Can u link blogger 2 twitter?

--
==================================================================
This mobile text message is brought to you by AT&T

Twitter is cool but has many limits. I need blogging freedom.

--
==================================================================
This mobile text message is brought to you by AT&T

.

.

immortal memory, deat h is born anew in exhaustive exertion. could i forget you as i could forget the face of my own reflection. i am imbued forever, to an undying want.

Red bull energy shot. Can someone spell c-o-m-p-i-t-i-o-n!

My new bluetooth. It looks like a question mark. No?

Citifield baby!

Lights! I got the phone camera. Now I'm ready for some action!

This is a test

Tickets to burn

this is what i do to tickets people don't buy. I burn em. Want tickets? Buy em before they are gone. Like the days of the year, once they are gone, they are gone forever. King of tickets. 516 835 8556. I would love to have a conversation with you. Miguel Cotto this weekend. 85 bucks.

I Hope You Love Your Vacant Heart

‘The Girl Who Sold the World.’ (david bowie)





She stands with bands in her hands, strands of string with which she bind the minds of men. How coy, her sinister ploy is as a parade of waves. She is amazed at the light of day and pall of night. Her liquid eyes are demanding, and her lyrics are compelled to conquer.

There she is in open fields, plains of grass surrounding her, a canopy of blue sky adorns her crown, ready to make her offering.

I was warned of the likes of her, for they beguile with smiles and charm with poison. Stubborn man that I am, I cannot learn, and I cannot know any better than to stumble into the snare she prepares for me. I am as a foundering fish flailing at the hook of bait I have eagerly bitten. A captive, vulnerable and defeated.

She shows me the world. Everything my heart desires she prepared as a meal to be devoured. Each conversation is a preparation for slaughter. Gingerly she slakes my thirst for esteem with wishes and fantasy. Hungrily she observes my affection as predator does prey. The world is offered to me. The world and all its prestige. The price is not named but it is clearly implied, it is clearly defined in lines of language and orders.

I will have to conquer her. Slay her, kill her, and resurrect her with love. I will have to resurrect her with the thing I have neither regard nor passion for. The thing I most detest, the two edged sword that cuts twain between euphoria and depression. A love undeniable an ineffable, powerful and sure.

At such a magnanimous order, surely the world seems unattainable, until she makes offerings to me, gifts that enlarge my capacity to feel. Can it be that this girl is my own image, my own pride, and my own esteem, a mirror?

As things appear, she is everything in public I imagine myself to be in secret, a thespian, bohemian, and a lascivious heart. I am smitten, for there is nothing I adore more than my own reflection, my own hubris and my own creations. She displays an image of such powerful woo, I am bemused and confused, and drunkenly enjoying it.

In my state of inebriation, I fathom my heart to seek that which it despises. With the world I desire presented to me in such beauty, and such majesty, I find it important to know the feeling of love.

Here begins the commencement of my slaughter.

Serene seems the land not treaded, seen from distant angles and known by stories and legend. Banal and common it becomes upon long inhabitation. Begrudged and despised is it when it becomes the field of battle where the earnest labors of your hands are captured by thieves and barbarians.

Such was love to me. A charlatan chameleon of varying qualities. I remember as a youth, I dreamed of love and its bountiful fields of fruit. Fault of my own when I found love I tasted the fruit of the poisoned kind. The agony of its pain was long and sufferable. And I suffered in shame. The poison tipped arrows of cupid affects the victims deep and hard. As an eruption, I was outside of myself swimming in the blood of my broken heart. My futile attempt to revive what had been smitten was humorous and pathetic.

When I came to myself, and my mind and body were healed, I had nothing but contempt for love. How could I have good regard of the thing after my sojourn there left me in bewilderment?

The seed was planted, and I was inoculated. Prepared for the wares of those whom seek to weaken the strength of a man with the vulnerability of his heart. I became the cold soldier, on a crusade to damage and rampage my enemies and conquer the world with my gospel of apostasy.

I built my weapons and armor well. A fortress of stone is the kingdom of my heart, secured by a moat of deep disdain for feelings and emotions. A behemoth is my mind, a violent power ready to assume and consume any trinket or fact about the volatile earth it inhabits. Warriors are my eyes, agents of scrutiny ready to invade the structure of our existence. A comfort is my tongue, to calm and seduce my prey into a somnolent repose, before I attack, annihilate and demolish. My hands are daggers with the range of talons, they soar above earth and descend with one purpose, to capture and exploit the puny peons who are provided for my nutrition. My ears are ravens, ravenous creatures feasting on the cadaverous words of fallen kings, emperors and lords. And I crafted my soul out of contempt. A sour meal and bitter constitution is it, angered by affection and perturbed at assistance.

