morning poetic free-write
a too hot shower and too cold exit
of that warmth, coffee overflow
landscape is a sad grey/green wash
with hints of the impending great freeze
coming to trap us like snowed in hikers
taking refuge in an abandoned fire lookout
our eyes will quit creating tears
as we will burn them all for heat, for heat
the sky is a closed mess of dark clouds
rain to fog windows
let steam escape from the chimney
when no trees are looking
I need more swirling coffee
to carry myself with any notable strength
up the 150+ step staircase
or the tree line fractured tear of the 45th street viaduct
good god damn, the options for height removal
are multitude and nothing seems right
because I do not feel right
this is all strange within
because I can’t seem to say anything
concrete or real or sudden.
I am rolling my ankle on the floor. I am nervous
On approaching 23.
Well, anxiety swells up in me and rattles around like a big wave full of broken up boats crashing against the grey matter rocks of my internal shoreline. I do not know how to acknowledge the existence of myself on this earth for as long as I’ve had. Countless billions of humans, and countless billions more dogs, have died at a younger age than I. What do I do with my time and knowledge and experiences… they are puzzle pieces and I am a huge, hastily painted blue backdrop that we all automatically assume is the sky, the cardboard cut out people and their fear of box cutters, their fear of flames and aging, the decrepit little angst-ridden youth inside me is by now fairly well aged, a top shelf wine, a dying celebrity… The 16-year-aged boy within me has become an old man. Time is a vortex and it swallows potential relationships and sticks you with the sand and grit of the current love until you are both sanded down so smooth that personality is floating sediment where there once were jagged rocks.
What the hell am I. This is a personality dissociative fugue state without navigable maps, all crossed out where the old roads once ran and into the woods where the forests are moody and don’t want to talk and the tension rods in the air snap with electricity, with signal flow and the vacuum of carpet space is a girlfriend sick in bed, a cat sick in bed, a grandmother sick in bed, a mind of battlefield sergeant, some scars unhealed and tobacco smoke thick in the gravestone car and we looked out on the scene of the accident where the blood was still stained warm between the cracks, the guitar pick, the earring, the sad stifled silence, the lack of talking when it was time to go, we just gravitated to the Tahoe and left wordless, and left wordless.
I have died a thousand times and had a thousand rebirths. I am not immune to self imposed prisms of pain. I thought I would outgrow the worst parts of me but I have found my quick trigger frustration to dominate my days in some form with red flashing light colors of ambulances traveling toward your funeral because god gave them an order to resuscitate. Oh flashing lights of whiz-by time and the pain of being wrenched forward into an unforgiving future when all present is so nice and physically decent, and the future… next future… 24 and the suffering in friday harbor when the ocean drains and I need some time alone, please, thank you, no thanks I don’t need a coffee. I’ll take a tea. Cold shower. I’ll take a new house and a palm walk and a broadway broadside and an editing internship and god almighty I’ll take a place in queue with the other greats in purgatory who die in an abstraction when they do not wake up to realize the wide open space between them and their goal. me and my goals. no obstruction. just self. just ridiculous fallacious emotions that can turn a rose into a burn victim.