hive mind

A many sided centipede who exists in all directions crawled on a wall bound by no sides and settled down for breakfast. When did you know you lost your mind? He questioned sipping stylistic tea. When my many legs became tongue tied, and my heart forgot to breathe. I walked and walked and still I found no thoughts anxiously remaining, so I talked on public pedestals and couldn’t stop complaining. We need a cause, we need a fix, we need a reason and a way. Illogic drawn on poster board depicts unthought that demands to have a say.

a poem

His soft soliloquy reflects the moon, a pantomime shadow puppet playing with wind. A pretty piece of palindromey that ends where it begins. A pigmented filament of dewdrop fame holds hopelessness where poems breathe. She picked a phrase with well-chose words to force an end in life’s reprieve. Mishappiness malformed to taunt a tethered wingèd wonder. Breezeblocks burning bayside bridges as wayward ways go asunder. Carthage careens carcinogens, yet erudite elders linger. Picked a peck of picked peppers, yet ten on two he counts his fingers. The punishment of pundits jettisoning just because, is the same as fancy feminists pushing papers, burning bras. I suppose you can articulate just how indifference feels, by skinning yourselves two by two and shrugging off your squeals. Clandestine cloistered communists are cloying to and fro, but Marx’s timid tipping point will be turning years ago. His soft soliloquy reflects repeated for arrhythmia affectless. The moon projecting painted scenes with dimly darkened arabesqueses. A misty mossy happenstance of creatures where they fall. The killer queen who stole her crown forewarned but not forestalled. Blink and blow and blind your beams: the sight is for the singeing. Sopping sipping flopping flipping: an open door not worth unhinging. Blue-battered burning bridges the echo is obtained concretely. An abstract rhyme with blood schemed whisky that coats a love found indiscreetly. I clipped and clopped but still I found coalescing doe-eyed dreaming. Read forwards backwards side to side produced intrinsic hoped for unplanned theming.

Saturday Mornings

It starts. I wake up with a blank day before me. I try to speed it up with caffeine. Green tea. A choice I make so many days in a row that it can hardly still be considered a choice, but an act of normalcy. An attempt to have a pattern, rather than chaos. An attempt at a plan, rather than the quenching of a thirst.  Water in a pot. Pot on a stove. A flame click click clicking on. A transfer of energy to heat the solution that will extract caffeine from leaves into a potable liquid for a second transfer of energy.  

I brush my teeth, likely too hard. I think about gum health. I think about losing my teeth. I hear it’s a common theme in dreams. It’s not for me, but one day it might happen in my waking life. Might. Possibly. A latent fear, and one I may be causing by combating by doing too much incorrectly. I’ve always been conscious of my dental hygiene, but I don’t think I have very healthy teeth regardless. I won’t know what I should have done my entire life until it’s too late.

Quincy is meowing. One of his eyes is half closed. He woke up when I did, and is confused about how to start his day as well. A series of morning meows is his pattern. It’s how he controls his life’s tiny chaos. I control mine by pouring boiling water into a cast iron tea pot. Teavana brand. It feels artificial to me. Some kind of modern interpretation of an object with a purpose. Some kind of modern interpretation of my life’s plight: everything is exactly as it appears, but nothing has any meaning. I put the lid on my teapot so that condensation collections and rains over the tea again, as a way of strengthening. As a way of putting my knowledge of chemical engineering to use.

I wait. I try to wait. I turn on my computer. Mad Men is already paused, also waiting. I click play. I watch for a minute. I click pause. The tea should be good enough. I fill the chamber with too many leaves so I don’t have to steep them as long. This is how extractions work, although this may not be how the perfect cup of tea is brewed. But this is Cleveland, and I’m not trying to impress the queen. I pour tea into a white mug stained on the inside with tea, and on the outside with paint. I wonder how many chemicals make their way into my body daily, and how they are slowly or quickly poisoning me. I won’t know this until it’s too late either. Old age feels like a series of failures that could be avoided, if only we could see the future. 

I walk back to the computer with tea in mug in hand. I light a joint. Puff puff, check my phone. No one’s ringing, but I’m answering. I sit in my chair incorrectly. I broke it not too long ago, but was able to repair it. I am now more aware of when I am sitting incorrectly in my chair, although my actual seated behavior has changed little if at all. I unpause Mad Men. I try to focus on the subtleties of the actors’ faces as they explain to me what it meant to be alive in the 1960s. I will never know what it meant to be alive in the 1960s. I sip my tea. I smoke my joint. I grow bored of the morning and all of its possibilities. I grow bored of 2017 and 1967 simultaneously: half a century reduced to banality in the eyes of a stoned 25 year old on a Saturday morning.

