First, something a friend of mine, Nathon Garton, wrote. Once upon a time he went to school here.

Eventually Pandora became like a wayward child; she showed promise, but the more I tried to filter out the bad and combine good influences, the more I tried to mold that bitch, she rebelled and kept on bringing home the same trash, time and time again (namely Jack Johnson and 12 Stones), so I ditched Pandora in the river and picked up something new -- she should be the new village bicycle: try it out: last.

Now, from me.

And the other day one said to another, "You are a warrior poet. Always finding where you are." The boy really is. There is proof, a picture of him discovering his hands and capability. So there is a thought of it.

you walk don't you?
no, i stumble.
for the river to be gone
rather not to think of it,
content. nobler, for the light trash
to be gone. i like the laterns,
old fashioned. a moment, i'm tied.
and you would take your telephone
to the top of the eifle tower?
if it wasn't one of rope.
if it wasn't this old rotary thing.
if i wasn't hoping.
but then the stars.
and what of the river.
same awkward echo. to not be after
another place. still. i'm no better.
that's why you stumble,
always looking up. and flesh changes
and the ground moves.