzas for the Barbarians at the Skatepark of whom the banks are invested in making Easter eggs of suffering.

My friend’s father had stolen the moon’s clockwork, stuffed it in a tube sock, and then went around and sold it for a language to teach my children camped out, flashlight shivering in the vampire forest.

I'm a freelance designer/poet/teacher working on a book. Could take in a showing of the Goonies or Spaceballs if that treasure trove is up and running. I'm looking to make a go at gallery shows, publishing books and being involved in teaching people to pretend they're animals. Aardvarks would be interesting.

Being chatty and possibly being on Jeopardy. Teaching and making funny characters to zip zam zoop all over the place.

The glasses, the beard, the voluminous freckles and baritone voice. I'm pretty capricious and have a great laugh and wear these pair of jeans I've restitched with some shoelaces cuz they done got torn.

Cultural Amnesia by Clive James
Collected Poems by Frank O'Hara
History of Byzantium by John Julius Norwich
A short History of very nearly everything by Bill Bryson

underground Rhode Island verbiose hip hop
classical music (with a passion for 20th century English composers)
and a soft spot for Ashlee Simpson

computer
library
pen/paper
ipod
and a drink (screwdrivers but whiskey/tonic instead of vodka)

poetry, politics, and history... dollop of pop culture and new season of tv shows

at a bookstore, bar, or battleground (anything w/a "b") talking to friends watching dvds hanging out

I do have a secret crush on the black haired original nose version of Ashlee Simpson

you're looking for a smart guy who you want to talk with and have discussion and have a verbal equivalent to the knockdown dragout fistfight that punches theoretical holes in conceptual walls... or for a good laugh and a chance to dance the Batusi