hoping no one comes here
i pen a word or two.
summer unfolds out of doors
i am impervious to its sweet breath
deep inhales of a sleeping man
signal life at least
the bottles pile up
with pink and orange pills
guinea pigs rustle through unread news;
water rustles through overhead pipes;
i often wonder if she is alive or fallen;
i should be chronicling things which drain me;
but i side-step; temporary versions of myself
are lost in him...and he is lost inside
as i watch.
sleeping turned to staring turned to thinking
turned to extra dosages;
on my window.
by seven-oh-five i have my own thoughts.
it's rare indeed.
fish water trickles through a filter as music
trickles through my mouth
as a Swiss man sleeps. and sleeps. and sleeps.
i wonder how long he will sleep.
the morning after. the radiators heat.
i dreamed cause you dreamed, and i sat with my
favorite teachers in the park.
i lay back my back in an Ikean chair, fishy
ticklings to my right;
a bag of walnuts half gone and a very large
credit card bill sits unopened, to my left.
how many times have i overturned that divorce
how many drinks shouldn't you have had
i still count
i still remember
what you hid from me
you were also hiding from yourself
you are still, hiding from yourself. i'm quite
the real question is,
that was a waste of
and here, on a platter,
woke shocked, pumping caffeine through tense
as the fish tank leaks.
the INFPs never sleep: they also hate memes :
they are an anomaly :
a million coffees won't wake me now
from this stupor of stupid;
how dare you, do this to me, you disorganized
how dare you.
woke to softly falling
was it a dream for a moment i wasn't
and after remembering how much time i
used to spend shopping for clothes
and realizing i was uncomfortable
because nothing ever fits me,
i dreamed about a shop with cotton
things no one else had
and a beautiful blouse with the right
and brigitte worked there.
then i remembered i had opened the
window to hear the screaming kids in the
wondering if they were mine
causing a rucus
or fighting with the french boy
as an ENTJ would want to do at thirteeen
and a half nearly fourteen;
but i had slept so completely, so
densely, that this moment, and that of
opening the window,
were as though separated by a lifetime;
of which consisted dreams only real in
the former life:
of crisp white cotton spun into
and those friends who are only so
wrapped up in their own lives
then i thought about what to write down
here in my moment of peace
i guess i said everything i had to say
in the nineties
and instead of everyone answering me
during the SaturDay
they replied, 6 fold, before 7 on a
morning again rising.
7:43 am. rise again.
gonna face today with
gonna have to:
people are confused.
listening to Cat Stevens helps life.
so the Swiss man slept til seven and
had a pleasant quiet moment before music
got piped from the kitchen;
what physics are happening now, which
administrative tasks, which papers are
it's the fifth day of this week and the
fifth day i must run for myself;
it's going to be a fighting day on email
stretch a thought to porchfest and
nothing poetic here. move along.
gotta say something.
in the evening. unless 9pm
is not evening.
where did all my formalities go; one
by one they have gone wayside;
whether in writing; in parables at the
bottom of these pages;
or in the notepads i used to carry around;
difficult movies bring out
different things in different people;
at 6AM the morning after the movie i wrote
mEp thoughts in a place in between and
penned long hand;
i dictated them to myself at 8:56 pm.
following the movie i had flashes. flashes
of brief and unbridled hope and even of
but briefly and fleetingly and maybe they
maybe 7:30 will be jogging time
and maybe i will jog 5 times this week
and i really don't hate my job;
what i hate is that i don't really have a
proper job to hate.
as i age, i get worse haircuts
my own words comfort me, as i slip back in time,
lurking in on my previous self
it's always good to look back at who you were
even if who you were was happier
beautiful movies leading to
although this time, i was sorting through
i woke to a different face than expected,
so deep was the realm of my dream
constantly readjusting my happiness
i used to think it was all me
rooted in me
propelled by me.
and now, i know it is not.
May 01 2016
who gets to be a real influence in the world
typing here or there is paperless either way
and soulless too.
if i place things in context with a ticking clock
and shortly a snoring man
who reminds me to write here
we've both a heavy head and over and over again this
darting guinea pigs, live in our hall,
it's not mothers day sunday and this is a good thing
there's a hammer in my head that tells me what i
it strikes and strikes and strikes out my words
again it struck that thought out;
what is the point and what is the point