There's no sophic sense, here. To find. Wringing out words like wet maps. Won't get you anywhere. That's actually a lie. Exception: accidental novels on loan in the washing machine.

. . . gasp . . .

I'm still ringing dull and empty like finger-plunking the side of an empty [European] aluminum can. I still haven't been writing. Words just don't seem to come like they used to. Maybe that's a good sign. Sometimes I fear that the writing comes only during my cold-binging moments of insanity. That's probably a lie. Or isn't.

I went to the sun.

And now I'm back.

Here there is me.

Listen. I'm not going to be around for awhile. Not at the ends of your lines when they ring. No late night knocks on doors when you've stumbled in from drinks with friends and all you want's my familar words to linger in like wading pools for toes. When you pour out the last vestiges of that bottle of red wine. I just won't be there. But I'll be somewhere. Until I search my way back. Running as fast as I can toward you again. Eyes and palms wide. Ready.

Miss me. Miss you.

if aliens dressed you. addressed you. and i danced on your bouquets like graves. no, not like that. let's stop the spewing. like the bad poetry i used to write in the furnace room of the basement when i was young. and suddenly sticking my head in the furnace was a better alternative than that spot. the spot. locations of terror masked out by constant squares of linoleum. i am not like you. here. not there. nowhere it seems is anywhere different. than. anyway. so, we're the same. i hone in on you. reel you in like fishes struggling at the end of reels. to be caught. and when you are we and we sometimes catches my eye. i don't drop the pan. not even though it's hot. stop the shout. make black turn soundward. drown my ears until they disappear. I don't know. I DON'T KNOW, ANYMORE. maybe that's the point. when there isn't a point. the legs of the compass swing loose and unafraid. the dull end skimming the surface like my words in your throat when you remember me late at night like those things you meant to do but forgot. simpler maybe i'll seem unpronged, without light. and maybe you'll start.