Polished golden ivy glimmers and shines light on the travelers eyes. What's to be expected of something that was once believed to be unattainable?

Fragile voices crack - birds sing in the distance - dead flowers slumping somewhere in a vase have long withered after the water has evaporated and the love that left them there has gone forever.

Painted pictures - canvas torn - dusty guitar with broken strings - old newspapers piled by the door and holes in the wall from fits thrown with sobbing tears.

Thoughts gathered through sad and scattered memories - I found your old journal in a box today.

Beloved,

Touched and melting cerebellum switched-
on-lever breastplate activated
senselessly on sight

Be my lover

Along the path of life blood
where day lilies grow and water fowl move slowly with their young ones in tow

Meet me in the willows
where the noise of day ends
where our hearts become one
where silence makes sense

I follow you my teacher - my love

Leaping from the wet diaper at my feet
I follow you because
I'm enslaved to the rhythm your heart beats

My world is too dark, with you I see light
You've brought my heart meaning and
saved me from night

And --

though I glow shadows,
stitching wounds that won't mend
You are the only one I want to be with
from now until.......

                            --- ---
                                              For Audrey

There is nothing poetic about sitting in a dark locker room and crying at work.

There is no redemption in laying on your couch all weekend and watching forensic files.

There is nothing pretty about this place - where suffering means nothing.

ALL CAPITAL LETTERS ARE BETTER THAN LOWER CASE BY ANY MEASURE

Meanwhile:

Gaure... No, that's not right.
Guaranteed lecture representative melee. Corporate court circ-u-i-tous clever levels hand collapse, clasp, clapped, then - framed vainly.

Containers balanced with lost lids stored no/everywhere. Nothing matches like my socks save for the peepholes that allow my big toes the advantage of unmasked acknowledgement.

Pleasure packed and wrapped drugs bundled for international transport and - who wouldn't pray to get away from the homestead where lack of order piles clothing to be walked over?

Saul. Babbittz.
Slight variation of the name Paul - sometimes pronounced
with the
"ah-oolll"
of Raul - to intrigue cashiers and toll booth attendents.

These words seem meaningless and even less interesting than the blank white background each letter invades.

And still I thank the God in my stomach that wakes up every once in a while to capture butterflies before I leave the house so I can turn down the sounds in my head that stir the butterflies to a frenzied mess of tangled neurons and synaptic maladjustment.

My interaction goes something like this:
cashier-"do you have a bonus card?"
me-(holding out the pad of my thumb - serious like lava)
cashier-(looking at me with a confused look)
me- "I thought thumb scans were enacted throughout the states. Sorry about that, I just got used to the thumb scan back home in North Dakota".
cashier- (dumbfounded, slightly annoyed)
me- (chuckling-embarrassed smirk) "you know, like a dystopian tracking system?"
cashier- "uh, not really" (avoiding eye contact, rushed transaction) "freak" (under her breath).

butterflies again
I've never even lived in North Dakota!
Just uncomfortable enough to prove that body heat activated "degree" does not provide 24 hour protection...

Next transaction a day later:
me- (silence)

My life is mismanaged
Try to catch up, think fast
Too slow.

I’m so far behind
I just caught a whiff of your ****
Two years late.

You smile, blink your eyes
And turn away
From the rumination

It’s hard to start something new.
It’s even harder
when your past breathes harder
Than your present.

Is it elegance or ignorance? Subcutaneous subterfuge. Blanketed and varying slightly, insolvent and limited. Bourne amidst a social caste of wealth or not for you.

The reigning victors make the rules. Life is a habit, not a reflex. To learn I must clear my mind of unnecessary clutter and make order within the hoard.

