Our workday selves are here.
In collared shirts and typing on a desktop.
Our emotional selves standing nearby.
Silent, carbon see-through copy.
I pause from the spreadsheet
And remember seeing her on an ad yesterday.

The me, standing silent next to me
Lets out a groaning scream
Like someone lost in the woods hysterically
Trying to put a new tire on a truck.
About to break into sobs from the helplessness.
Shrill and extended the scream
Makes the air and the walls and the computer screen
Rattle like they're being throttled.

I stop typing and stare blankly at a
Paint chip on the wall.
Floating on my back in the waves of the
Screams filling the silent room.

"Eh." I shake my head.
And go back to the spreadsheet
As the screams go on
Full force
Without me noticing.

Surfing channels on your car radio,
And there’s a great song covered by static.
A few words to know what it is, but oh well.

I closed the book on her a few years ago,
But at dinner yesterday I could almost hear it.
It breaks me like glass every time.

Writing is just like *****.
It spills out.
Until it doesn't.
It's been years since I wrote anything
That I cared about.
And even this feels fake.
Forced.
Yeah it's late, and I'm drinking, and sitting in the same room I
Used to.
But its a different life now.
Like remembering thunderstorms I watched as a
Kid, I beg the skies to rip open again.
Then maybe,
What I write will feel like its real again.
And I can stop waiting for a reason.
And live in the vertigo of the retching and
Writing.
How I want to be sick again.
To live again.

Remembering a ghost.
A shadow waits in a room now.
While the hollow body walks.
But the body and the shadow,
Remember a ghost they'd rather be.
He died and they're the leftovers.
That ghost really lived.

And he was so powerful.
That after his death.
Past time,
After all the comings and goings
Of a million imagined heavens.
Into the deep black frothing at the sides with stars.
They would scream his name.
And he was so powerful.
The most that had ever lived as we could understand it.
But, the scream never made a sound.
Against it, it found the rushing of a roar.
The deaf wave of a quintillion and many more.
Souls deafening any single brightness.
It was only what it was at the time.
And it was all of what it was.
There is the matter and the motion.
The matter, didn't matter.
That it moves is important.
That a half dozen billion other carbon made,
Things are moving with it matters.
To look at any one.
Is meaningless.
To look at any moment.
Is meaningless.
It is the rise and fall,
The roar of millions across the thousands of years,
Becomes the lapping of waves.
From incoherent screams,
To the soft speech of a force.

We don't.
"I don't write to be understood."
Some author or other said once.
Maybe. I want a creative answer.
Write up a Rorschach test.
And hold it up waving until someone sees,
Something worth having.
"Oh that must be...
I understand."
I don't.
But someone does.
That's a start.

Vertigo. Maybe it's like that.

Like.
going blind.
Like
from that science show
Where a man said he couldn't see,
But walked down a hallway,
With obstacles.

Where. You.
Keep doing whatever you're supposed
To be doing.

But your eyes.
Your real eyes.
That ***** of the intellect.
Slipped right out of your head
Down a curvy,
Sticky, bumpy metal slide.
And he isn't having a good time of it.

I don't think he planned to.
It's just so hard in there.
And you have him running around
So much.
Lately.

And you're sick. But you're fine.

You turn the tap and there it goes.
You hide in this, and where do you go?
I can put together a life.
I can make a hell of a pitch.
And Lie Lie Lie
on a resume.
To a board.
In a suit.
I can lie and not even try.
But what is it?
A lie until you find the right thing?
                                   the right thing?
What's that?
Is it like The One?
Where songs start, "making sense?"
     "Oh you'll know it when-"
                                                     -
      "Make your hobby into your job-"
                                                                    -
     "If you love what you do you'll never
      work a day in
                          your
                          life."
But let me work. Maybe.
Let me do my thing that I'm supposed to,
                                            only I can do,
And let it just be done.
Is it so much to ask?
Like a guy in a suit goes into the office,
And clicks away at keyboards.
And clicks away at pens in meetings.
And clicks away
An click away the day?

And all day he wants to go home.

Because home is better.
             We ALL know that.
He's a working man.
              We ALL know that.
He should want to go home!
              We ALL know that.
               we all want to go home too.

He checked in, and did all the work he was
supposed to do. So go home you're done.
You did your thing.
You were built for it.
You reached it.
                             Take.Some.Time.Man

I want to do it. Whatever I'm here to do.
But I'd like to get it done quickly.
And just, check out.