Such is the mechanism of a mad mind. It served me well. In such a state I was able to exist, not wanting the things I was wanting for, disdaining the things I desired. The convenience of apathy is a soothing narcotic, and I filled myself with it. By day I was a marauding rogue seething with passions, at night a hungry and sorry shell of the vessel I used to be, intoxicated with bitterness.

Glorious is the youth I was, a chaste and righteous knave in the court of ministry. My desires and ambitions could not be more pure than they were, to deliver illumination and healing to those who were as I am now. But I went to the land of love and got corrupted by heartbreak. And that was only the beginning of maladies for me. While I was there, I also fell victim to betrayal as well as an overdose of learning. I tasted the forbidden fruits of the tree of life, and learned of the wiles of my fathers and teachers. With eyes as young and heartbroken as mine were, such an image to behold was seismic. My faith in the court concaved. My lust for rebellion grew. My wild oats spilled through quills upon sheets of paper, I crafted the forbidden letters, and forsook my inheritance and treasures.

My hair grew long and haggard, my hands and feet became filthy with soil, and my garments tattered and faded.

Then I saw her.

Clean as the ray of dawn, young as rose bud. I was about my way wrecking havoc in the world that I abolished when I saw her standing there in the open field, bands in her hand, smiling in the light of morning. I was frozen. Immediately at once as I cast my eyes on her, I was thrown toward my innocence. The conflict within me was rapidly revolving. My blood rushing, as it was when it had erupted from my shattered heart, veins were visible on my forehead, my breath accelerating, my madness receding, she looking at me with the ribbons of passion between her fingers, beckoning my approach, and I looking at her, curious and fearful.

In my fear I ran away. The emotions were too deep, and the recognition she became too powerful. But I could not let the image of her from my mind, the liquid eyes flowing throughout my dreams. Surely her arrival into my consciousness was a symbol of my façade. My performance was coming to completion, and my stage was in preparation for demolition. I could not escape it, for she became my becoming, against my own judgment, I went to the field where she was again.



She becomes my revelation. Her intentions are not of consequence to me, if she bind my mind with her strings and leaves me hypnotized, it matters not; the ministry of her is so soporific. How long had I languished with the languor of contempt and discontent, and now becomes my release. Her eyes fill my heart, and she sees everything inside of it. Every dusty corner, the weathered walls I had prepared to guard it, she knew every design, every trap door, she was witness to the remains of those who tried to invade the castle, floating in the surrounding moat of running blood. I let her lyrics into my mind, a compelling language that maligns my convictions, which I had construed to aid my recovery.

Her molestation was methodical and meticulous. In my defeated state, she reveals my decrepit fears before my balling eyes. My face, coated with running tears, snot dripping from my nose. I become enthralled at her sadist behavior, her sight teeming through my heart, her words streaming throughout my conscience. I become the subject of her fantasy. She wrecks havoc with me as I had wrecked havoc with the world.

In my crestfallen shame, she embraces me. Her breasts softly kissing my chest. The large globes of comfort sooth my convulsions. Her lips touch my beard. My armor crumbles under her invasion. I look into her eyes and become affixed upon them. Not anymore am I the cold soldier. I am now her uxorious suitor. Eager to claim the world she prepared for me. My plummet toward such pathos recalls the reckless nature of my former transformation. I lose control and become eagerly abused.

I reveal to her my forbidden letters, scriptures I had composed while I was on my rampage throughout the lovely lands. I propose every letter to her as the babe requesting milk from mother’s nipple, my mouth in small ovals ready to receive her delivery. She comes to me in calm and maternity. I anxiously receive her in eagerness and hunger. She receives me like a bitch in heat. We knew each other.

Her fingers comb through my dreams as a river wafting over bedrock. The sensations are sonic. Her skin is as the dew of morning. She descends upon me.

In the repose of our communication, she reaches for one of her bands. She motions for my hand, and ties me to the sky. I stay there like a bug trapped in a spider’s web. From my vantage point, I see the skulls and carcasses of the many men she had slain. Cryptic revelation of the widow I have come to know births an omen of black destiny. With all my weapons and armor revealed to her, I cannot free myself, nor can I attempt an escape. Neither do I want to. Yoked to the sky by her ribbon of affection, I see the world turning from the inside out. The walls around my heart crumble to dust, the warriors of my eyes drunk and deceived by the liquor of love, my hands, talons of daggers, bound to the sky, I hang awaiting my end. ‘These fragments I have shored’ (T.S. Eliot), they will be my obituary.

