:: Free writes ::
I hear the voices through concrete and wood. Dampened by the clock and Loa’s fur between your fingers. The metronome squeaks and coughs through the ceiling. Bite the blue thing I always looked at but never saw. I lie to myself. This much is true. Like you. And you. Like you and. What if we never mean what we think. Is this reality any better than the next. It’s scratching as furiously as this pen writes or this rain falls in tiny pellets of language. Silence. I have snippets of dreams, or are they memories. And dandelions waiting to be blown. Like the ink that runs through the page. It will run and wriggle through, like soil hugging a flower’s stem. And then. And then you decide to say what’s on your mind. Not what you think I want to hear and not what you think I expect. There are no expectations here. If I bake you a pie. Will you eat it? Will you eat it with ice cream? Or when it’s still warm, or hot enough to burn your tongue? I wonder what you wear to bed.
Saturday, 4.23.11, 12:54am @ Jake’s.
Purple tendrils peek out from behind speakers behind the fan. The sleeping fan. And the green ceiling. I couldn’t keep my eyes from. Looking up. They’re rolling hills. Rolling hills above us. And pictures. Picture frames on the walls on the hillsides. What if it was purple? The ceiling. Or blue. Or yellow. Black? Would my neck crane. Would it be the same. Looking up. Looking down at you and smiling. We don’t have to be. Smiling. Smizing is OK. I don’t look up from the table. From the college-ruled crypt I’ve been staring at, glaring at for as long as I’ve been trying to write something profound and beautiful. As the moments are that we pay attention to. We sit in sandboxes; quicksand of yesterday or a possible tomorrow and miss the essence of now. Right now. In this moment it’s not a remembrance or a reflection or a pondering. There are no time references to carry each moment as it’s lived. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in.
Tuesday, 9.20.11, @ Joe Bar.