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?

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

if only the season could change such a thing

the winter's dry, and dreary; she's cold and full of
death

but
somehow, when the summer dawns, I'll instantly forget
the mounds of snow, the body count, the anger in
these walls

because outside,
beneath the sun, I'll smile, and forget it all

running blind

my words are lazy and unreliable, my eyes heavy

I can't trust my tongue

and even in the fog
these thoughts refuse to slow
running blindly, they collide

scratching and peeling

we scratch at the surface

with words and tears and smiles

and wish it was so easy

as to cut deep into our gut

and watch in front of us, our soul

pool at our feet

we wish not to be alone

to have someone

to want to cut as well

this is the dream of lovers

and the catalyst of fighters

to have someone

who wants to cut you back

an eager crawl becomes a walk

"From around the age of six, I had the habit of sketching from life. I became an artist, and from fifty on began producing works that won some reputation, but nothing I did before the age of seventy was worthy of attention. At seventy-three, I began to grasp the structures of birds and beasts, insects and fish, and of the way plants grow. If I go on trying, I will surely understand them still better by the time I am eighty-six, so that by ninety I will have penetrated to their essential nature. At one hundred, I may well have a positively divine understanding of them, while at one hundred and thirty, forty, or more I will have reached the stage where every dot and every stroke I paint will be alive" - Katsushika Hokusai

Now, I cannot give you anything of value

for life beyond this remains beyond me

so I cry, as I am no more than

a child playing with words

and crawl toward the years ahead

an eager crawl turns to a walk,

which soon becomes a run

and eventually I'm sprinting

now I ask you, what will happen

when I've left my breath behind

and I find that I would rather know of nothing

maybe in my head, maybe

we'll meet under the mattress, you and i, not in love
you'll tell me that you need me, that i'm not supposed to be here
and i'll believe you, but only if you take me with you

we'll meet under the mattress, you and i

to draw plans of revolution, for another planet

not that here is lost, not a cause

just a place i'm not supposed to be

what i feel is like a butterfly in someone else's stomach like i've waited a whole lifetime, only longer, maybe two
and the worst part is, i don't know for what

i could see the way you look at me, in my head
like the way i'd look at you, if i'd ever seen your face
but it's nothing like love, the way i need you

you are nothing, not a man

though, perhaps you were, once

i could paint a picture, if i'd ever seen your face

we met once, not in person, in a dream i think

i was laying down, at least

i remember, you came in on a breath,

and right then, i could have lived forever

but you wouldn't let me say your name