this is where i enter text


the view

and this is the view

this is all i've got.

these words and these thoughts.

but in my world, it is all you have too.  your thoughts, your words.  can you turn a phrase, tell a tale spin a yarn? pick a word split a verb change your tense?  punctuate abbreviate bloviate? (the sounds and inhuman grunts you make in response are informative.)

and here i am on my low horse trying to make sense of how or why i push everyone away through opinions crisply stated and arguments passionately made.  inaccurately because i don't know my ass from your mouth.  i mean... i don't know shit about shoot i forgot the point of this potty talk.

this is the way we roll we roll and this is the way we dig our own graves.  breath by breath step by step.  what else must i convey aside form the simple fact that it is hard to make sense of the rest?  the beauty you see may be like maggots to some. the drinks you drink are death not fun to some.  the some arenot some but all to some.  the all are not all but none to some.

how wide is your vision? how deep are your dreams? how small are our lives and is there anything left to hope for.

i write and type i read and i skim.  i work and i work to understand this ridiculous spinning madness i sleep on, walk on, jump off of and land on again despite my best efforts to break free and fly past the oxygen farther and further from the myth of the sun melting my wings and closer and closer to the reality that that is all too calm a description of what a sun would do.  wwjd ain't got shit on wwsd.

but then i go again, making object like people and reverse that to make it more common.  flip it to make it more remarkable.  like a remark one would make.  or,,, here i am remarking on remarking on remarkability.

sic sic sic. i read it. i read it again.  i left it in.  i got no editor, i'm just some non-punk non-kid sitting at his parents' table during a holiday wondering what the hell this all means and why the times i feel most alive are when i'm spitting someone's words back at them all twisted.  or when i'm parroting back a song written by not-me.  or when or when... what is this but a rush of nothing? where is the satisfaction? what is there out in the world that surpasses this measly nothing i am?

we are all nothing-- i'm nothing special in my nothingness.

if this breath is the same as the last then you're already dead.

ozymandias tells me i can build nothing which lasts and all is illusion of permanence.
the illusion of permanence is an illusion of permanence.

i must find a way out of this corner. i lash out and snap out and behave in startling ways sometimes even to myself.  i'm finding disappointment inside and little else of note (though there is definitely some vital bits int he parts left out! like... the kit!).

i'm seven sides of wasted talent with your babyback ribs.
i wish i could roll myself up and smoke me just to see.

i'm done here. the air will never clear.

this is how it comes out. brambled tangled wanting. riffing raffing signing.  standing sitting walking. jumping jumping jumping and hitting my head.  wondering how i'll ever be dead.  but what else instead? the words are all that sing, and i imagine you reading which makes my mind hum and my feet beat the beat.  the notion that there is another any other out there who can help me with what's in here... is tooo much to bear since i've not met that many.  but then again, what do i help with? what am i good for?

i breath.  i supply the plants.  i'll supply the worms when i die.  i'll push the daisies while i lie.


No comments:


"He's just this guy, you know?"