Tag Archives: Ramblings

Drunk hammered piano
Porch idle picked guitar
And you’re scraping dust
From the cracked old elegant tile
Up on those gummy rubber treads
Them kickers and stompers, yeah
She’s there with her hair fine like sand
Honey brown and deep as old cork
Are you looking old?
Hating every sentence in your head
Ready to give this one up
There’s a kink in the hose
Nothing coming, bone dry

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Another year another place another alone (again) but not forgotten (again)

Things are opening (progressing [in progress]) moving along and as a man in a (child’s) lifestyle I can feel the shell starting to break, we’re hatching, we’re living, we’re finding what we may have been meant to be.

Sometime in the past I thought maybe I could have been a somebody, and I thought I knew not how to get there but how to find out how.  Turns out I’m wrong but I might have been right?

Anyway there’s another way.  Bring on the new chapter and if this is a good one let it be long.

In another dimension – What do I do about who I do?  She is sweet, like a sticky dessert, and the way she sticks to me is too like a cinnamon roll but I lost my sweet tooth a while back.  She is good to me and I try to believe that I am good to her, but a guilty conscience is not the same as a loving heart.  Do I love her?  I say I do, and if I am lying then I am not the adult that I thought I might have been.

Well, well, well, well, well.

Now there’s time to think.

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There’s not too many days go by – almost none – where I hit some sleep without a thin-blooding aid.  Every day I declare a new me a new start a new state of life and I take a half a stride, take a stride, take a half stride, but there’s always the comforting kiss of a glass when things get too far or the world gets too close.

Tomorrow I’ve got a longstanding long waiting longtogo date with someone special.  Not special to me though she has all the earmarks of a first edition (I am her first edition-she is not mine).  I’m parked about a thousand miles away sitting in a pseudo-bar drunk on intrigue with a little woman who went out of her kindness to find out who I am. I don’t know who she is but I like the glimpses I can take into her life.

She is a young (short lived not fledgling) with a penchant for accidental adventure and the blindness to see me as a challenge.  She challenges me.   But where am I in relation (juxta non juxta position response query?) to that challenge?  Is the challenge the query? Do I need to answer?

I’m not at a crossroads but I take a lot of roads without outlets.  What I’ve learned is that I can tell stories but the only story worth telling is the story of the

Boom boom boom

“What am I thinking,” she asks matter-of-factly.  “What are you thinking,” I respond

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Just tell them all what it is,
what is it?

Only a series of random objects:
The Edible and Inedible / Sacred and Profane, hand-churned by waterfall and ejected or Regurgitated onto an inexpensive plate.

Nothing for a bird to see here except a little bit of pleasure in a sunny little hell. Even the birds won’t eat the dead here they say (and by they I mean myself) but I’m not much of an authority on these things

It just sounded good on paper–So an anonymous architect of half thought ideas is surely a finer recommendation

PALM TREE is an ancient sort of vegitant (which I suppose we love for its glamorous images of sunwashed beaches and tropical sunsets [monkeys, coconuts, you know the type]) I don’t know if they do much as far as plants go, THEY STABILIZE DIRT HILLOCKS maybe? But don’t quote me on that.

When palm fronds get old they tend to blow away in thunderstorms and are heavier than you’d think, the stalk inside the frond is thick and fibrous and sometimes I think it has spikes.

You know that feeling when a song intro seems to have all the right elements and then the track proper starts and it’s not the kind of thing you can dance to?  I think the more we understand that emotion the better we might understand such phenomena as love and Christmas presents.  Obviously love and Christmas are equally viable subjects for psychological investigation and my initial suggestion is only a matter of opinion.

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To explain the inner functions (cogs gears mechaniques) of my brain mind, allow follow me as I construct this (phrase sentence thought idea) selection of random thoughts turbulating in here:
I (All writing stems from ego of course, for why would we record thoughts if we did not expect someone to want to read them?)
Once (at risk of sounding pretentious but “once I” is the voice of a kid [child? {a sandy-haired young early elementaryschooler n a blue denim gingham cordourouy cotton dress tugging at mother’s skirts driving hips into fists into hips standing ground in a wood-chipped playground boasting of past glories}]).
Wrote (by rote [too corny by a half] [as in reference to several falsely clever pieces with whimsically forced themes])
Nothing (don’t you mind the mess)

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Death, The Life Story

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"Sometimes I can hear my bones straining under the weight of all the lives I'm not living."- Jonathan Safran Foer. || student, loves travelling and perhaps baking a cake.||

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