There was a spider on my bed so I didn't sleep. So let's read this fast. hey! Ran circles round the past across blue lines instead. Thought how WOW!-great this all is. Thought about the rain too, and the dumping you, and it's all just making my mind allergic and delayed. Still it's rampant and dismantic. (Not a word? ah hell) Need the music and the dance, need the frantic and the pace.
Neeed a few weeks sleep, but I'm always saying that...
Here we go - fumble down and round with me tonight and let it roll across the records' rhythm. Let everything I've said and tried to say but not, restart and let it play. Play. What fun that is, that I know again and trouble it is, I know that too all daylight long. And day it's been, day gone again. Be again! Round and round and oh, I need a drink... (I should say) and maybe true. Maybe woo and hoo and hoorah what a change....transfor-mation all it's been. So let's go! Race across the street and wake with all the jokes and thought and hoo all surmised in sleep - and revel and revive and just go with it dammit! It's not that scary. Commit, commit to the work and the work and coming change to heat and legs and sweating proof of...proof of life and liberty and me just going going - mind gone going.
sigh.
Sleep and know me better.
. . .
4/6/17
New England.
originally written some time ago.
I didn't think about the sharks!
In New England on the Cape, on a sweltering night - that should've been cool and fine - I thought about the ocean. Raced to it rather. Ached for it. Got on the plane in thoughts of it!
Then it looked - like nothing Baltimore had ever been (or anywhere I'd been) -
yes, the waves could hardly be seen (though they rocked suddenly with starry near dawn fury) -
yes the fleeing it had been from where we'd been (the party still going with sounds caught suddenly around and gone again),
- but the feeling; the current's force of pushhh - then steady, - of me. But it was blinding - like a spelled, nearly purple fog-hot-night. A reach into the distance, that I need hours still more back with, to understand. It blended and sprayed and hurled itself.
And I was free.
There will never be enough words for that simple phrase just then.
Always quit and drive - or fly or dive - or simply run like hell into some landscape abyss. Cause I did. No job ahead, completely unemployed by force of choice and reason and.. we won't get into that - I'd escaped hell (knew that much) and it was beautiful to see.
To be between - like the waves, and my soaked red dress, and embrace -- between everything. Between one great emptiness to another, and there was the ocean.
Maybe I'd swim to the edge of where all our stories are - maybe I'd lie on the Cape sand for days - grow ruddy and mossy - maybe I'd go back and sign a contract.
But all I wanted was that ocean then. And some friends, and some joys, and ah! the celebrations (floating back) for the cause of course! The love after all was mighty.
But that ocean that night - and the mind it filled me with. I want always that, going forward, my direction to where and none and artistry.
I want always to reawaken there (let's plan it) - and know- we must all travel. Milesssss into each other's tent and KNOW. Quit and leap and dive and whooooshhh - swoosh - whoosh - swooosh.
There it began.
And I the lover there, cause life just goes.
- *Moved 1 month later.
. . .
I didn't think about the sharks!
In New England on the Cape, on a sweltering night - that should've been cool and fine - I thought about the ocean. Raced to it rather. Ached for it. Got on the plane in thoughts of it!
Then it looked - like nothing Baltimore had ever been (or anywhere I'd been) -
yes, the waves could hardly be seen (though they rocked suddenly with starry near dawn fury) -
yes the fleeing it had been from where we'd been (the party still going with sounds caught suddenly around and gone again),
- but the feeling; the current's force of pushhh - then steady, - of me. But it was blinding - like a spelled, nearly purple fog-hot-night. A reach into the distance, that I need hours still more back with, to understand. It blended and sprayed and hurled itself.
And I was free.
There will never be enough words for that simple phrase just then.
Always quit and drive - or fly or dive - or simply run like hell into some landscape abyss. Cause I did. No job ahead, completely unemployed by force of choice and reason and.. we won't get into that - I'd escaped hell (knew that much) and it was beautiful to see.
To be between - like the waves, and my soaked red dress, and embrace -- between everything. Between one great emptiness to another, and there was the ocean.
Maybe I'd swim to the edge of where all our stories are - maybe I'd lie on the Cape sand for days - grow ruddy and mossy - maybe I'd go back and sign a contract.
But all I wanted was that ocean then. And some friends, and some joys, and ah! the celebrations (floating back) for the cause of course! The love after all was mighty.
But that ocean that night - and the mind it filled me with. I want always that, going forward, my direction to where and none and artistry.
I want always to reawaken there (let's plan it) - and know- we must all travel. Milesssss into each other's tent and KNOW. Quit and leap and dive and whooooshhh - swoosh - whoosh - swooosh.
There it began.
And I the lover there, cause life just goes.
- *Moved 1 month later.
. . .
Another one to California
originally written oct 2016.
You've gone longer to me I remembered.
A friend knew better the other night - it was two years instead of one.
