Sleep stays in the eyes and she passively moved out of her old shell and into a new one. Bitter jabs like sips of strong coffee inspire deeper caffeinated pauses where words of kindness and love should be. We mistake the thundering floorboards for excuses to drink. Oh and drink. Eyeglasses and crystal waters, pilgrimage for sudden animaux through a wilderness shrinking and a city growing with traffic and tree-eating machines and smoke from uncontrolled human fires. Not the fire of love. the fire of growth and economy and the oil that pushes this machinery into a pitch high enough for it to sustain along alone.
Orange skin chair with a detachable foot faces the rose bush that grows outside the kitchen window. Not sure who belongs to the rose bush. Who is responsible for maintenance. What did the women with the open window and the cats, who lived here before me, do with the rose bush? Did she plant it and nourish the soil daily with her tears and now with an ethereal presence of ghost-seedlings. Her death allowed the wild flowers to grow for a number of weeks but I don't have an inkling of proof she died, what her names was, where she went, the history of the building, and the familiarity with the worst parts of it... the jungle plants growing in all directions having migrated from Portland through the night without much logical conversation to premeditate. It is much better here with so many living creatures rather than a stark and sterile half-life that I seemed to enter on my sad days alone regretting everything. Those days I could not write. I could not eat. They would consume my desires like a tree eating machine consumes woodland critters. An empty shell, sitting and staring at a well-analyzed poster depicting some optical illusion of Pacific Northwest scenery. Or family/friend art. Or this or that.
It is not too late to recover and burn with honest truth back into the world. With beautiful music to carry the words along and a orange comfortable chair for the type height or write height or read angle when the stars are not out, otherwise, of course, ogle them.
Haunted cottage. Kitchen area. Shoe boxes to my left. Bigger shoes in bigger box and smaller shoes in smaller box: his and hers, disgustingly. Foot powder to prevent sweat stench when the miles are arduous and the mind thinks the feet are sunk deep with the earth's equatorial mantle. I must rectify myself and address the lives I have left behind to reconcile my current decision path. Now, in a passive breeze, an estranged love returns and the tsunami warning sounded in depths, the hurricane rages through a winter frozen village and a wall of water replaces walls of brick and a sea urchin nursery replaces cobblestone brick and a great wave washes out all of the naughty words that mother's bar of soap couldn't wash... the words that remained painfully inside like a demon tearing around intestines with malicious and hidden intent. that knot in the stomach. unpleasant. is his work. he wants to cause myriad transitory pains as to not be centralized and located and host body hospitalized and extracted surgically.
the breezeway. the words I heard and ate and drank to avoid full militant comprehension. now past tense horoscope retrospect ignorance and oblique horror. what broke in me that time cannot fix? is it a sense of definitive self? a growing reach of demonic passivity toward social issues breezed over in the most catatonic conservative tone I'd ever heard. it must be the alcohol. the regret. the weird obscurity that only continues into today. any honest love and I might implode. these memories of a sunny california. longboard down calabash and topanga and the heat and a oil-soaked sandwich to quench the thirst and the pot holes the dive bars the convenience store for cigars and gatorade the dying tree and the expensive removal services and how much blood alcohol does it take to walk under the 101 and eat shit and die.
