the worst of us is truest

our shortcomings propel us

the loathsome find the love they don't deserve

and the innocent die first

this world is on its head, but I don't mind

can you find the filling?

by nature, words are evanescent

intangible and fleeting

so I sometimes ponder the morality

of tethering them to a page

lately,

I've been trying to understand

my relationship with words

what it means to write them down

from a to b, my mind to mouth

something in translation must be lost

I like to think it's

something divine

but if the best is missing

if these words have lost their meaning

are they not

like some empty Oreo,

futile?

I took a walk tonight

for the first time

without the intent

to alter my perception

the silence was unsettling

words were difficult enough

in theory, inside

let alone trying to

speak aloud

they attacked me

for not being around

for ignoring them

they swarmed my mind

and fought toward my tongue

they knew I had no smoke

to stop them now

though, with a cunning plan

I managed to

to cull the incessant savaging

I began to sing

I sang "I can sing this song so blue

that you will cry in spite of you. . ."

my mouth and mind occupied

by someone else's words

written to a sad,

someone else's rhythm

I was safe

from the stillness of night

with a mouthful of distraction

from sobriety

so I suppose I'll settle

for two chocolate halves

if I cannot find the filling

∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆

∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆

∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆

∆ ∆ ∆ ∆

∆ ∆ ∆ ∆

∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆

∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆

———————————— ∆

∆

It's starting to spit a bit ∆

I like the sound of it ∆ ∆

∆ ∆ ∆

————————————

On sunny days, the green grass seems to breath

The leaves on trees giggle while they shimmy to a sleepy,

yawning wind.

A grumpy ever green is happy closest to the sky and

I think there's something to this nonsense.

And the man on the moon

satisfied with watching

bore still and silent witness to it's decay

He took no responsibility for the mess he'd made

and blamed the cook instead

He claimed group mentality for his failure to act

and pinned global warming on Big Foot.

Satan was the culprit, Scientology the evil.

There was guilt on the face of the man on the moon.
You might've seen it too, were it not for that great mushroom in the sky.

There's a mirror in your mind and it's broken; I broke it.

Tricky tears trace escape routes down cranky cheeks.
Your harddrive hemorrhages, confused

and you spit up what's left of your crooked cross

like broken teeth.

A soul surfaces and slows to a sloppy stop at your open mouth.

With your diet, who knows if it's your own.

a grinding halt says your mouth is mechanical

Fresh air meets fresh wound,first love, erosion in reverse
Now look at the monster I have made

speak no evil

It's been so long since I'd the urge to do it

I've forgotten where to go

when so suddenly these

weeks of silence overflow

But where are words to go?

(John Cleese): In the Box!

shut up John Cleese, I'm trying to be poetic.

Where does it all come from?

I haven't been writing, only editing aging posts, with no intention of actually posting. I sometimes think there is a build, and then a crescendo, or beer-head, and everything spills over, and into this white box.

My thoughts come out in bursts, characterized by short spurts of clicks and pops of keys. My fingers swoop over lines and squiggles I've come to understand, like something I don't have a poetic analogy for. But still, I find it amusing. Between machine gun duh-duh, duh-duh, duh-duhs, I'm thinking. Most times it isn't of what's next.

where I live, but not so literally

* * *

I stare off too often, at places far away, in the sky and ground that don't exist. I stare at people who aren't there, undressing or kneeling in prayer; people mumbling things I know that I can hear, but never remember. These words that spill from faces I don't know are like the ones in dreams; the text you strain to read, some unimaginable truth, which slips away before we take it with us to the surface, awake. It settles by the lids of our eyes, to meet us on another night in another dream, maybe. But still, I remember the beat.

your life is my pastime

I told you I don't finish stuff often

Sometimes I think that where I am, when my eyes are open, these kinds of words run backwards, or not at all. But still, a beat is a beat, by which we dance regardless of its direction. The words of books in dreams always mean more than what they seem, when what they seem are nothing in the light of day, awake; it is the feeling of certainty that satisfies the solar plexus, trickles up toward the tongue, vibrating in the teeth. You hear the pitter patter and the rat tat tatter, and you know you're in the presence of something, but you couldn't say exactly what.

* * *

I miss you more than you think

So often I find myself wishing

you never became such a cunt

Because what you are now,

is harder to swallow

And I know that you're still human

because you walk and breathe, like me

But you try, with a bitch stick and some Prada glasses

to hide it

I know they're real,

the price tag says so

but you aren't anymore

And maybe it was I never really knew you

maybe we were never friends

Honestly, I can't remember anymore

but like so much of my past

you're nothing more than the bitter aftermath

of what, at some point tasted sweet

So now you understand

why I can't help but spit

a comment, or something

this rant started as a comment

and became something more

more than thirty days of silence, anyway

so it found its way here instead

were it not for this schedule

concepts of time might be

entirely lost to me

for you see, even now

I've no idea what day it might be

well, is

it might be any of the seven

I suppose it some sort of training

for the inevitable

or just the gradual onset of

either way, I don't mind

forgetting yesterday

Were I to imagine my soul

to have hands of some sort,

and assuming those hands had fingers,

surely they would know

the texture of warm cynicism,

soft, then fluid

falling to my feet

I imagine it hard

and requiring something like heat,

an agent of cause,

to be melted and done away with

many a times, I've forgotten where I was

and have opened my eyes

to see where I am

you can never be lost, you know

though the world may lose you

for all that is, is you

and where it is, is you

what's sad is you can't help it

not run or tiptoe

past the peas and carrots

not hide behind the gravy

I'm sorry, but I've forgotten where I was

That said, whatever it may have been,

congratulations on your publication (:

I can think of no one more deserving, nor whose words

hold more relevance than yours

and I wish I could think of a more suitable word

than relevance

like frost

or spit

or candlelight and little soldiers on a screen,

marching side by side

like Mickey Mouse in black and white

oh dear,

I'm sure my measly twenty followers

have all heard of Hannah Miet

(I can't help but use her full name;

something like how you can't help but say

Morgan Freeman, and not just Morgan)

But for those of you who haven't, or who,

by some spin of Fortune's hypothetical wheel,

have found yourself here,

well, do yourself a favour..

where was I?