Ghost faction
Batten down the hatches
Four leaves turn green at different degrees
She never loved you
She never will
Turn me on
I’ve been off
Nothing so lapsed
As the life i live daily
Met my fate
Eternal hate
Morbid drippings of a forecast less whimsy
I can’t i can’t
It seems to be over now
Always been under
Before forlorn
Siamese request
Amble drapery left shadows cast
Out back forefront
**** thoughts overgrown
Cheap threat within the palm
Leaflet drawn upon
I’ll use the napkins
Profound misplacement word cued
Up
Left alone
Haunted home

The draw of your body deprived me of my will and better judgment. Your eyes and ambivalence called me back two days and $ 280 later.

You weren't happy when I met you at first and I realized a pain in your heart and head that wanted to work its way out in words/gestures that were superficially meaningless but painfully loud to anyone with nothing to gain.

And I stood slouching with a childlike nervousness and feigned ignorance to your world that was unspoken yet obviously evident despite the fog of compulsion draped over my awareness.

I wanted what you were given. My behavior was already condemned the minute I picked up the phone to dial your number. I might as well finish the act so that I can continue beating my head against the wall to finally resemble the dark mass of human mess I strive so vigilantly to become.

You gave in with all my effort and the only thing I could say was that I'm sorry for taking advantage of the situation "I hope you have a good day".

It's essentially the same science that religion refers to as God.
What is left then? What will save humanity from itself?
Thought is dangerous when left to its own creation. Some are safer following instructions. Life is much easier when we have someone or something to blame. Without that we find no "right" or "wrong" that fits the world universally. So... If it isn't the fault of this or that, it may be a fault of my own.
Now, there is no savior to pick your inequities above the rest. It's up to you.

Can you live without self-hatred? Is it possible to love yourself enough to be worthy? Can you trust yourself with the outcome of your own life?

Overtime and overnight my outlook changes drastically and manifests my inner restlessness.

Nothing seems okay.
You don't see the meaning in my words, well,
I hear you loud and clear.

Excuse me for giving a voice to the voiceless.

The message I receive:

If we are to be heard, let your voice fall into silence.

So it does.

They say I'm too old to carry on this way and I agree. I wish I had the grace to look content with life I waste.

I'm tempted early to banish recognition. How is it any different than the seasons with organically loose boundaries that allow categorization and names to differentiate?

I don't see anything so impressive about the accomplishments of the recognized few who feed off momentum and the short attention span of the masses.

"Money ain't a thing" In this world we can't afford understanding.

I know - that I don't know **** and that my path to enjoying life is exploitative to others elsewhere.

That's why I sit in old man Charles' backyard. He doesn't see well so I can use the space to gather twigs to stick together with homemade glue made from *****.

Nothing brand new.
Instead, my mind creates the same day heavy chest weight. I'm tired. So are you. I hide away before mine shines through. You have friends with whom you share your plight. I keep none. I desire connection. I run away, walking slowly to bury my mood in solitude.

Hear these words - although its unlikely that you will even read.  This is all I have to show for my time spent alone.

Most likely brighter than the moment when trees divide light beams between branches and leaves.

Sea foam mantra chant:
     Like an old song
     Like an old song
     Bring back what I've lost

I forget how to love by the evening.

Love paralyzes me in the morning when I awake.

I sent you
A text

And immediately
Imagined

The screen Of.
Your phone in.

The reflection of
your bright
beautiful eyes.

Replicated "t" square, heated and manipulated to match a hand drawn schematic, eye-balled and transferred to a soiled napkin two days prior.

Recovery spent melee inspired by whispered breath. Kin to wind, multi- colored marshmallows, or hard candies that have been rewrapped quickly and shuffled to the bottom of the bag.

Periscope ala multi-limbed, e.g. tentacular. Rain spun abundant large geometric insect eyes radiating opalescent transit; here and there, over or under, stop and go, when = then, two - days - life - end.

Glowing hand, darkest white light in a vacant space. All secrets hidden with trust, imagination, and neglect; recalling memories for those who live to forget. Like a hunger fed plentifully followed by a playful belch aloud for honor and comfort. Later, the indulgence calls and abdominal gases produce an acidic truth that burns the memory back into awareness.