My armor falls to the earthen floor, I remain naked upon the ceiling of our globe, her poison ossifies my blood to crystal and stone, I pass away, ready to be welcomed home.

Shattered Heart

I saw her today.  As I've seen her many days before.  She looked as beautiful as she's always looked.  Since the event that shattered my heart, she has separated herself from me.  Stopped responding to my emails, changed her phone number.  I am  the fragmented remainder of a shattered love.  I pray everyday that I can make myself whole but pieces don't fit together well.  There are too many missing parts.

I apologized today.  To her face.  The first time in three years.  Should have done it sooner but I was weak.  Lacked the courage.  Had the courage today.  Have to watch myself though.  Too much courage may make her fear me.

At least she let me know that she appreciates my apology.  I appreciate that.  I wish I were a stronger person sometimes.  I have been clean and sober the last two weeks.  Usually on a day like this I would drink my sorrow away.  And It was alchohol that led to mybeing in this desolate wasteland of affection.

If I can get through this week without a drink, I will be a stronger person.  It is a daily journey of recovery, in many respects.

Paper Stained with Ink

Ink Your Self.

* Papyrus *

I've been a scribe all my life. I used to draw a lot as a child, write short stories, and poems, and whatnot. Now with the comoputer, I type on this old keypad. It is not the same as autographical writing. It's attitude is artificial. We rely on fonts and shorthand to display ingenuity. What of penmanship. There are things, human things that get lost as technology progresses. We lose a certain art. It is because of the grand convinience why the keypad is the main tool of choice for writer's of today. But some things will never die. Long live the autograph!

A Love Lost is Worth More Than Simple Tears

If you are a man, and you have been royaly emascualted by a broken heart, if she took your love and basterdized it, shredded it as shredded wheat, and put in your face for you to grovel at while she laughs at your folly, then by all means my brother, go ahead and cry like there is no tommorow.

A mind too at East

I sit here in my studio surrounded by almost everything  that I want and am still not wholy fulfilled.  Comics, book, software, hardware, lights, 88 weighted keys keyboard, two acoustice guitars, and find it hard to get  the impetus to create or read, or produceanything.  Something is wrong, something must be wrong. 

Ghost Man

I know how it feels to be a ghost.  An effigy, a shell, a corpse ofwhat you once were.  The cancer of time reaking havoc on your countenance.

I LOVE MY DOGS.

I grew up with dogs, been bitten by dogs, barked at dogs, had fights with dogs, ran from dogs, chased dogs, been defended by dogs, and have a dog. I call my friends my dogs and I like Snoop Dogg. I am a dog person, or rather, a Dog person.



I love the dog I have now. He is always happy to see me and always answers when I call. If I get married, I wanna have a wife that's just like my dog. If you find that last sentence offensive, then you do not know dogs. A dog will fight for his territory, a dog will fight for his friends, a dog will fight for his master. A dog will destroy a stranger in one instance and be affable to his master the next.



I had a dog named Billy, and a dog named Spot, a Dog named Stripe, Happy,

Chubby, and now I have a dog named Spike.



Ask any of my ex-girlfriends and they will tell you, and I will not deny it, I am a dog (Dog) myself.

return

somewher out there, i seem to have lost myself.  among the liquor and thebdru8gs and the women, i have forgotten myself.  chasing a dollar instead of a dream.  it's a miracle in am still constitute.  my music, my art, my writing, it is all void now.  yet i am still alive.  i pray for a release from this prison.  i pray for a release of faith.

There She Is.

A fiction.



There was a little boy whol liked to play with matches. He would set anything on fire. He liked to watch the fire dance. On time the fire danced real close to his face and he put his hand in his faces place. And that was the most on fire the little boy's hand had ever been.

Heed to the Center Timothy Geithner

What is it that you want? Really. Do you really want absolute control? I read the Bill Powell article about you in TIME Magazine a few months ago and it reports go you grew up around the globe. You grew up in Asia and Europe and all these exotic locales. I'm sure that has shaped your own personal moral compass. In the world more and over, it is common for one person to have absolute power. That is what you want over the banks right. More power. You want to go beyond that and expand power. You also want to have power over businesses as with AIG because they are not a bank so you couldn't mess with them as you did Washington Mutual and Wachovia. It would be better if for you if at your own judgement, you could absolve any bank or business into the federal government that you feel threatened the common good or by your own judgement deemed to be ''underwater''.

