It's pretty damn human,
It's filled with damn pretty humans.

The roses bloom every Spring,
though they look more beautiful
dressed in snow.
My rose is a sweet pale lady
taking me away from the
seasonal blueness of my history.

Absence of ambition
dancing with the
presence of boredom.
I'm nothing and I'm nowhere.

In the fall--
No. In the Autumn--
You won't need to follow me.
We're headed for the same destination.
(It's forever unknown.)
I'll see you there.

Don't chase after the wild things,
for they run the fastest.

I have tamed him,
and though we advance
at different paces,
we learn from the places
we both have been
in the different places
of our life.
We are tamed to see
both sides of a knife,
and he has tamed me to
never be blamed for
strife caused by the
soft side of the knife.
We've been tamed to aim
for both sides of life.

Do you feel a somethin' coming on?
Something upbeat?
Why don't I feel sorry for anyone?
Play them. They're cool.
I'm feeling something upbeat.
In this land of white, packaging peanuts
and animals frolicking in the static.
All their blood cells have a pace.
One I wish I had.
Because in this place all there is  is
politics and religion and robots.
How can you love those things and
have that vision of love and
everyone holding hands?
I love the ugly and uncomfortable.
Not the people, but the feelings.

Silent smart remarks
reverting back to the familiar.
Things are sometimes more
difficult than they should be.
People don't know what
they're talking about.
They also don't know what
I am talking about.
Sometimes I don't want
to sleep, but I don't
want to leave either.
I'm afraid of the nightmares,
but I'm scared of thoughts too.

Stop.
That's fine.
That's fine but you don't need to talk right now.
Don't you want to hear other people's thoughts?

When tomorrow can start whenever
you want it to,
it's the time to be free.
While the clocks stop ticking,
related things do their jobs
and go to work,
to keep the current rolling.
"I heard the captain say"
to just keep going.
The waves will pick the pieces up
and twist them all around.
Take non-existing moments
and organize them
because tomorrow can start
whenever I want it to.

I'm awfully tired
of waking up in the morning
with misconceptions about the sun
being on my side.
It's over my head.
I'm not awake
and it's not morning.

I'm perpetually in mourning and
living at the wakes of the deceased.
The sun is only over my head,
to remind me that I only see darkness
at the brightest time of day.

I find mystery in the silence.
It's an intelligence so complex,
that it's empty because it's
seeing all the flashbacks of its company,
and remembering things it has never experienced.
The silence is full of emptiness that is
encompassing those who are searching for a thought.
(The dimwitted ones.)
The silence is an excuse to be silent--
to get away from the screaming that goes on anyway.
I'm listening to the silence and pretending it's something defenseless.
I find security in the silence,
because silence always walks by,
calling for me from far away.
But it always walks away,
fearing that it's a distraction for me to escape towards.
The silence is looking out for me,
and singing to me all the time.

And nobody knows what the hell she's doing
because she's silent and they know that she
never has anything going on inside her head.

It's not to get medicinalized,
It's not about analyzing or string theory or computer programming,
When they're not trying to be funny but you're laughing,
I'm facing you because you're talking and I don't want you to be alone in your head
but I don't want to be in your head with you.
So I'm quiet.
And I'm analyzing in my head something way complicated
when the atmosphere is simple.
I don't dare to speak.
Because I don't know what will come out of my mouth
or if it's true.
I quietly ride the waves
of knowledge and complication and the complex simplicity of the song that's playing.
I blindly ride the waves
and I don't hold my breath when they're over my head.
I quietly sink,
but only in an armchair.
I'm still facing you because you're talking,
but I don't know the topic of the conversation
because I was surfing and
someone is waiting for you to answer their question
and I'm nowhere near the front of the line.

There's no looking back as you're breaking away,
just really nice apathy.
There's no recognition of the distraction
that went somewhere else.
I wanted them all to stay,
but now I just want to move.
It's not recognized that this thing is bothering me.
That part of something else is disvalued.
I don't want to listen to sad music,
but where is my brain going?
Can you do it again?

There are little kids playing around
and I don't know what that is.
They're primal,
but we're all mammals--
touchy and savage.
Primates.
Like characters from a journey.
It's instinctual,
so I'm not really worried.
It's different than what I'm used to.
Walking through a different attic than I'm used to.
But I still have a face and fingers in this evolution.
We're all apes, but there's still a different
australopithecus from Russia or somewhere.
It's Jane, and she's just a little kid.
She moves how she moves and not how she thinks.
She's getting negativity out of her body.
I'm working like little kids
wondering what's under the table.

There's something in the corner coming to life.
There's something in the corner making
less fluid shapes than I am.
I knew the people in the corner were watching
the complication with melancholy carelessness.
I wanted to be seen.
They were meaningful, elegant, and classic.
They don't really care if I care,
but they know that I care.
This bunch of people in the corner carried it well.
Facing back there, I gaze into their post-modern land,
performing and knowing specifically that this is for you.
I pose seductively, a classic cover model.
I'm so pissed that there's no acknowledgement of my gaze.
Stop making me nauseous.
This is manipulation;
not relationship manipulation,
but it's purposely manipulative.
I just didn't do anything.

I'm releasing a magnitude of attention because
we can't always control what we take into our bodies.
We can't control what's struggling internally when
the technology thing is speeding up.
It's contradictory and ruining us.
Steel buildings look like people now,
and are swept away in a moment of stillness.
In that moment you have hands and eyes.
We're free falling in dichotomy and
are hyper-physicalized on the outside.
It's hard to escape while having a phone and
checking the literal on your phone.
I can't abstract my routine.

Moving inspiration away from words and
moving deep impressions of intention.
Discussing first, the closing off at the end.
Becoming closed, then opening out.
The second time around it's visible
throughout your body.
The birds flying by were calming when
I followed you, cutting through
a quietly working stream.
People around just go ahead and
movements go even when
the professor killed himself.
I'm reading his poems and backing down,
experiencing his struggle.

A sunflower grows
"tall and simple".
And so does a cancer
small and simple.
Holes grow larger
around me.
A field of sunflowers
and headstones.
The power of recovery and discovery;
the kick of a pen
during unconscious behavior.
Chatty beats taking control
of the morgue.
Not letting the rivers in--
only the shivers.
Chatty beats taking the liver,
putting it in a living corpse.
Chatty beats opening the door in the clouds.
That's but a bedtime story that's
read to the youth and
told as the truth.
Hypnotize so I can't criticize,
stick my face in the water
and show me the baby otters I loved
from my childhood bedtime stories.
The glories of floating
on my back into a
brand new habitat
filled with sunflowers
"tall and simple"
and holes growing larger
to keep me warm and breathing
under the water.