Anya is lying next to me like a dormant sheet. The bed wears her as unassorted dress and I sit perked to her right, righting?

Writing.

What I'm writing about is better left unsaid for the darling teens afraid of themselves and unable to psychoanalyze through their fancied word. I guess I am a little afraid of myself but I'm not afraid to admit it and, if you ask the state, I'm an adult now. No ******* darling teen so you can tag your assumptions at the front door.

Anya slept over here last night and it's almost like the last 2 days are some ecstatic, beautiful blur. I can prove to you my state of disbelief by describing my Freudian revelation of a dream.

We were all down at the theatre. There was some strange minor citadel at the top of good old 1913 where some slightly chubby early-20's daughter-of-a-railroad-man watched these strangely Shakespearean woes on the street below. A little bleak and depressing.

I assume we were here for a movie. It was me, Anya, Felicia, and Chris. I could tell Anya liked me but I wasn't sure how to present my VCR of a heart to her and ask for the chance. So I didn't say a word. Instead I tossed boomerang smiles as the daughter-of-a-railroad-man gawked at my progressively punctured lung 2-stories up. I started trying to talk to Felicia because she seemed familiar and more likely, but she was taking photos of smoke-stacks and materializing groups of people so she had no time to listen, and I woefully backed off with an 'I'll tell you later, I guess.'

Things moved quickly at that point and it was like jogging through a Philip K. **** novel. I'd waited too long and Chris had his arm around Anya. I then backed off assuming the worst and as soon as I woke up I realized the dream had revealed a legion of my insecurities all out on a drill away from the main barracks, ready to march closer-to or away from my field of battle *** it was a question of Ghandi or God now.

A battle on open fields? Or non-violent resistance?

The funnier part of waking up was that my dream had been profoundly upsetting and darkly self-fulfilling, but this time it was a dream and what I woke up to wasn't the neutral dune of the everyday life of distraction, but one of those profoundly holy literature’s of the past 2000 years.

I suppose the biggest revelation the dream gave was the observation of my never asserting myself, nor in pursuit. Just the head-tilt mope of a poet with a bleeding heart that not only denies the need for bandage, but keeps double checking the hole is big enough to bleed but small enough not to **** me.

Have you ever seen those kinds of cars that look like they have teeth and eyes and noses?

tell me you believe in ghosts s
o i know who to believe / when
the time comes to ****** / all o
ver the ghost of your face / i pr
omise i won't forget to lie / and t
ell you that i love you / i cann
ot love you / because it is typical
to fear love when the chest is ope
n / the treasure found / and you l
ie dying with your heart still beati
ng in the October nightlife / believe
me when i tell you i wanted nothin
g / but

guts

(all you'll ever see are the shattered remains of our power game and my quest to retain my weight on the scale- - I'll never let you see the bone you broke, the piece you took, or the impossible daydreams of a solvent-sycophantic and hopeless romantic- - the fantasies of a happy ending I will entertain until the next lover appears and sees I repaired my soul with gold filler)

I will clamor atop mountains and fire flares from Everest to contest the interrelated anonymity of can'ts and don't's and wasted places with covered spaces taken by sadists with nothing left but the trace of a face; have-not's become robots in the mist of my nicotine blood-clot, distraught because it's all a ******* weak-spot

if you hit hard enough.

if you spit far enough.

if you write like it might make a difference and not just a scuff on the new polished hood of a ******* Mercedes Benz..

who are you again?

- - -

I tackled my trousers like they were Bowser in Mario, I'm still looking for my own impresario.. go on, try and call me another Joe Blow and I'll know that you meant to say I'm on a quest to Joe Blow your mind.
as far as I'm aware we're both just as blind so whatever I find in my mind is a sign of the times I confine to finite from infinity; I'm looking to have Salinger-like salinity. **** masculinity, it's all femininity, and within divinity you'll find me in vicinity.. scared, frightened, lost to evil affinity with zilch for priority.

I'm aimless. Goalless and faceless a ghoul who wishes to fill his void with school.. but the rule is disillusioned, imprisoned and moving, and written on loose-leaf like life.

I'm worth the hype.

but I'm not your type, I'm your type-face and font, san-serif you flaunt, and look at us now, it's just blood on our hands.. our names written out in childlike comic sans. we wanted, we waned, we haunted, we craned

our necks

to look past the deck

saw islands as specs

in the distance.

this whole life is persistence, and some hallow insistence that I am much more than industrial pistons.. so listen

you wanted this, and I wanted that.. I'm not so pretty with eyelashes to bat, so instead I still sit and I sat.. past tense and all that, but the grammar is last in my mind as I tap on the keyboard.

"Sing Free Bird!" screams the crowd. "Be a Free Bird!" I vowed

to myself.. on a shelf, eyes wide open and melting the matter that makes up this tattered trash called reality; but in all actuality I'm actually insane. plain as a bagel washed-off in the rain.. and just as soggy.

just as groggy. just a hot-key for those who forgot me ( and they're all free... now).  

I wipe the sweat off my brow as I cow-tow to the ouch in my bones, a lack of texts to my phone as I read Buddhist koans while my stomach moans like the fall of the Roman Empire. my entire life is on fire.. or was. now it's just moldy, just old bread with a fuzz.. so I tossed it again and forgot about zen because it's irrelevant, not a 10 out of 10, I can name off the labels, samsara, nirvana, brahmanic, the Lama.. but somehow I'm just as empowered to cower.. to tower above like a camera angle provided by angels who dangle on quantum entanglement.  

I strangle myself in profundity, it's no fun to be me.. sometimes. but what do I see when I turn out the light? I can't tell you, but I know that it's mine.

and I'm fine. as long as it's mine, I'm fine. I'll find my right rhymes as finite time slithers by. I'll find my right rhymes by the day that I die. and we'll all sigh in relief..

*** then I'll finally be the thief to steal your attention with words such as these:
go on, try and call me another Joe Blow and I'll know that you meant to say I'm on a quest to Joe Blow your mind. as far as I'm aware we're both just as blind so whatever I find in my mind is a sign of the times I confine to finite from infinity; I'm looking to have Salinger-like salinity. **** masculinity, it's all femininity, and within divinity you'll find me in vicinity.. head spinning in constant affinity.

**finishing.