to write and autobiography:
   better to write an autobiographical sketch,
like this one, for example,
a very same-same / mediocre /
uneventful / predictable /
     it only matters that i have
bothered to look at the clock and the date:
9:50am / ten to ten a.m.
    6th of december two-thousand-and-twenty
(6/12/20) -
because otherwise than that...
it's a "make-me-believe-otherwise"
sort of a sunday...
as such... yes... an autobiographical
sketch...
         if nothing happens by a standard
definition of what does happen
when autobiographies are written...
then at least: this happens...
language happens /
    my use of the english language
happens... out of nonchalance...
        or good humour...
             or a must celebration of
soberness -
               since, well... since at some
point weeks / perhaps months ago...
a saturation point was reached
and... drinking and staying up into
the night and scribbling became...
pickled in... monotony...
          to have drunk so much as
to be bored of it...
       or rather: to have drunk and
as a consequence... sat and then shat
on one's laurels - for lack of a better
expression... i.e. written ****-all!
or written something, which was...
substandard... which is worse than
having written: zilch! nada (ナダ)!
if Charles Olson can be a self-described
'archeologist of the morning...'
(i am deliberating whether
to spend £40+ on the i maximus,
gloucester poems - hardcover -
please... any cheaper?!)
   then i can be an autobiographical
sketcher...
exhibit (a)...
                 otherwise it only insinuated
itself yesterday, it being a ghost
of an idea that probably haunted
by mind for periodical bouts of
dangling etc.
             some better wording (rephrasing
necessary - but not here
or now)...
   the term "****" doesn't really
do it justice... but it's most certainly
a variation of archeology -
   notably / concerning what?
how the moon looks from beneath
a tree...
    in winter... when the tree is all
but the bare branches -
           like a splintering bone of sorts
like something akin
to the alveoli in lungs...
     but obviously less cauliflowers
and less pride of a full crop of hair...
/ no crown of leaves...
but it's how the moon looks from
behind those twigs...
     arrested and devilishly motionless...
add to this image the odd
cough-up of a murk / a murkiness
of a tease that might be
a freezing of candy floss...
that is a cloud...
    and... how nature abhors a vacuum...
and i guess i am simply
standing in someone else's place
just prior...
if it wasn't written down...
   it is now... but it probably was...
but not in this way...
and since man is the antithesis
of nature as such that
nature doesn't hoard and man
tends to - notably time and time
wasted...
   but how rooted into the earth
one can                                                 be
to stand before this archeological
find...
which probably isn't to be treated
as something archeological...
but peering at the moon
in said way.. with added derivatives
of elevated sensation...
and i am, most probably...
that same-same variation of
primordial man...
               perhaps not him:
perhaps with a syllabary or perhaps
with a D'OH     R'EH
       ド       レ       ミ           ファ(fa)
            ソ (so')                        チ          
                   (la la la la la,
la la la la la, la la la la la ' la la, la, l'ah...)
to sing a little...
               10:17...
                   and that's that;
i suppose i now have enough justification
for the day to begin, proper.