Flush it away now! Get rid of it quickly. There is no time to respect the whole past, only that which allows performance to continue uninterrupted.

Tuck those memories away deeper this time; the ***** will drown you before it drowns them. Laying around and crying aloud won't pay the bills; if nothing else remember, a good American is a good consumer and a good consumer never wastes time getting to know themselves  when the alternative is television.

A day to take shape and quite possibly escape the self-hatred that permeates my cellular structure.

Is it true?  Will my cellular make-up be completely renewed within 7 years?  Each cell that makes me up now will give way to a new wave of cells garnering total transformation.

I used to answer questions like this because I thought I could answer anything - I still can but I feel like a phony who speaks just to be heard.

I used to think I knew a lot. Now I recognize that I don't know a *******, let alone **** collectively. Ask me, I might answer. Beware of the prefaced statement: " all views are highly subjective

and

most likely to change dramatically before and after they are forgotten".

If and then.  I continue to seek a logical answer to the reason why I don't know anything - but...

Self-hatred, discontent, fear, and ******' Fruity Pebbles. Cocoa Pebbles are good - but lacking the crunchy sweetness of the good ole fruitay pebblays.

Let the funk squadron play...


NOW !

-----------------------------
Making order of a ****** mass, recovered testicles and shards of bone are filtered through trembling hands alongside the unseen vacancy standing silently - waiting blank and patient. A doctor's notes blown about by force, scatter and lift through the air peacefully moved by music and pain. The air is not thick, it is dry and light. You must suffer to get here but no one believes here is a place to be.

Just ask your neighbor or your bosses friends. These ones have gotten lost within the lies that split the darkness from truth to be hung up in a viewing room for loose bottles of beer with friends Sunday afternoon trying to drown the silent tapping of panic. They won't believe you because what you describe harkens to ghosts and legend.

Be very aware.

We are normal, but I guess the stars don't suppose with a consciousness as thin as ours that they are supposed to be anything else but what they seem to be. In my mind is not our universe but it is mine within that which we share simultaneously - some points are marked out by now, then, and who knows when.

I want to be confident within this mystery and walk amidst the rest with a strong sense of myself or at least secure enough to walk strongly fragmented with acceptance.

I invite you all.

Not you though.

The one inside you.

The one without a body.

Remind me that our experience is not limited to these skin and bones.

Continued questioning of the unlovable hatred; my life's work is appropriately - indelible. These words are testimony to the conflict between who I am and who I wish I could be---

But...  my understanding of infinite possibility seems to end while considering the black and white world that I create.

This dulling of experience is like the smudged remains of my most interesting work scrawled in pencil between the pages of old notebooks and scraps of paper.

I will chisel my own tombstone with a crayon frozen in dry ice.

My wings are healing now.
It's been a long sad time for brittle dinosaur bones. I can barely recall the names that ran me through with deceit and malice. I'm feeling content to be average, or something else altogether - more of an outlier really.

It's okay.

I'm okay today.

I like to talk **** when I write - so
-
Astro management
Secure the banished talisman
Martyrdom and ice cream
Melt of the establishment.

What's that? You don't recognize this as a style in your text book?
Doesn't fit inside your box, eh?

It's poetry **** face!

I'm not writing for a grade. This isn't meant to fit anywhere other than outside of my head.

Can't relate to me?

Chances are you've fit in with the normalcy of manufactured lies - I admire your blissful ignorance.

Go ahead and cite your work. I do this to get relief from the APA format.

What's it feel like for someone who ***** at living?

Keep reading, you're not alone.

I'm still confused
After all this time
I research what makes the
most of you tick.
I can write you down in theory
And predict your stale remarks before you
Sit down for your salad

I am the obscure outline that flashes
through your foggy windshield on a rainy night
You can't predict anything about me,
except maybe an outcome of loneliness -
but-
I know better
and that's too far a distraction
away from your comfort.

