haunted thoughts 4 yrs ago

You feel your eyelids droop and wonder if you can read another page, another sentence, another word… Fear of death in the night keeps you awake but these ignored writing hours will come back to haunt your dreams, for you will have forgotten what is now unforgivable to forget.

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Chopin & Vaporized Wine

At night, alive in the room, there’s a dark blue feeling coming over me – it is here I make myself overwhelmed. Oh, my. You still haven’t shared any of your photos of Friday Harbor with the Others. You’ve yet to share enough of yourself. You still haven’t opened. Listen to Chopin and cry your lower back out of alignment. Continue reading

Aurora

There had to have been a goodbye I was waiting for to say this. To say I wanted to move away the windows willingly, to move away from the steering wheel and into a savage hold up of resources and whims – the nomadic makeup of without and the mascara runs of the internal makeup of within, though a dosage of transience would help everything out because a big burst of colors is always waiting to happen (in the northern hemisphere without light pollution and somewhere in clear skies from Portland to Alberta). It is hard to believe in the churning wheel branches of green that can overwhelm our night stars. Where is this new trip coming from? How many other sensations can I attribute to something like an acid flashback? Is it possible to flash forward and back at the same time? There are oak trees everywhere with roots extending outward beyond any property line.

 

hibernate

{originally drafted February 10th 2014)

We constantly have to make a decision between reality and oblivion. For me, this is oblivion. I exit reality in order to assuage my artistic yearnings for the production of things. Writing is oblivion because it is a rambling explanation of reality rather than the present experience of it. Reality is out there, beyond the window of my computer screen and the windows of this house. Snowflakes dangle on ribbons on that window. That is reality out there because I saw a confused young buck with enormous, growing antlers eating the brambles near the old haunted path. My life memories are out there. I could walk out there presently and put this whole writing idea in the can, exiting oblivion.

Marijuana is often a portal for people. If I am afraid or unwilling to live in reality to a full extent, I might smoke myself into the rabbit hole, from which communication with reality becomes difficult. Even now, without the guiding influence of any drugs, I am absent from reality and therefore distant from connected ties with it. I am presently absent. Gloriously vacant and ignorant of the conversations I must have with real human beings, my friends, my old beloved friends desire to hear from me in my cave, but I might hibernate awhile longer, only if my oblivion is productive, you see.

I owe many talks to many people. I owe it to myself to create. I owe it to karma to straighten this all out and balance between the absent minded daylight (however brief today, my god!) and the definitive absence while in dreams.

Broken Foot

The man with the broken foot limped to the bar to thin his blood, sew his ligaments together, keep his spirits up, warm, bright futures with paychecks written in godscript, a typewritten letter finds its way to your shore in a floating bottle, or drifts down politely like a feather windtornfree of a bird, a dazzling bird, that hopeful blue bird, remember him? He flies away when you know you’ve died.

Bodies decorated with permanent pieces of artwork. Footbroken man slurs at us, “My pain tolerance is notoriously high.”

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To Compete With This Kind of Longing

To compete with this kind of longing
You need a steadier heart.
No arteries made of glass, no waiting for clots to form.
You need to leap out of bed in the morning like everything is on fire,
the posters you meticulously straightened on an edge,
standing on a crooked chair, sputtering about the house with a passion seen nowhere else.

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subglacial lava-eruption

Floodwaters splash across the tarmac,
planes halt and brimming with seatbelted passengers
putting their seat backs forward
with clicks and groans, a habit of fear.
Quickly, organized land is replaced by melted glacier
a lava-eruption beneath phase-changed the ice,
the airplane is repurposed as a sailing vessel,
whose metal chassis holds enough silent
discomfort to keep it afloat.

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