the joy of walking through a pretty neighborhood in the morning
there is a bite in the air
it vitalizes
we share a common lung
road kill
all garages become storage units
we have too much shit
cars have to park outside and endure the weather
some die of exposure
others step over the roasted skeletons
and thrive (drive)
abstraction. parking spots I'll never find myself.
stairways walking up to unknown patios
invisible palisades
in the morning
fallen leaves underfoot
death is so fragile
every time I lay down I feel like I'm in a coffin
lowered underground six feet
uprooted flowers on top of me
spare me the sincerities
I'd wish them all to be screaming
because I miss them not because they miss me
but I can never assure them fully
that I'm listening
vibrant movements on the walk
dancing steps and following trails
made by others
love fed by lovers
eaten hungrily by wolves
night-sick and burrowing into shelves on clay
the solid and hollow earth
the burning center is a myth
we are the burning center
----
write joyously about a morning sidewalk but titled it something grotesque and negative
'dying slowly and painfully'
though about a nice and joyful experience through the trees.
then do the opposite
meaning 'pretty morning walks'
though the content, a poem probably, would be about dead animals in the streets and neglected love and worse.
----
trees grow through power lines and vice versa
reaching upward to illuminate television screens
I mean everything so dearly
I hold them so close to my heart
though they would never know
anything other
----
had been full of such inspiration and a great amount of it became lost in translation
---
feeling like an astronaut without a space suit. flailing helplessly through a vacuum burning alive and freezing to death simultaneously depending on which part of you faces the sun at the moment of evacuation. when your life flashes before your eyes will it leave you blind? that would be nice. otherwise it's just a huge veil of images with no connections, no meaning, no stanzas in this poetry. your meter is a fucking mess. though it's fine. I'd rather you slur your words than hold your tongue. There is so much expression to share with all of the rest of mankind. That is your purpose. I guess. I guess I believe in concrete written word to propagate my legacy. No matter how small. the act of writing is simultaneously the act of remembering, forgetting, and also communication. in the most basic sense, communication. maybe also a form of time travel, as I've said before years ago... it's written down somewhere. I believed that writing is a form of this kind of time/space teleportation because the present me writing this material is the past me from your perspective. I'm writing to you from your past. Which is my present. Which becomes my future. Then I can look back, like turning around suddenly when you feel like someone is following. I will ask myself, "Are these words still mine? Or do they now belong to someone else?' and I'll have no answer. Past me has no answer. Present me has no answer. Perhaps future me... There is the disconnection. I experience a strange kind of deja vu mentioning the thoughts of the past. I feel the moment I wrote them, in a sense, departed from the alcoholic delirium between the years. the movement and forward progress (in most things) though some things stay the same. the better parts improve I hope. present me? I am sitting in a white dress shirt licking nature valley bar fragments from my teeth sipping on rum and coke. The couch is comfortable though I sit on edge like that euphemism for a captivating movie. This is not a film it is a life with only fragments of video footage. Every has the capacity to save everything these days. Our lives become social experiments. And soon I will exit and walk down to the bar, thinking about life with all my heart.
