I keep writing these things.
They seem to want out.
Out! Out!
There they go.
But once out, do they live on?
The screen makes it seem so.
But this is a notebook.
Unlined, she gave it to me long ago.
And here I am using it.

The day beckons.
That kindred spirit of mine.
You know, my guardian angel.
Nietzsche.
Yes, that's right!
How's that for pompous?
Well, I'm carving out the time.
I hope you do too.
Life can seem futile without it.

Just a few hangups last night
Couple missteps here & there
none too noticeable, I believe
sealed stayed my lips
for the most part, of course.
I'm not one of those
polite pleasers, you know.
Gets me in trouble sometimes.

"Negativism!" she yelled
out all of a sudden.
I didn't know that was
the tail end of a line
directed toward me.
Quiet, patient, hard-working
shy, innocent, little rosebud
He'd never heard me laugh like that, though.
What a thing to hide away!
It'd never occurred to me
and it's still hard for me to find it
these days
But it's not because I'm trying to listen to the teacher anymore.
No
It's because I'm too preoccupied
with ____
I awake, anxious
Thoughts coursing through my mind
Not always the same ones but
The end result
relativizes them anyway

It's the popping up
the seizure of the pen
the enabling of the ink to flow
the willing.
Because I am my own creator
He breathes into me, but
If I don't sit up I will only melt
Maybe he knows it all already
If he didn't I guess he wouldn't be infinite.
But that's no reason
To let the sheets and bones and sinews
become one.
Let those mirrors shift.
Let the motions flow,
the actions build momentum.
What else can I do?
Death won't let me down.
It's loyaler than
that golden puppy-turned-beast
whose "wanton moan" I'll never forget

Even she knew
that this life
doesn't last forever.

He asked me.
I agreed.
Which way to
the show please?

time was ******,
but it still
comes & comes.
Have I luck?

this one has
nothing to
do with that,
but he asked.

Open? Like
critters in
Heidegger?
That ain't right.

glimmers of
"progress" &
light from a
brand new love.

I asked him.
Tonight we...
well, we'll see.
crumbled leafs.

A watched *** never boils
A star shoots when you least expect it
Keep stirring.
Soon, that milky, sloshy liquid
will seep in
into the thick, earthen goop
One can only hope...
And it did, this time.
those eggs
[not vegan, sorry.]
that molasses-soaked sugar
the pulverized & the beaten
all amalgamated
in a matter of minutes
and it even sopped up
the flour lining
How pleasant. No. How scrumptious.
The hardened cream, mixed
with a little bit of salt, I admit,
but you know I
was never one
to make a cake
without tears
shedding some.
But I always remember
to lick the spoon
every once in a while.

Oh, amateur poetry!
How I wish I could stop thinking of you that way!
I mean you, you words on the page.
I mean those aqua blue markings.
They look so different close-up!
I mean, under the microscope.
They became splotches.
My eyes widened,
let in more light.
And it was all a game.
Was I really learning?
In that school, in those classrooms?
Yes, at times.
But thoughts of boys and giggles and colour palettes
for the eyes, lids, brushes, canvases
The clear-lip-glossed/brown-lined lips
I saw them in the other mirror.
And the water.
They put it on their hair to make it look greasier.
What a novel thought!
But I, with my white girl looks and taste,
used different shades
and followed other styles
And, what was my question?
Did I learn there?

Deepest impressions flow from smelly girls' bathrooms.
Not the desks, labs, white boards.
Huh.
Maybe I'll feel differently tomorrow.

The outlines blurred
gut-wrenching
insufficient
like tearing them out
pulling so hard
on the same strip of fabric
It just won't tear
And the salt and the tears
and the blur
And I can't do it. I just can't.
But I want to.
And I try and try
but it's just not getting there.
Snot.

Reaching back, looking back.
It's not regret; it's
something, longing
wondering
why all those years won't blur
like the words on the page in front of me
And I'm so self-centered
And I'm so stuck
But I want to do.
I want to live.

But how?

Forget that. This is now.
Heidegger beckons.
Deep breaths.
Wipe away the tears.
Take off these ******* pajamas.
Stop holding back.
Do what I know
needs to be done.
Listen to that song a 3rd time.
But actually listen this time.
'You'll succeed at last.'
Paint your eyes & pick out clothes.
Just like you always have.
Know they don't care.
But write anyway.
Know it could all be in vain.
But do it anyway.
Wonder if you'll be able to read this
once I've finished
Is this a poem?
I can't see ****.
I know I don't know.
end of the page
= action

There he was
"He"
But him
Peeking around corners
That house
The one on Balcom Lane?
Not quite.
The mammoth wooden doors and startling interiors
A mesh of the Waco mansion
and the Motyckas', God knows why.
Fancy houses are vessels for empty thoughts.
Oh, but there he was,
God of my past
I can't deny it.
He searched for me. He
seduced me.
But I knew.
I knew.
He wasn't unbetrothed.
No, she was there, somewhere.
Ah, yes, she interrogated me.
And I...
Was I honest?
My body ached for him.
Just like the night before.
How did he find her so fast?
Why was there dead air on the phone that night?
I think I just felt the wind shake my house.
God is blowing it all away.
My memory too, it drops away in pieces.
So I grabbed that pen.
I mean this one.
I hold it; it's "this."
I see it; it's "that."
But neither exist, neither are, right?
Thank you, Timaeus.
You showed me how the world once was,
how men once saw it to be.
But now, the "gruesome houses."