Well I went to High School in here in America and I took a class here called American History. That one person authorotarian view, it's not American dude. I find it kinda scary that you even desire such power. Of course I am not a journalist or an economist or a historian. I'm just a dude with a Computer and Internet. My fear Mister Geithner is this. As you go in your quest to fight financial degrade and curruption, stead your heart with American values. All that power that you seek is dangerous. You will be as a witchhunter and a new word will enter the 21st cenutury lexicon: Geithnerism, a la McCarthyism.

http://donyv.blogspot.com/2009/04/portfolio-mobile-times-rorshach.html

I GOT A LOT OF CHECKBOOKS. A WHOLE LOT OF CHECKBOOKS. : )

IF I HAD A DOLLAR FOR EVERY CHECK I WROTE, I'D HAVE ONE DOLLAR.

Check for O'Toole - $22,500 (LOC)

It is very hard for me to think of the most useless thing in my house. I hate clutter so much, I make it a point to be rid of useless things. Most of the things here have an inert value or sentimental value. There is my 1993 Volvo thats been dead for two years that sits in my driveway, and the soround sound system my dad got me for Christmas three years ago that never left the box. i got the cardboard box cases to my computers and computer monitors. An old 15 inch CRT monitor lies on my studio floor, waiting for me to actually go and get the graphics card to make it work as a second monitor. I got the composition books from fifteen to fourteen years ago with literally hundreds of gospel songs I wrote when I was a teenager and dreamed of gospel music stardom. I got my cousin's shoe and clothes and CD's and DVD's and Topps and UpperDeck Basketball trading cards from the 90'sin my garage. I got plastic cases filled with magazines I have read but have never re-read and plan to put on Ebay or Amazon one day and even more magazine I'm yet to read. I got two acoustic guitars I hardly ever pick up to use and a keyborad I hardly ever play except at Band Practise. I got a Canoe in the backyard our family got from a removal job our family business did years ago. Hasn't been polished or used yet. Just sitting there. So many unused useful things. I guess the most used thing as far as I'm concerned are the Plastic cases of comics I Restack every new comic book Day, (wed) or friday, and this here P/c I'm composing this prose on. So are my most used things my most 'useful'? I don't think so. Are my most unused things the mose useless? Definately not. I guess as with art, what is useful and useless lies in the eyes of the beholder.

But to answer the question, the most useless thingin my house would have to be my checkbook.

I CAME HERE THROUGH SLEEPLESS NIGHTS.

Through hard work and perseverance, I am where I am.

If You find yourself in West Hempstead, GET FABIO'S.

fuggetaboutit.

Fabio's Pizza serves really good Pizza and a soda for five bucks or so. Try the Sicilian slice or ask for a 'slice with tomatoes' then wash it down with some orange cream soda. Delight.

I'm a Bunny? No, I'm a rabbit? No, I am a Voice!

his palms r sweaty- marshall mathers

8 Mile Road

I am as 'Rabbit' was at the end of the movie '8 mile', I've found my found my voice and the world loves it. In the next scene, they show me how.

GO BACK FROM WHENCE u CAME!

Stress Free is The Way to be Man!

I'll be Ravishly Absorbed, Thank You very Much.

Practice Guitar, Piano, Voice, Make Beats, Draw, and work Out.

IF YOU GOT ROOM TO GROOVE, IT'S TIME 2 MOVE!

adieu

You can navigate the dance floor
If there is room to move your elbows, the party is finished.

'COMMANDO GO'

I'll be back.

Arnold Schwarzeneggar
A f%^*kingv kick a#$ name and some testicular fortitude.

A Grand a Day Keeps the Poorhouse Away!

I would probably get a laptop and/or an electric guitar. And fix up my ride.

MELLOW YELLOW!

All the new jobs and employee priced reduced ganja will be good for ganja smoker's and non ganja smokers alike. It will not kill you, so let it build the economy.

Get Porsche or die Tryin'.

Ride B4 I die!

Porsche 356 Speedster 1600S

A Porsche. It looks so sexy and sensual. And it performs.

DON'T TRY TRACE. lol.

'these things will not endure'

Malice and disrespect
There is nothing I find more unnessecary and unproductive in life as unmerited malice and undue disrespect. Before anyone begrudges the life, property and skills of another individual and or nation, they must first take a long hard look in the mirror and judge themself first. Malice and disrespect will only destroy, and when it is in my presence, i find it offensive.

there is a simpe answer to all of this

i do not make mistakes.

IT'S A DOGGY DOGWORLD!

wepick up their sh!t

Anywhere i take my bycycle ride is lovely this time of year

i go where my feet take me

nothing like the sun beating on you, exercizing and the wind in your face.

I use compact fluorescent lights to help the environment

I care.

I turn of lights whenever i see them on unneccessarilly.