Do you feel confused/sympathetic/annoyed
when I'm in front of you?
I'm a dark place where fear is swallowed down
To get away and find happy things
forget me just as easy as it is to ignore me.

I still don't understand
You get 100 and some odd number
Here is my heart
What's it worth to you
1or2. A third one, two weeks later.

Maybe I should embrace your imperfection
Then
You might accept mine.

I still honor 1, 2, and 3
for having the insight to notice me
Throughout your daily intake of dull debris.

Setting: Black and white landscape, grayscale populace. Dull droning frequency progressively inaudible, machine type quartz operated movement from birds eye view.                •••••••• READ•THE•MESSAGE••••••••

Way -  too - much.

You're not spending enough.
You need a car like this.
You don't look like them.

Next Setting: The brain. Synapses and dendrites/stalactites and stalagmites.

••••••••IN•ANOTHER•PLACE••••••••

Reading angels write hymns of summer sight, snowflake moonlight; life to no end, broken door still shut with moist eyes and dry lips. Sing to me from fallen skies and invade my prison mind.

Fever clutch shadow craving collapsed oxygen bandages soaked red with blood and organized by decomposition rate.

Capsized ship sunk mentality, leveled from the tarnished mirror. Scoop hand down for packaging cassette tapes neatly. No kneel working while busy foraging the soft shore for answers to the newer questions yesterday. Grains and globular surface melting molten and traveling through the path of least resistance.

••••••••OLD•NEWS•NEW•ESCAPE••••••••

Commence the countdown!

I breathe your breath
From the darkness
To the light.

I'm sunk in solitude
But for a picture
That has curled and creased
Underneath the junk in the drawer

Life's little mystery
The path and who's aligned
Meet me elsewhere
Think of me
From out there
Looking solemnly
Toward what's in
And outside of
My Pinhole Universe

Handled in a manner if care. Legions rising and falling with the tides. A mean and standard deviation of 0.07% calculated for access to the colored butterfly bones.

No longer allowed access to greater plains, the majestic overview became a barren landscape. Gravity became non-existent and the field  collapsed into the skies every night until it no longer resembled itself.

In memory, the sad clown traded in his wig for a hat, his nose for a map, and his shoes for boots. He kept the jacket as a reminder. Greater laws existed that were at once unknown/unseen. The laughter he heard no longer included him, instead it was generated by the sorry figure he had become.

Grim outlook and cave outreach for shelter needed. This man walked among the many backdrops in a dogged manner hanging on to the last bit of survival instinct that remained.

Reach farther,
She isn't totally repulsed
by your bald sweaty head
and Sensitive blotchy skin.

May as well hide my face
and starve this desire

You deserve more than my
infantile objectification
I've coveted your beauty,
packed your image away
within this place in my mind.

I'm not the type to let my blood
Drip on others, in fact
I pay special mind to ensure
The poison stays inside.

When you ignore me
it hurts and I lose footing.

You asked to come with me
to get coffee
Of course you can - always.

I'm too ashamed to tell you
how I feel
And how hearing your voice
fills me with excitement and
Anticipation.

Cheers to you
and the longing
In my heart

By force and energy, changes are made and maintained.

Years go by and I contradict what I know with my actions.

My change purse is light. My value - though never high - continuously sinks lower and lower.

I wanna go with the flow but the flow just won't take me along.

I'm a grown man thrashing within shallow waters. I've tried to cauterize my wounds from my body but my pants are weighed down with **** from the past like a baby with diapers.

I don't want to make living this life all about myself.  
Too late!

Everything and nothing mean everything and nothing at all.

I need a friend to get high with.  

I need a friend to cry with when crying is all I can do.

Master of inaction complete with heightened self inventory, daily beatings, and advanced proclivity.

Machine boots stuck in the mud and walking slowly. Tough trudged - trotting wounds toddling septicity and self inflicted brain damage with battery acid.

Living roach life - keep self image commensurate with meeting low expectations consistently.