He's still there.
His face.
Just barely though.
Oh, life, how I love your perpetual motion, replacing each moment with the next, before I even know the first is gone!
sometimes.
But then there are the ones when I wish it would all slow down.
Or worse, turn back.
The will moves only forward.
Always ahead & never behind.
That's what I control.
Not 2007.

Heh, he didn't need me.
It ripped my heart out & rended it apart.
I do love brown ales though.

Colors to fill
pages, I mean.
But the shades and the lines --
Oh! Well those don't really exist.
The lines, I mean.
They too
are just more and more pigment
a buildup of a gradient
into a darker strip
of grains of ink
or oil
or chalk
or graphite
or any other wonderful, God-given blessing of an artist's tool
It's been so long, she says.
I say.
Because, it is me in there.
This is no Being John Malkovich story.
Though those moments happen too.
What the hell was that, when it happened?
All of a sudden I felt controlled
like a robot
An outside force drove my movements & I
like a Sim
that's right, a Sim
(It was all around the same time in my life)
just felt someone else doing all the work
And I, a slave to this invisible master
felt terrified for lack of knowledge
I still maintain that it occurred
What was that?
Haven't thought of it in ages.
I remember the geometric colored shape-patterned paper
That little alcove
But I think it happened
at the old house too
Among those wood-paneled walls
I miss those.
Something pure, good, sturdy about them
But no, I couldn't have just imagined it
But it wasn't like now
When this unstoppable force is driving the words out of me
through the pen & onto the A5
No
It was more like a separate entity
whose presence I felt
making me do it
It? I mean everything
If only for a few moments
A trembling child I became
I was.
And I never figured it out
I think I told her
Musta mentioned it, right?
She always knew everything else
Up until recently, anyway
She's at a distance now
From no fault of her own -- I placed her there
And I worry
that she's fading
The only one there for me
Really there
With almost no judgment
Maybe not the healthiest thing for me
But there nonetheless
I must ask
And in days ahead write another poem
I'll tell you
You
My indeterminate reader
What she says
Because that kind of power
that kind of drive
was and is
the most terrifying thing I've
ever endured.
That included.

I meant the
Well, what did I mean?
I wanna say
climbing, hanging from the harness
But was that really all that scary?
No.
That, that was.
Without a rope
or companion.
But even that, I hesitate to dub "the scarriest moment"

What was, then?
So many times come to mind.
But they weren't frightening because of my height
the expanse of air between me and the flat ground
But the depth
The lowliness of it all.
That's when I truly scared myself
Scared her too
And him, the old friend who TELLS ME TO WRITE.
But not him.
No, he was on a mission.
A mission to be numb.
Numb from true feeling.
But then there were those times when
I know he felt
knew he felt
that sky-opening
light-flooding
sparkle-sprinkling
"Ah"
awe
love
I cannot think otherwise
I cannot doubt it
That would send me into a frenzy
Why?
Because I'm still her
I am that same girl
A string of memories, L asked?
More than that, I insisted.
Then what, B inquired?
Something that lasts
The soul
Soul? ... L, again.
Yeah!
So the solution to the problem is another problem.
I can't deny those moments
That would mean denying myself
My soul
Wilde teaches.
And so I don't
But maybe I travel too far
in the other direction
Maybe I'm not quite as 'same' as I purport myself to be
But I can't let that drive nonetheless
work to impede
the work I must accomplish
stifling it,
that is what I ought to do
in this case.
because otherwise
I find myself
lingering on those thoughts
and clinging to the sheets
It's not even about that infantile comfort anymore.
Well, maybe a little
But no, the thoughts are too prevalent now
They weren't back then
I mean they weren't
They be'd not
So my adhesion to
these same old sabanas
Is sourced in
different stuff now
Before it was more mist
but now it's true fluff
thicker than that though
like real cotton more than the candy kind
So the battle's tougher now
'sall
Not one I must cease to fight
But rather I must struggle
That much more
That much harder
Because the knowledge won't stop flowing in
Incessant, unstoppable
Unless I decide to end it all.
But even then, maybe it'd keep
striking me in the face
And if not,
who would want to lose it anyway?