Whatever you think you know. Even if you take your time. Use all caps and grammatical conventions. Mind your gaps. You don't. There's always some other shoe to tie. And when the bow breaks. Just at the spot when you pull. You could blame the method. Crosses and hearts. Foxes and holes. But, really, it all comes down to the strength of the string. And who could hold fibers so accountable? For all the things lost. All the times that everything left un-tethered springs out all over everything else.
sometimes, i have nothing to say. and then it comes out like this. all kinds of nonsense language about the detritus that is laundry and bills-paid and schedules. as if those things aren't important. but they aren't this. all these vowel sounds and penny drops that get stuck in my head like the sounds of rain at night. when it plunks and swells. floods the basement and leaves everyone dumbstruck and longing for higher ground. for someone to soak up all the bullshit.
sometimes, really. it comes out like this. and still. there is just nothing. nothing but the aftermath of things i've already said. about blood and guts and nightmares and. yawn. and i am left longing for the dumbstruck. the longing. the things better left unsaid.
i'm just trying to write myself back into writing. and that's okay. that's enough. to figure out. for now.
sometimes, i forget what i am saying, and i have to go back and try to say it all over again. like, i just had a cup of coffee at 11:45 on a weekday sun shining afternoon. and everyone is asleep in the house. like i wish that there was more time for me and you and me. and. you. and so on. you know. things like that. i remember, once, that i wrote a thing about how things take time. back when i was more melancholy-strange. more deliberately intoxicated.
sometimes, i think about how i could have easily ended up living like a recluse in a shed on the back of my mother's private property. next to the christmas tree farm. with my mini-fridge and all my bills paid. then, i wonder, what i might have had to say. if i would have stopped combing my hair. taken to wearing semi-sheer-white-nightgowns and wandering around the muddy grounds barefoot and babbling. our wounds. and ghosts. if onlys. and thank.the.fucking.gods. never-nightmares.
then, i am here. where the sun shines. and everyone is asleep in the house. in the lush afternoon haze of a life i am living.