It was more holidays, more stories, and more nights happy at that diner than I remembered.
So I thought of you and California, like I do when there's room. Thought of that strange night with the french film and the Beast. How you said goodbye to inanimate decorations, weird, and how we talked and kissed and danced in the kitchen, and thought everything atop each other all at once, it's just a blur. Like it was always.
And then I thought of Christmas; and no more.
Cause we're lovers on the fates that we don't know or give a damn. Cause I've moved twice now since and don't know your address anymore, as it goes. The Kent won't have me sitting in that booth to surprise, and planes I hear don't fly this way.
Because you never did come home.
And I never do stay on the level of reality you say. I like the passion and the poetry - and saying things we couldn't mean. I like the stories you crafted far better, and where it took us to all the lands and mess and quite dangerous - revelry.
So maybe two years will become 20. Maybe this is the last time finally. But oh, how sad that'll be to miss it all.
How we're long gone, long aged, and long lying still (what trickery!). I hardly remember anymore when exactly that all was. I hardly remember it should end - me telling secrets in code and letting it go. Letting memories just sit beside like old friends do.
Me going back to the woman I knew.
. . .
You've gone longer to me I remembered.
A friend knew better the other night - it was two years instead of one.
It was more holidays, more stories, and more nights happy at that diner than I remembered.
So I thought of you and California, like I do when there's room. Thought of that strange night with the french film and the Beast. How you said goodbye to inanimate decorations, weird, and how we talked and kissed and danced in the kitchen, and thought everything atop each other all at once, it's just a blur. Like it was always.
And then I thought of Christmas; and no more.
Cause we're lovers on the fates that we don't know or give a damn. Cause I've moved twice now since and don't know your address anymore, as it goes. The Kent won't have me sitting in that booth to surprise, and planes I hear don't fly this way.
Because you never did come home.
And I never do stay on the level of reality you say. I like the passion and the poetry - and saying things we couldn't mean. I like the stories you crafted far better, and where it took us to all the lands and mess and quite dangerous - revelry.
So maybe two years will become 20. Maybe this is the last time finally. But oh, how sad that'll be to miss it all.
How we're long gone, long aged, and long lying still (what trickery!). I hardly remember anymore when exactly that all was. I hardly remember it should end - me telling secrets in code and letting it go. Letting memories just sit beside like old friends do.
Me going back to the woman I knew.
. . .
Failed.
originally written oct 2016.
Alright I failed. Maybe I failed. As the crickets whine into another autumn, - and I get it. I should've gone so long ago, because some time ago in all the mess I lost all of myself and my pieces, and my... I don't know it was lost.
Entirely this time. Unlike all the fabricated false tortures before (for art! for youth! for anything..). Hah. Because those were the times I felt I was standing there in the middle of the Wide Open screaming poetry and it was good.
And then, this now, so bad.
Serious and lacking taste kind of terrible-bad.
The other day I picked up a pen and it trembled, it shook, all my letters looked a-mush. And that was it. That was the giving up reality. There's no new paintings, no new words, no new stories and no new love - so what the F have I done?
Sigh and breathe.
My own language, don't you see, "dear friend" (I once wrote), it's forgotten. I fear on certain afternoons (all of them) and certain shakes awake in sleep that I'll never find again - never see again - never truly create again. Cause what is that? This is the end, I well know it - curtain close on creativity.
If I could get the dream, the glittering other place we're all really writing about and so we share it - maybe. Maybe it's just the MOVING that matters. New entries and new walks home - new faces and new thoughts they've gotta muster. Escape myself if I could, so I will, cause I rattle the cage. And it aches.
. . .
Alright I failed. Maybe I failed. As the crickets whine into another autumn, - and I get it. I should've gone so long ago, because some time ago in all the mess I lost all of myself and my pieces, and my... I don't know it was lost.
Entirely this time. Unlike all the fabricated false tortures before (for art! for youth! for anything..). Hah. Because those were the times I felt I was standing there in the middle of the Wide Open screaming poetry and it was good.
And then, this now, so bad.
Serious and lacking taste kind of terrible-bad.
The other day I picked up a pen and it trembled, it shook, all my letters looked a-mush. And that was it. That was the giving up reality. There's no new paintings, no new words, no new stories and no new love - so what the F have I done?
Sigh and breathe.
My own language, don't you see, "dear friend" (I once wrote), it's forgotten. I fear on certain afternoons (all of them) and certain shakes awake in sleep that I'll never find again - never see again - never truly create again. Cause what is that? This is the end, I well know it - curtain close on creativity.
If I could get the dream, the glittering other place we're all really writing about and so we share it - maybe. Maybe it's just the MOVING that matters. New entries and new walks home - new faces and new thoughts they've gotta muster. Escape myself if I could, so I will, cause I rattle the cage. And it aches.
. . .
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