i run down
the beach thinking
this is where i live now
i run and dance down this beach
like i never left this home
i own a house with
no shape
on the land of
my conception
and in the
depths of a high
i spin like a
child and
flirt with
teal waters

“in the beginning was the word”
was the word of god – or your mother
you have to hear to speak
(spoken words are verbal units)
you have to speak to write
()
you have to write to make pictures
(the written word is an image)
you have to make many pictures to move them
(written words are images in sequence)
you have to listen to make moving pictures

rollling in the girly nite next to
growling fires and golden guitars
that are unladen with
foreign fingerprints
and fingered by gods
with ample practice
i lift my skirt up and
decide that i’m bored
with drinking so I’ll
howl hard under sky numb
until nite melts to dirty ashes

i lost all of your photographs
in the digital struggle

no plans just caffeinated clouds of people in my day, a rise and fall of irrelevant conversations crowding crowding a school of fish a crowd of people touching the world with inept fingertips. overactive they move across the young pavement , grassessesss coffe drunks and corrupts all sleep, i’m one bad blink away from a car wreck.

i saw the lights and ran
back to the chambers of electricity
we hold our madness in light boxes.

As I sit in this corporate stuff hole and contemplate bored rooms and office snax.
As I recall the cubicles and queues of my parents, I become uneasy.
My head hurts from drinking and I shake from all events.

i sit at the typewriter and wait. i sit and tap the keys in metronome and wonder. Wander about this recent emptiness tap tap tap wonder how to jolt myself out. Or how to slowly, forcibly and effectively work myself back into some knack for this. There were times when this was easier, when i couldn’t type fast enough to maintain the speed of my inner thoughts… and beautiful moments tap were lost;

gradient to nothingness

in response to no responses i reply with an umm
my hosting skills are nonexistent
the coffee is waiting and the cat needs petting
when This day is over,
a naked lunch held
by gum and digression
this song is a chasm, with a dum sense of irony
this life is in cinema and i’m a blur at the party
a bum on the sofa with a lexicon of bum words
there is no known narration
sterile cadence and no
connection
a sum line of hums and umms

as my coffee gets colder and
i pluck cat hairs from my pancake syrup
i think of something profound to say
and worry that this computer will crash
in the process