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?

Mr. Darcy, you make me blush

You say that I am nothing, not more than a globule of particles, and that one day this grouping will dissipate, and I will fall apart to nothing

I fancy myself a moment, with eyes tight to better my sense of nothing, as a something without hands, or even the words with which I dance, a sort of something without anything, and I wonder where I might go as a thought alone

You say it is amusing, that should I ever lose myself, I would fret over where to go, and not something of more consequence. You say, anyway, that I will never be a thought alone

I smile, that you imagine me troubled, suppose me useless in the case of my being nothing, and take comfort in your protective nature, then consider what might be of more consequence to you than where, but do not inquire still. Instead, I ask if you would humor me, "Pray, tell me where I might go, should you ever be some sort of nothing, so that perhaps I may meet you there?"

You claim it unlikely, waving your open palm across the sky, with grace in place of evidence, that you will ever be a thought alone, "my where is never still, therefore an answer set in words is something very much impossible"

"It is better this way, " I manage to catch my own smile without your taking notice, "as an answer set in words entails far less labour than that in stone, " and content with my own wit, ask for a second time, so as to be sure your focus has not slipped, "where?"

This second inquiry brings to you such a wave of delight, as I suspect your intentions were to raise anticipation, and perhaps leave me curious as to your mysteries, that your face, your mouth so wide as to show every tooth, betrays the romance in your eyes.

When I return your smile, you take my hand,

"You are my where, and as I will always be, even as a sort of bodiless nothing, by your side, you will never be a thought alone"

bits and pieces

i dreamt that the penguin had great aim

at a party on a boat of some sort

and we made friends, but they died

because the penguin had great aim

he threw ice like an angry pro

from a big, flashy board on the wall

like a game

and the targets sat in seats

like a game-show audience

i made sure we wouldn't get hit

but we passed the bar without getting drinks

too many times

at one point, we found our ways to the deck

and pudgy was there

but not roxy

i dreamt that izzie fell overboard

and the penguin got her back

because she belonged to him

she came in from the wild waters

with frosted fur

pudgy was fine

and roxy still wasn't there

i remember walking a staircase,

often or just once

with great weight in our stride

i remember getting home

to a different place

but it was just as comforting

the rest is blurry

walking the precipice

It is healthy to suggest balance, no lean to one side. This is a rational approach to the exploration of the self; experiencing a middle ground, the best of both worlds.

On a more personal note, should you choose to lean, risk slipping, sliding down the teeter end of the totter, you will be made stronger. You will learn to bend your knees, keep your balance; spend days awake, nights awake, until you may walk the precipice.

And think, what a great new world it will be, to see it on it's side

approx. 6300 nights

Remnants of what was, burning images and odors and sensations,

long forgotten amongst what is, and what might be

it's what we label memories, and justify as experience
Yes, tomorrow is a new day

but only if I fall asleep