Gradually melted down. That which overflows cools outside the cast. A shrunken face with blunt features reveals a repulsive bulk of damaged mass when the light hits it just right.

Just like so far lost
let in from the outside
remain the outsider
pushed back and forth,
then out
           - again.

Fractal force[d] deeper inside this time,
bone endures and strengthens solitude structurally.
Somewhere within the sponge bone
light emits through its holes in a dark orange hue.
Proof of occupancy? Not likely.
The sign of a visitor - a miner.
An altar carved into the wall, surrounded by shadow and dim orange light, calling out to saddening self-hatred and naked personality displacement.

So cunning, so precise - a rapid cycling of self-doubt, confusion, and contempt. It's there to push me when I know better. It wakes me up when I need sleep. It breaks my will when I need hope.
The silent guide that drags me weeping...
an ancient force that makes me bleed.

Welcomed warmly and befriended willingly.
Bitter now, broken heart, reality clipped winged innocence.
Gather up the feathers and continue forward please.
No time to process this mess yet.

Now over emaciated files kept locked away.
Like a second hand gold claim - gold now gone.

Still...
I dig and dig and dig, more...
****** hands and throat sore
Crying deep with sounds like banshees
blood and tears combine in thick and dusty pillows of pain
cemented by the paste these two create.
What I've buried is so elusive, self-destructing, and sad.

Whats left is not worth the trouble: I was aware when I buried it.

But still...

I visit past traumas like old friends.
When I am especially dark, I unearth the remains and dust them gently, wrap in red cloth, and spend time in search of a lesson learned.
I've been told this is part of my gift to share but I hide it like sickness; I bump into everything I need and quickly scurry away.

Can I honor the past and  let it lay?
The pain I covet only serves to perpetuate old stories and the isolation only softens my brain to social interaction.  

The enemy I've chosen is always present but never within my reach.

Shed light beam - scattered amidst shadowing December and shallow compliment of gathered mass.

Bright moonlight stills the whispering vapors where you once left beaten sneakers, football cards, and smelly socks.

This view from there where you once played your guitar; the hole in the screen remains where filtered smoke poured out the window from the bubbling drag of natures antiquity.

Science was only existent in an ancient alchemy.

Laughter came easiest while dreams remained bountiful and attainably tucked in the future projects folder before collecting thick layers of dust beneath well wishing and inaction; just feed now for the annoying perpetual adolescence that holds me down with regret.

Weighty concerns finally crept up slow and sneakily like a strong dose  of LSD on a
school night.

Laughter becomes tears. This weight is mine and can only be carried by me. Why do those that I sought for direction seem so lost? Who am I if not the one who walked in the room?

No one but me. Only I can answer that. The answer comes and goes. Heartbreak can shatter an ego like nothing else.
I still love you all.
Thank you.
Forgive me.

As a testament
A documented file of bones.
A sight appears daily
Inside somedays, outside others.
But always -
Here.

For history mostly
An attempt so vain that the facade of denial rots a hole in the stomach feigning recognition.

Sad mostly as boredom subsides.
Drown in collected moments of mediocrity and save the gold coins for the enemies eye lids. All along you kicked them around when you needed them most; crying about loss, misfortune, and isolation.

Bring the ringing rain drop
Whole lot
Remembrance

Determined turtle vanishing green all my needs manifested scaring caring eyes viciously.  No acceptance can't claim existence willingly my ancestors have closed the blinds shrill speculative variety mixed amorous stenciled template.

Does it get better? It has before but I have no expectation. What I know is weak discovery and blankness. Lack of connection killing me before I'm dead my spirit drained and waning quickly. Stuck to couch cushions and 3 square don't fit there.

My only  hope is that my inability to accept/experience joy and lack of self worth does not inhibit my daughter's love for life.

Im in a crunch with school and work and 7 hrs sleep in 50+. I aint showered and my *** reeks of ***** outdoor musk type, like defrosted by the sun after freezing under the moon. Inevitably, mold and mildew add that nice after market aged/crusty scent.

