everything is arbitrary. we novelists survive on chance encounters and sad books. I move like a stray cat between library bookshelves and keep my head down. no I am not a poet by choice. no I don't like being one. I don't like bleeding. it hurts and so does writing sometimes. sometimes writing hurts less than usual. fate is still pale and thin and twisty, like the tentative whorls of a mushroom's root system. I'm still like a stray cat, nosing around libraries and parks. I'm still hungry. this book still doesn't make sense. I don't feel like I learned much. mostly I feel tired, like the tiredness is pulling down into the pillow. maybe I should sleep. maybe I shouldn't.

And just like that,
You're gone.

Close your eyes and jump.
Flying and falling are twins
when ground is absent.

someone once told me people do their best dreaming while they're asleep.

i don't buy it.

on the contrary,
i think people do their best dreaming whilst awake.

that's when they're the most tangible,
and are more easily remembered,
or acted upon.

take action!
stand up, don't wallow in self pity and hopelessness.

don't you want to taste achievement on your tongue and feel accomplishment swell inside your chest?

you want something?

then get up and go get it!
no one's holding you back.

do your best dreaming when you're awake.

Half-***, half-wit, half-empty, half-over, half-life.
I always come in halves,
holes

cigarette, puff-puff-pass to the wind in solitary solicitation on the balcony,
half-*** smile.
I should like to never rise again.

I think I sleep to die.

I can endure
Chill my way out
Of anything.
But what did Buddha do
About others' suffering?
They infect me.
I wish I could help.
Seems rude for me
To be so content
Over here
With whatever.