The sun is out. The cats meow to worship it. I open the back door, leaving the screen shut, so they can appreciate sun rays and a cool breeze from inside. Birds chirp. Cat eyes fueled by instinct follow. They meow understanding better than I do, how important it is to trust instinct. I don’t. I stay inside. Outside there are people. They might talk to me, or even worse, they might not. I stay inside. I check my phone. 9:15 am. No one’s there yet. Hours later, I assume I’ll hear from someone or someone else who has just waken up to see the start of the afternoon. That is not now. Now, we wait. We watch for chirping birds and think about how strong the desire is to pounce.

open to interpretation

Well-meaning metaphors turned tactless when read between split hairs.

Subjective language’s flimsy foundation: misobscured and hyperbeared.

A muse is blushing: intentions not unclouding down-pointed eyes.

A reader is bored: wordplay availing only undisguise.

Overcomplisimplifications:  polar opposites’ portmanteau to a greater power

And here the writer thought she thought of all potential points of pseudofailure

waiting for a date at a bar

Self-amused so self-amused so self-amusing waiting.  Deciphering a glass completely full of beer as a pessimistic situation.  If I could transform this into water I would, but what else is an antichrist to do? Sit and wait so cute and adorable? So sacrilegious, but so sweet too. Bought as a bar stool’s user’s fee: alcohol’s a tired drug.  But fine for sipping slowly sipping while rested others mindfully tug. 

Self-amusing self-amusing so self-amused and weighted. Recombining strings of thought into one just one persuasion. Placing each piece part by part to form a many-sided section.  This continually combined force-expansion is a compulsively-contrived self-embarked planless misadventure in perspective. Writing what’s unwritten as it’s revised by hapless happenstance: growing expectations form a shrinking image based on the fruitful failures of the past.

Self-amused and self-amusing so self so self so self-contained. Internal thoughts are internal combustion as a nullified hindrance watches mutually stoic wood grains. Time and time and timeliness: no punishment in consequence of no committed crime. Nothing moves save for all that’s moving, and everything is falling asynchronously in line.

Nothing moves but it’s all moving: self-righteous self-controlling cogs aid the plan of one machine. Alive alive alive and breathing: everything appears exactly as it seems. Just some added complication, just some muffled background noise, just myself sitting with my own delusion on an island of misfitting toys.

This is my play. This is my play. Just another dull part of a doldrum day, and then a blip jumps from the white of static and I turn to analyze its lurid noise. His arrival grazes barely touching with the self-puppetry of a hope so self-reprieving.  So I’ll take control and pull some willing strings, until relieved I’ll watch them slacken. My role here tonight is of a quitter who didn’t want to win, who’d wish a well-meaning goodnight to anyelse before the inevitable sunset.  

our cats, ourselves

Walter is gloomy and mysterious; Quincy is a mix of bird and dog. Walter calls for your attention while you’re asleep; Quincy waits for the alarm to meow. Walter is graceful in movement and stillness;  Quincy stutters with caution before jumping. Walter looks into your eyes to see what else is there; Quincy cannot hold eye contact. Walter lifts into the air: effortless power; Quincy witnesses without watching: interpreting. Walter is a creature of habit; Quincy goes with the flow. Walter is a love poem; Quincy is a scientist.  Walter jumps as high as he can; Quincy is most comfortable on the ground. Walter’s tail wraps around him when he’s seated: protecting, shielding; Quincy’s tail is up in the air when he’s walking: carefree, forgotten. Walter tells you he loves you; Quincy drinks your bathwater. Walter needs Quincy more; Quincy loves Walter more. Together, both found different ways to occupy the same space.

one year’s time

Summer is a line from my chest to yours that tautens as I move closer, as you reel me in. A setting sun’s indifferent angles’ shifts bring colder times as you pull away, as I stay in place. Autumn’s ever-changing colors, commit to one: jet black. Snap. Fall back. Unloosed from ties that bind. Years of choices, scripted fates, planning pointing unknowingly toward one small part of a much bigger destiny: just mine.  This is a low point, this is post-fall. This is the brutality of time passing too slowly, too quickly fading away.

Winter’s fix: a snowflake. Complex, unidentical, quickly melting between fingertips. Whitewash in aggregate, but too hopeful, too heated body’s grip’s too tight, too fast: clear-coating. Hungry eyes can’t learn to wait: melting quick-fixes, blurring to new mistakes.  After is a resurrection, after is the spring. Not healing, but reborn. Not fixing, but restarted. Moving on and moving away. Up, up, up and floating. I lost my grip, I lost my hold. Forgetting the bigger picture, for a self-doctored centerfold.