. .

.

..

My bucket list starts with: TRAVEL HE REST OF THE WORLD AND PHOTOGRAPH IT

TRAVEL HE REST OF THE WORLD AND PHOTOGRAPH IT
I BEEN FROMA JAMAICA TO AMERICAAND I'M RICH IN WORLD EXPERIENCE BECAUSE OF IT. WHY NOT TRY AND GET RICHER BEFORE I CROAK.

Where can I park my Escalade with gold rims?

IT'S HAULIN TIME

ESCALADE WITH GOLD RIMS. IF THAT'S THE CHOICE BETWEEN A HYBRID PRIUS I'LL TAKE THE ESCALADE. A PRUIS CANNOT HAUL OR CARRY ANYTHING OF NOTE. AN ESCALADE CAN. WITH OR WITHOUT GOLD RIMS.

Kindle 2, please

i could read all the suffit comes with and be a faux literary scholar

Kindle the eBook 2.0 by jurvetson

kindle 2

The tables are turned my friend. Now cars can fly. Airkill!

Now it's time for you to shit on the birds!

BOMB DIFFUSER

We Live in a world of perpetual uncertainty. The only certain thing we can count on is that we will not be her forever. We have to start over many times in life and I believe I am at such a point in mine. Things are changeing in this world at a rapid level. Everyday is a new beacon on the horizon. Smileing faces are conspiring hearts in secret. It is hard to trust anyone. The paranoid are the prepared who suddenly become sages when travesty comes to bust. Keep looking over your shoulder. And keep looking ahead while you can. They will come when none can look at all.

Naked

The artist must be naked. The artist must be without facade, pretense, and ambiguity. The artist must delcare his/her artwork as proudfully and as unabashed upon presentation toward their audience as teenage lovers bare themselves naked and stimulated, erect and aroused toward their 'amour, as if to say 'this is how I will fuck you.

Being alone ain't always cool.

Not so slowly

I haven't always had this fear. It kinds of develops with age. you realize how much you depend upon the ones you love and the ones who love you. You hope and pray everyone could be here forever.

White

What happens to an auteur whose mind becomes a blank box? A palette for others to impart their stamp upon, and none of his/her own? Does he or she whither into oblivion, imbibing all the colors and sounds of the world, and never interpreting and relating them to something authentic, or does the auteur aggressively push the creative effort, crafting artifact and archetypes in the hope of creating an original art?

This complex question has plagued me personally, as at one time a was an extremely prolific writer, and composer, all the while reading and consuming new ideas, learning new languages and means of artistic expression. Now I am become stifled, stymied and relegated to a box.

A true artist cannot be cajoled and crafted by the minds of others. The madness of an auteur must be free and unconstrained. Given the liberty to craft novel and morose ideals, to alienate the aliens, and fortify the base of like minds.

The pain of the brawn.

Laugh first, think l8r.

Bill Cosby
The secretary of humor. We need to be briefed on the farce of life in America in the 21st century, so we don't take all the bad news too seriously.

William Schnieder
Secretary of intellegence. His reports and insights on the American social and political landscape are nothing short of insightful.

I'll sing these 4 free

i could f... with this

champion by buju banton

smile like you mean it by the killers

three little birds by bob marley

New Reggae Riddims for 2009

My ideal Super Bowl halftime show would include Aidonia

Aidonia
He is an extremely versatile and Talented dancehall artist and lyricist. I would love to see him tear it up with Vybz Kartel, Black Rhino, and the entire Portmore Empire.

Mavado.
He is part of another dancehall camp (The Alliance, led by Bount Killa), but still, they cold be on stage at different times. Now that is 'MY' Super Bowl halftime show.

Fly to Connecticut and sleep on my yacht.

For quiet times.

I would go to Connecticut. It's peaceful, unpretentious, and beautiful if you know where to go.

"The Art of Seduction" is a whole lot of words.

Keep it clean.

It's exhaustive reading with the linear notes and all, and I had already read 'The 48 Laws of Power' by the same author (Robert Greene) and found him to be repeating much of the same themes.

I recommend checking out Port Royal when you're in Jamaica

Go here b4 you expire.

The relics of English colonial rule. Canons, gypsy houses, and Pirate lore.

If I were a superhero, I would certainly wear tight black jeans

The Duplicitious Diagram of Dirty Deeds Done in and Appropriated.

The Back Rider, able to see clearly at night and avoid being seen. Tuned in to the radar of crime, I walk the tightrope of useing crime for my own personal gain as well as the common good, wherever I see fit. I am also a scribe and an auter with a voyeuristic streek.