i daydreamt of monet at lunchtime
as i sat alone on the bench by the waterfall that marked the
and smelled the
and reminded me of the fact that

sometimes literal meaning is less important than the
smell of wildflowers and the and the way that under the hot july sun
the colors of the forest felt a little brighter
and my skin was more sensitive to the breeze than it perhaps would have been
had it only been sixty five degrees
and not eighty three.

and waterlilies are
,in fact,
a little more green than monet painted them,
and less blue,
but whatever.

or was it just that i hadn't eaten at all in two days
and that i was feeling a little light headed
and when your mind can't help but wander off on its own
then the way that the trees
and the birds
and the children
and the clouds and the sky reflect off of the water
start to remind you a little of monet

She, a cavernous champagne glass,
he, a weary pony, who ate the neighbor's grass--
her name Ms. Wesson,
his name Mr. Smith,
they died on a slow Tuesday--
and stop looking Wesson clan,
if looking for a lesson.

Mid-afternoon
midst a love bent 69
Mr. Smith and Ms. Wesson
committed ******-suicide--
Mr. Smith turned from a man
back into a stain,
Ms. Wesson turned from a woman
back into a chain.

And the artist-in-neighborhood did rejoice,
subject matter for a painting to hang above
his licorice-colored memorial of a prisoner dove.

And the police did gossip,
was it love? was it *******?
What a fine piece of *** that could be living.

And it took the families two weeks to find out,
they wiped their feet on dead leaves,
daydreamt open caskets and planted juniper seeds.

Talk of another woman, talk of another man,
but God himself would tell you,
they were simply bored of each other's drugs,
they were simply bored of each other's barrels,
so, they barred each other from being,
and headed west on erosion's dime.

18 minutes

And I have daydreamt of you
Each of the 1080 seconds passed,
Contemplating how I want to be
so much better than your last.
Come on
Lets get lost in each others eyes
While we forget the dark horrors of our past
Don't back track baby
Let's sit in this sunny moment and
Bask
Just like the sun
This burning desire won't go away
If you're with it, I am as well
You know I'm here to stay.

30 minutes

And I've come to realize that
I can't even stand to be away from you,
for 1800 seconds.

plastic dreams & magic hearts
propelled into my subconscious
& I framed them.
lost myself compulsively
in the pages of everything I could
lay my hands on
   --sweet escape
     only comatose--
daydreamt often
visions of being fantastical
                        amazing
             standing on desks & screaming
                empowered
                     dominant
                    noticed

every time i imagine your name
or your face,
or any daydreamt aspect of you
interacting with me,
instead of your name,
i will think,
"for what?"
and i think,
it's better this way,
~for both our sakes

Loneliness lamented,
never exempt from
tremendous emptiness,
relentless against
hellbent descent
of my own invention;
entrenched in
mental torment
taking up every tenement residence,
detention condemns.

But
mid November
summer still incenses,
in sun scented
memories
tempted by your
gentlest remnants
still renders me
senseless.

Daydreamt,
ephemeral,
almost replenishes and mends
until
heart hemorrhaging
becomes a
drenching tempest,
like a fist clenching
tension
holding onto your
absence
and some semblance of
what you meant
and yet
goodbye
you went
again.

Absolutes, they're one way to get through life
people have been asking what is the meaning of life? What are we here for,
for as long as we've been here, since the first burnt end of a stick rubbed a figure on a rock
what's the meaning of the individual's life?
Is it to let the rock come to you, or to bring the charcoal to the rock?

Are you passing time, or is it the other way around?

We can talk all we want, pontificate until a filibuster philosopher considers it grossly verbose, but really, what's it all amount to other than keeping a record of thought

Proof that I thought, therefore I was,

Evidence of my life sentence, punctuated by what you see here, though know no word of mouth transpired in the transfer from what you see, hear?

I daydreamt a scene! Othello! A theater choir quieted a riotous audience with a sour note, a broken string struck from cello, blood dribbled down the composer's ear, a man who had never spoken to a crowd out loud, outside of the curtain of his mental symposium trampled the stagehands from the wings and took over the production, **** near, he had never allowed himself to perform, and an ice cold fist clutched his esophagus, crystals began to form, until he spoke and held a lofty ambition, thus, his voice started with a spark beneath the timbre that got it warm

"Oh! Hello! Pardon the cello, I'm no speaker of spoken word poetry, no rapper, no rhythmic artist, if I stumble and mutter, struggle to catch my breath, that's how those of you who know me, know it's me, to the rest in attendance in time you will see, I have a romantic idea of bardic magics, I love the idea that in time a rhyme can influence masses to act dramatically, you are now pyre logs for the flames of madness, this sacrifice-"

He coughed and cleared his throat, crumpling up a written note

"Was prepared with no small amount of sadness, I will see you rise and throw your chairs high overhead until they reach the ceiling, if you collapse in the coming violence, then rise up and strike yourself down once more with feeling! I will see you screaming, tears of the terrible unknowing streaming, you will glimpse through the trance of verse and cadence a forbidden energy, runic awakening, casting confusion, chaos and grave truths buried latent, witness the blind mind's havens, a pace that hastens as it doubles with valence, you have been taken by the belated, hated and unequated starving meat and ice sculpture carving, hedonistic, sadistic, pelt from the dead animals I offer at worship to my at-odds-ancient-gods, by the welts from my belt, masochistic, sick and twisted, motion sickness from head-spinning, furs I've felt, Bacchanalian Celt, kissed the devil and never got rid of the red stain, those lips stick, it was a burnt liquor and a bit quick, all nonsense or all sense gone, since all run, I sense I'm done."

Around him time rewound and the theater itself retreated from his words brick by brick back into the ground, the world itself dared not try to comprehend
nature knew a curse on the fell aura of his performance flew
as people traversed through matter perversed and minds that scattered and reversed, while ill symbols from his mouth broke the air, turning the fabric of reality into a blanket-fort to play pretend
he sat down on the stage he preserved, with one magic breath he sang his death
an offkey note, breaking a cello string across the flowing waters of time

"Nature be restored,
you have my word,
my grievous wound, I mend
with this I bow to you, Gaia
the end."