Sloppy wet diarrhea brought on by anxiety and doubt; I'm in a ****** hole collecting uneven magazine clippings uncomfortably.

Here I am still, packing my belongings to leave the hole and find serenity. Yet, nothing gets taken out. Instead I'll be here for at least 7-10 more days waiting for the easy chair to be delivered from an order placed online at 3am when I could have been finishing a paper.

So this is what it's like.
I figured I would
Know better.

Slipped outside of
Comfort.
Somewhere
In between
Dread and
Complete despair.

All the places
My desires have led me.

I hoped I'd be
More interesting
But instead,
The interest in
The novelty has faded.

After the interests I've
Collected from
Others have vanished,
I'm left with my own.

Too bad
I'm so interested
In my beat up Old couch
And

finding the sweet spot
Is sweeter than
Finding a quarter
Between The cushions.

Miserably morbid fault lines dwindled to an ending where leaves fall from the sky and off the earth. Spirit spaced out of panic with opalescent vapor. Tier  built fuselage billowing smoke from broken windows. Mad man protecting sadness with a coat of contrived aloofness. Eager solar detection vanishes from cut long and dirt laden fingernails. Paint still drying from the recent attempt to write the letters of a name. Broken branch protruding from the impaled veteran fallen.

Now you will grieve for the time you wasted grieving that was meant for saying goodbye.

Balanced barely - crept up slow. Narrow and steady, my chemical device needs reuptake badly. Bleeding - poorly bandaged wound walking, in memorial of my flight from mothers womb. Pain rainbow, gypsy vantage point through eyes of stained glass. Literally lost, fact facing smothered butterfly sleeping sound under a blanket of pain.

Sometimes, I want to write so bad - but all I see is evidence to deter this disaster...

Stay on the couch bud. Let those thoughts run around your head, you need to exercise anyways. Your badge is so shiny, like a gleaming night sky clustered by stars and reflected on and off a still pond in isolated beauty.

Polish that which you hold so dear to your heart and take it in because the private hours and emptiness are not too far away on any day.

For clarity, it is issued to those who are [no good] less then, devoid of purpose, defunct of satisfaction.  These individuals often debate the mystery, are self blasphemous, and forgettable.  

Many are identified by narcissistic behavior, self-deprecation, self-perpetuated enslavement to ignorance, and lack of gratitude. Sad isolated entities who surpass other earthly levels of achievement by those who are merely existentially anxious and victim to the propagated melee of marketing, *****, and celebrity.

I have cautioned others in the past to stay away from the badged ones. They feel so low and hopeless that he or she finds identity in what has been most consistent. Pain and misery are worn as a badge of honor. Here the fragile psyche finds something to grab onto for survival and self-preservation.

Read and find the answers that explain how changing the way you think about your situation can create a new reality aside from what you know of the emptiness that cannot be filled and the haunting thoughts that keep you awake at night.

Choose your reality, I truly believe. I have been exceptionally effective at creating my reality, it just isn't the reality I want.

How do I fight what I continuously experience. This may be considered delusional or even psychotic to some extent. You choose the difference between a positive and negative experience.

If the subject of that difference is for me to decide - well nothing that I can do is any different than the rest; I'm confident that others can provide the same experience in a healthier and more honest way.

You see I am literally disgusted by my view of this world; the dry plywood planks for doors, the corner of the concrete path where the leaves and dried up dead grass settles to become a dark black soggy paste with pine needles added after it rains, bad breath, and toenail fungus, hair collected in a brush, the warm toilet seat that was used recently, and the sweat under my fat gut fold set me to retching.

But, wet eyes and sore throat from wailing until now-all the words have been written in the texts - literally written underneath the separated layer of paper glued to hide the backside of the material that makes up the underside of both front and back covers.

(The message has also been made in stamp form and has added a nice contrast in colors. Even beyond the red and blue alternative options commonly available.)

