{ eating your words. until the technicolor yawn. }

it is the point in the evening where I find myself. seeking out the solitary place where they won't find me, and if they did, it would be important and good. a soft good. like when a dog stays put. or when a small child writes a letter correctly for the first time. old voices somehow sound like sad time gone by, which isn't to say the times were sad. good things happened, but the memories sag like tired breasts. and it feels like the voices shouldn't exist anymore. as though they had been a dream. and so often, this is how I feel in my existence; each present moment echos like a memory. there are many songs to play through bombastic speakers pounding out the sweet sound of living, very intense as I stand in slow motion, underwater, breathing in eighteen different cigarettes at once. I need oxygen. people try to dance, but think too hard about it. faces become the furnishings of my memories. conversations to forget. sometimes I will recall them later for no real reason; then wonder how much space bad conversation takes up in my brain. my heart beats in these moments, like the drumming before the guns are fired. and I crave substance. no bread beats at the door of this voluptuous life, no not really. it's just a bleak reminder of a refreshment that existed at the beginning of an awareness. we can't relive it, no not ever. anymore, it doesn't exist. anymore, I am far from it. and the recreation is so adulterated and disappointing, I want to forget completely. I do believe that this may be the last of these days. I knew it was coming. it relieves my future memories and calms my present nerves. I sit alone regardless. I always sit alone for now. something smells like a past time I cannot place. maybe in a bed. in a trailer park perhaps. like someone's body. the memory is mine, but it's near impossible to place where it derived. whatever it was, is long gone by now.


( + )


the unidentified gratitude of days.
a fool sometimes sits outside
embarking on specific delinquent thought patterns
sparked by un-constituted feelings of loss
allowing the presumed bad deck
of dirty cards
to be taken in gusts gradually.
timely winds eat them up
one by one or in handfulls
while the witness stares,
a silent plea bleaches the teeth.
and frustration sometimes wells up
in the eyes
as they dance unaffected
down red brick roads

passively watching
desiring control
that fool waits for their absence
and does nothing.

the day dreams dance away
like fleeting physical attractions
they may as well be leaves
let's allow them to be leaves
because in nature
life always comes back around
after a season.
let's pretend they are the leaves.

( = )

these I wrote a while ago. I am supposed to be in a meeting. but I got all distracted writing stuff... it's only a meeting for the school auction. they won't miss me too much. I'm taking a writing class through church. it is good. I enjoy it. I want an adventure... three day weekend. who's comin'?