October 2014 Second Half
iPhones: French tests: a Funeral: Boston:
A Haunted House;
i mark time.
oh, i mark time alright. i
mark it daily.
foggy and out of time.
foggy sleep, poots waits patiently
for any emotion to resurrect itself.
no manner of java is working expediently enough.
slowly, thoughts begin to dart.
things take longer; as days move; time,
as we know, warps itself around our lives,
our experiences, and as we watch it grow and
shrink. so we must reap and sow around it
not expecting to bend it according to our wants
yes, we must expect to change; even though i am
not sure we have.
fighting for your life.
blasting through ups and downs,
waking, gently, rolling, over.
stillness is forced if you are me:
stop. drop. roll.
slap it in the face - painfully
searching for the truth - and - i'm really sorry
for caring - but i do.
very few people know i'm here. i
actually like it that way. it's quiet. i can
whisper. to myself that is.
i can talk about me: i can talk
about you: i can talk about her: she's not here
i'm not about that bass, i'm not
about loud although i scream my beliefs at the top
of my lungs
at every chance i get.
there is nothing clear, the rules
and regulations are not written down.
they don't notice how much i get
done, they don't know that i don't watch TV,
that my brain never stops.
it's not a war but sometimes it
feels like one.
this is my
morning: every morning: MY morning.
thick dripped espresso on the right: some manner of
rodent scurrying in proximity:
semi-dark world painting the space above the trees
and neurons searching for synapses that it used to
and some manner of physical ailment, today, all
manners, from the neck ganglia
all the way to the knobby knees.
it is precious to me nonetheless, more precious than
a any stone,
fleeting and rare in spite of it happening daily,
and flawed on most days
like a diamond in the rough.
turn around and you see
death: it's in front of you, it's in the mirror, each
wrinkle and sagging skin,
welcoming you to the end.
would i have noticed these if i would not have changed
and what would we do without
the circle of life; i am roughly the age she will be
when i die.
and Glen Campbell lived and
sung in a privileged time; as he sung about wives (not
with his Taylor guitars.
those wives grew from girls who turned around and had
'babes of their own'
in an idyllic time, using
idyllic words, spending money on idyllic
fabrics, in a time when people had time;
and not iPhones.
the rest of October is in this corrupt file over
the mEp ... aka my Electronic
pen . . . the 2014 edition
...and all of the contents therein
are copyright Poot's
1996, 1997, 1998, 1999, 2000,
2001, 2002, 2003, 2004, 2005, 2006,
2009, 2010, 2011, 2012 and 2013 and
ALOT of years! I GUESS I'M GETTING OLD....
photography original unless otherwise credited.