In the time of need when you question whether feeling okay is ever a possibility again the gods send messages, within questions, and messages. The infinite possibility of resulting answers are enough to keep you busy...

Enough to distract you from all that pain.

The gods have a sense of humor. Our experience gives them new material for open mic night.

Not just sort of okay. The ice melts and freezes faster the second time.

I've seen it.

Few words mean everything in a world that doesn't shut up. The enemy knows you better than yourself - it's you, with an objective view. I can crumble my tower quicker than any studies conducted have shown, but I like to make my suffering last.

So cheers to my reflexive world shrinking efforts that make my body fatter everyday.

Death of the Ego and Id

Space vacant. So alone. Deep blue sky; floating clouds.
Dark black sky; wandering stars.

The men who lay dying wont see this.  

Hear my thoughts. If anything, I can offer these to you.

One forgotten. In just this case. She spent her life alone. Once had dreams of sharing her existence and leaving something for the world to recognize. Eventually she took her life to create space for others.

He was a simple lonely child and on his final day; his father drown him in a rain barrel before jumping off a bridge with his mother and sister.

Time disappears in the pitch black of a musty basement. Malnourishment, fatigue, and resource deprivation have drained a broken body of salty tears.

Is the pain worse when the end is in sight?
Time to experience the sharp knife.

How many lives have vanished throughout history?
Who will remember us in 100 years?

Peculiarly different in the way of bad connection. The ease of bonding was compromised with the temperament that was borne upon me. Aren't we all worthy of love? Ive found the new love of my life, once so lost and directionless; I have finally found the life's work that is meant for me - by accident.

TRAGIC COMEDY
Driving lost and slowly, no - only a certain speed tears muscle from bone and sinew; the most morbid memory of death and the lead taste of blood from a crushed skull splattered with a hammer over and over again.

It finally happened. A dear crossed the road in slow motion. The entire mass was split into 3 sections as my vehicle plowed through.

Exhilaration!!!

At last, the meaning is discovered. The loneliest connection to life is death.

5 hours driving in preparation of new pleasure. The target must not be rushed. The life of an older person is ideal; they've experienced more of it.

Down the road again. Someone walking on the shoulder of a long stretching road; this is meant to be. Make a quick stop: ask for directions to something, somewhere. After disappearing around the bend, my 10 and 2 calmly exchanged positions over and over again to complete a u-turn.

Heart beating fast - Fire eyes... The walker recognized the vehicle and tried to step out of the way. I put the pedal to the floor board and ****** the wheel at the precise moment we met eyes for the last time.
Terror...

POW!!!!!!
No longer the flight of fancy that stayed my waking state with images and cravings; the storm has truly begun. Wind blown laundry on the line, caught in the flying droplets descending slowly at the end of a horizontal trajectory as the strength of wind died down once its range was finally met. The laundry - like me - care free and clean, soaked by the drizzle of an impending storm without the guidance of caring hands. I have heard about what is described as the calm before the storm. For me, the calm was only a foreshadowing of what I have become.

My face pierces the day greater than the beams through my dusty drapes that melt endlessly against the wind.

Neighbors are mowing again - or off elsewhere working.

I see the older lady next door leaving her house. She has a broken down old man who comes out to drive occasionally.

But she walks.

She's got nice **** and I can smell alcohol on her breath at all hours of the day.

I can tell she was the type who gets loud at the party when most other girls had gone home.

I know the type - the type who's presence motivated me to drink more and think less.

Now, I'm just a sad sack peeking out my drapes at the other sad sacks peeking out their windows at me.

Today is governed by the cyclical nature of science and the god that has been created mythically as an axis point to explain our existence.

To what end do we find separation from  a reality formed from consciousness?

The over-mind - what has also been referred to as a god-conscience, spans the digits of numerical structure and maintains an order that is beyond our limited comprehension. Division then, is not separation; it is a change that alters what is divided. Everything falls within our finite infinity - knowledge and the unknown - our minds and its thoughts.

