ideas,
rambling about,
a story, a play,
a novel, an essay,
rants and poems alike,
climbing over each other,
an eternal game of
"King of the Mountain"
for which one gets worked on next,
while the others sleep
in separate bedrooms of
this house that has no doors.
nothing escapes,
but lives here forever,
within the walls of a cluttered mind,
a hoarder's paradise of thoughts and expressions,
just waiting to be emptied,
let loose,
explode upon an unsuspecting world
that may or may not be ready for it.

it's all been written,
i say nothing i haven't said,
only find a different way to say it,
change the voice,
change the metre,
rhyme scheme or no,
but it says the same thing,
like a skip in a record repeating the same words,
will it stop when they sink in?
when the lesson is learned will i be put off this
neverending cycle of repeat?
how would i ever know?

character is good -
interesting takes on regular things,
fascinating inquiry
into what makes a person do anything,
their motivations
and secret desires they tell to nobody but the air.
but what good is character
if you do nothing?
it becomes words without action,
only half a story,
full of dreams but no plot.
would my life make a good read?
would someone say it fascinated them to read my story?

it's a *****,
an *******,
an enemy,
a nightmare -
but only if i am.
what if i tried being nicer?

i hear a cello,
softly playing a soothing note,
long and sustained
in the pre-dawn darkness.
a slow crescendo,
and the note changes from lull to urgency
as a clarinet joins in,
followed by the violin in descant,
solo notes filling the chord,
one by one,
the orchestra joins,
as with the sun it builds to furious rate,
then all at once dropping off,
and the cello sings alone
as the sunlight breaks over the hilltops
and says its good morning to me.

it's tuesday again,
and the clouds are rolling in,
and the boss wants his paperwork,
and the cat left a hairball on my pillow,
and the car's making a funny noise,
and the gas bill is due,
and the trash has to go out,
and my friend cancelled our appointment,
and i want to go on a date or something,
and i didn't get to finish my coffee,
and my ankle hurts,
and today just ***** because there are
a million things wrong with it
and only a few of them are my fault
but i have to deal with them anyway
and why can't i just relax
and get through this day,
go home and have a drink
and sit on the porch watching when the rain finally hits -
and then i see her,
and i know that what she's going through
is so much worse than these petty things,
and she smiles through it.
so i smile, too.
on a tuesday,
as the clouds are rolling in.

i know now why he did it -
dropped me off in a strange city with
all my belongings
on the side of the curb,
with instructions,
"don't forget to write."
and it stung,
even though i knew it was coming.
if i could go back and explain to my younger self,
there are two things i would say:
he hates goodbyes.
he's saying he trusts you.
it would have made a big difference.