Riddle: What's my name and phone number?

Raindrops flitting from the cloud splotched sky
air
chilly breath from the earth
hundreds of icicles clinging
anticipating gravity's fall
everywhere still--
light lingers thoughtessly.

Pine needles break like tinkering glass
ice
nector of the season
enter into Demeter's bliss
inch the sun's rays, tilt the earth's axis
rake the earth clean
of everything frozen.

Celine Dion Irrationally Enrages Me

Drops on the window
Ice fills the
cracks of the sidewalk
the cracks in my hands.
The mud is soft
but cold.

I wear the mud
on my clothes
across my face
in my mouth.

I am a princess.
Disheveled--
Chagrined--
to the bone.

The worth of words
seduces and eludes me.
If alphbets tasted like crackers,
I'd eat them.
Up.
I'd eat them up.

An Excess of Voice and Ghost of a Flea

Something my professor said today kind of made me sad.

He described our society as the inverse of William Blake's society in pre-romantic England. Nobody expressed their creativity. Imagination was not a prized function of society--in fact, imagination often got people locked up. Had more people actually read Blake during his life, he most certainly would have been locked up--if not beheaded. (Blake would often stop whatever he was doing and gaze into nothingness, saying he was observing something--like the ghost of a flea--and then he'd quickly sketch it on his cuffed sleeve. See http://www.phespirit.info/pictures/patchwork/p008.htm for this sketch)

In our society, my professor pointed out, everyone expresses themselves. Everyone pours out their hearts in a blog and nobody cares. There is an excess of voice.

You might see why this troubled me.