The inhabited earth is a manifestation of thought vibrating throughout the cosmos. Star clusters are fragmented thoughts that gather and gradually grow closer until an idea emerges from the detritus left by the explosion.

Each atom is made up of multiverses that are made up of more atoms.

As of late, I feel my heart race and my knees shake. I don't remember a nervousness lasting this long.
Am I noticed smiling as much as I'm noticed when I am not?

Still a slave to distraction. I push life aside for petty acts, moments, searching, browsing the Internet.

I can share this part of myself and remain intact.  By the time you see this I will be showing up somewhere unprepared, late, and sweaty.

I will take the thought of you reading these words and remember this moment as I open the door...

"Yell that one out when you get it" she said in what she considered her most calm and gentle tone. Her calculations were wrong though. What she considered calm and gentle still seemed animated and intense to her audience.

By this grade and age most children have been trained to raise a hand to answer class questions or request the floor.

She began realizing more and more that she spent her days within a room of tiny robots, in a building of tiny robots, in a town of various types of robots... situated in a galaxy of dust that accumulated on the surface of the Great Petrie Dish.

This was not where she wanted to be.

All along his path he grabbed the sticks that called to him. There were many in this area which was surrounded by concrete yet, enough nature inside to forget the dull grays.  Still along the way he traded these sticks and twigs for other sticks and twigs that he placed earlier in naturally occurring hammocks cradled within the bark of an old tree knot or between two inviting branches.

Each stick and twig that he moved was followed by a message of gratitude and the intent to do no harm.  A pinch pull of hair from his arm was placed here in reverie of balance and reciprocation.

Walking by, I noticed this and waved to him  thinking, "wouldn't life be a little better if we all ran around in a circle and enjoyed the healing power of play. It feels good to let go." Then I thought to myself, "that was totally awkward. I just waved like a guest walking onto the stage for a visit with Oprah".

I was fat non- hippie backwards hat fried from acid tabs and Hendrix Stuttgart posters for hours while rewinding the instrumental track that followed the song "drug store cowboy" on a dubbed Justin Warfield tape over and over again. Those years floated me from the village on my floor to adult ADHD and a far off gaze.

The neighbors hate when I run around my back yard shirtless chanting and banging a drum on rainy evenings.

I’m often quiet because i have nothing to say

When i do speak, it’s nothing interesting

I have nothing to do
Nowhere to be
Nobody wants me

Nobody checks in
“Hey, how’s it going”

Guess people have caught on
I’m just no one

Even this writing
Is done in vain

Don’t call me later.
I’d rather you texted

These words read similar to those of an adolescent stuck - questioning nature and the depths of inner hatred.  

I find it hard to believe that my time is best served within a second adolescence.

My dilemma: does my disdain for the excuse of adolescence stem from my belief of a phenomenological experience, or am I protecting a self-perceived inadequacy?

Standing between answers at the narrow tip of truth* is emotionally draining.

Some say knowledge is power, but I know better.

Knowledge is power for those with the strength to grow amidst the plague of humanities decay. For me, it is a reason to shrink further into apathy.

Good morning again. Wake the **** up! Back to sleep once again in my head. Sway back and forth in front of the mirror until I **** near collapse into the wall with a stream of drool perfectly poised at my mouth before I wipe it off and sit on the toilet.

Perhaps my phone will keep me awake.

Nope.

I'm rocking again and only give up on trying to stay awake bare assed when my phone hitting the floor prompts me up and at em once more to lay in the tub that, once filled, barely covers my **** and ***** that are forcefully tucked underneath my gut flop.

Awake again now
sweatier than before
less refreshed than left over fries after a microwaved cycle.

Them: "look how different your life is."

Me: "new responsibilities - same limitations."

I haven't grown. Life changes. Look back at the pictures and you'll see - less hair on the head that surrounds the same fat face.

At least I wear deodorant, although it is my wife's until I pick up some more of my own.