I wander between rooms finding myself suddenly occupied with drudgery kept from realizing how bad I need what I don't got Stupid tasks that wouldn't fool anyone I set myself on cuz I'm dumb enough to be tricked to forgetting I ever needed that The house gets cleaner when I want it I find old chests full of pictures and writing, like looking at a stranger I feel I am making lines straight lines that are clean to wander lightly in and lose something I'm trying to forget I am not myself right now I don't know if I will remember
I only think long automatic thoughts today numb. no sleep automatically wanting to feel breathing in smoke deep and full in blown slowly out just a little sometimes oh, yes, a lot randomly triggered. tired so tired I am hoping tomorrow I might forget why I am needing I wanted to be able to say so much more today – what I heard helped me. thank you graciously i hope
nothing now NOTHING no cigarette I don't CARE I don't C well I do but NOT NOW thin center held in walking straight ahead NOTHING IS DESTROYED the shelves are upright things are where they are supposed how nice just to breathe one – only one just one – ONE FUCKING CIGARETTE there has to be one, fallen on the floor a butt – yeah just a little bit- NOTHING! STORE! I can go to the store for a candy bar no cigarettes, just to keep my mind off oh coffee, sweet coffee, warm on the throat and smooth tongue cigarette cigarette FUCK! cottage cheese? yogurt. yoga was nice very smooth center breathing deep in, deep out moving away, past, past... just one – oh one won't hurt past, past – I'll be happy then, not now, then shit. fuck. just one. one. only one. it can be quick just to get the edge off line formatting! structure! nothing nothing. meaning. heart. nothing. cigarette. fuck! tomorrow. tomorrow. moving away help! don't say NOTHING, dammit! let it go. let it go. let it go. just one. please. just one.
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All rulers hunger to fill an emptiness even the best intentioned among us fail, hearing nothing but an emptying a collapsing shell always with desires to be never filled
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Lungs teach the first lesson: to be alive is an endless labor of breathing independently. Next, wide round eyes overwhelmed with the detection of light, begin discovering order within patterns while the body is soothed only by being held close – the clung-to warmth of another, surrounding. Soon, by discovering our place, a legacy of incorporeal thought pulls us out of our heads, revolving above the multitude of bodies animated by remote control. Except today my right leg taught me speaking above and below the knee, even further up where the hip shifts as I breathed down along the length, allowing a reformation to align, where it kindly revealed in its bodily way that each person collects their knots to be released on the way to freedom, and just as that end is never the same, each twist is unique in undoing. And this is where I rested, spread open to the body's voice that only realizes – beyond the purview of psychology's suffering roots, to that centered, quiet and blissful hue.
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There is a price, you being different when money is meaningless and all that matters is another creature seeing what they see, knowing which fantasies inhabit each one – what experience has laid down sending each to their far corners to dwell in a haven of unique and delicate madness, where the unsaid matters most urgently, and all words that are easily said, are never required, since such common things, need naught. How unlikely finding the misunderstood further out, as if all the impossible faces flying apart as random seeds, discover past all chaos, oxbow lakes formed through an alien grace not yet descended on those who, already knowing their way, through an act of hearing all that is not given, yet left to be opened, only by you. This is how I remember, not by nameable facets of stone, but through the air we breathe, displaced by growing things in their marvelous slopes beyond shape, where the mind fails to hold any substance to be called its own, blown through endless rounds of small bullets, flashes of current, the wind that knocks down anything trying to stand on false feet – and arms, understanding their strength, that hold without tiring in the aftermath. To observe the plotting of a maze as creatures rummage to find the switch never hearing above the din of walls, this is the difference; the price is exile along the broken stretch of travelers unaccustomed to their own perception within a fabric of dream, held together simply by a chance they might be seen, and more, looked to, to be revealed.
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Oh yes things live hidden in cracks on the persimmon wall not orange or juicy plumb strangely tasty in frost little landscapes running with bent thin legs looking like lightning blackly striking connected in places that leap out in the kitchen air shocked being seen dimensioned, wriggling hair standing on end, funny in the manner that makes completed curves screech wishing as balloons that leap and leap up to the hot bulb popping loud with a start when eyes blink and blink
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Just as the unseen trees stand sentinel, dark towers of living shadow aware beneath dim light strewn to navigate the night, a soldier justifies his height, gun gripped by the surrender already made to throw away all that turns higher, hidden in the dark, undergrowth.
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The room, lit dimly with a single string of failing Christmas lights, monochrome white, hums with the dull noise of fans, quietly rustling papers stapled in a small stack chronicling an old lover's new journeys. Behind, spread across the floor, thin manuals overflow their shelves, filled with techniques both obsolete and new that pay the bills, always rustling quietly, plaintively, stacked in disarray, on the left. The long hall lined with the old lover's old paintings leads to the larger room filled with angling books marking out the stacked chronicles of a singular head, a collage of juxtapositions never meant to survive together under one roof. Sandstone, mortared together, irregular, in shapes surpassing count, stand solidly on the foundation, a polygonal focus hollowed out for the fire that radiates, once warmed strongly, long after it fails. In the Not-Spring night, dark towers of trees lit by what light might trickle from the sky, gripping the steep slope down to the stream, spread out their branching as if to dwarf, purposefully, even the most well-intentioned house – sat in its own peculiar geometries. No sound but the hum of fans is heard manufacturing their flow. Tonight the trees must stand on their own, to not be seen, towering as they will. The rippling stream, polishing its smooth stones, will go unlistened. And all the paintings hung in their positions in the long hall, tonight, will remain life-like still.
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I don't like the ocean why do you think that I crawled out of it in the first place, it is too cold and too deep for my little feet and I get wet, wet, soggy and wet. Briny, well that's not so bad but it's not like I can drink it when I'm thirsty now is it? And you would think they would quit putting me back in it when I have all these modern fabrics with colors to choose from, I mean, they're the best money can buy even my personal surf board to ride the waves keep knocking me over and I am getting sick to death of trying to claw my way back to the shore that, by God, I know is there somewhere - I mean the waves keep rolling that way, damnit, damn ocean it's so not important any more when you see all those bonfires built with happy people dancing on the beach in circles without having to even look at each other through the damned water getting in their eyes. They're just happy, happy like I used to be before they put me on the tide or the tide came or I don't know stupid ocean it sucks.