Wasteland

I don't write a lot these days because I just get hjhlkjhjh when I do (that isn't a word but I can't think of an adjective to accurately convey the emotion, so). Writing is cathartic, yes. But my blog is public, and I'm afraid I'll write too much. Not that I have a lot of readers, but I've found out lately that I do have a few ghost readers (people who read my blog anonymously). Not that that is a problem. I am grateful that I am not just writing to myself. But, because of the mystery behind who my few readers are, I can't just say anything. And I prefer to just feel nothing about what I want to say. Leave everything unaddressed until I actually have something to do about it. But I am always honest. Because I can always turn around an omit things or delete my post altogether. I'll do what I always do and drape my unbridled, bare thoughts in a figurative cloak. I know a lot of the writing on this blog sucks. It's unrevised. Raw. Streams of consciousness. Anyway. Do I sound like I'm on drugs? I'm not. Maybe I am being too esoteric.

Wasteland

Love is a rope. Dangling and frayed. Fashioned into a waiting noose. Or a lifeline. A fibrous knot. Or pulled taut. And nearly breaking.

You were my crush. Now you're just crushing my heart. And I crush myself. Maybe I was better off. Heart in the gutter, lips near the mic. Making music in the cafe where I was sitting uptight before you, sitting upright. Singing to faces laden with shadows. And the mint tea on your lips. Sugar? the lies. But now I'm the liar. Stirring tears in my eyes. Erase it all. With melody and songs about last fall. But you aren't there to hear.

You're gone soon after you appear. Unspoken words run in rivulets. Down my heart and into a void. Where you and I were in love. In danger of..dying together on that battlefield. Hand in hand. Afghanistan. Left you well. Time will tell.
But snipped the rope
I
f
e
l
l
Knees skirting the dirt in this familiar wasteland
Unheard song, unsung. The end, written on a leaflet wet and went with a maelstrom:
Your tea down the drain.
Walking home alone. Drizzle to hard rain.

Sojourn

It's late. My thoughts are marbled, but clear. I'm over it. Checking out. Seems these dreams were filled with psilocybin weeds. But I'm beginning to see where I really am. There are better fish in the sea. So I'll unhook this old one that's been slithering for so long in these hands, and throw you into the small tank where you belong. I can already see your nacreous scales flickering like watercolored gems in the sun and then fading to black beneath the sinking depths. Like the idea of you and me. My world is widening now. I'm smarter now. Forget the stupidity and naivety of my youth.  I go back to the things I wrote and said, and I laugh. But I've been journaling since I was 6 years old and I've been through many laughable phases. Multi-faceted laughter. Hysterical, sad, embarrassed, nostalgic, angry, humored, joyful and traumatized laughter. Which face is it wearing this time? How did I not see this before. I've stood at this embankment for so long (years). I thought this water was crystal, but it is black and seething with regret. I saw the embankment falling apart, but allowed the murky waters to spill over and push me down. And I've been lying belly down in this stagnant puddle of a sea. But my mind has been too clouded by affections and metaphors and the preternatural of the fictional worlds in my head.

But I sense a scent like honey lingering in the adjacent valley. So I will fly there. Below the clouds where you will see me and lament. Forget invisibility. I am the snow capped mountain which erases the blood horizon, no longer the pebble wedged between two concrete slabs. I am here. But I am also gone. And my laughter will echo in the valley from which I first sojourned. And you will keep running after it,  hoping to find my wings protruding from the next corner.

"By tomorrow we'll be swimming with the fishes
Leave our troubles in the sand.
And when the sun comes up,
We'll be nothing but dust,
Just the outlines of our hands."

I hate MV

I've created a new world. I've put idealism in a bubble and made that my retreat. That is the problem with being a writer and a reader; I can't find solid ground in reality. At least not recently. I go to work and drift through the hours. I watch people walking around and watch them interact with each other and realize that the city I work in is a black hole. Once you come near it, it sucks you into a dark place and won't let you go. Is everyone here a carbon copy of each other? Impolite? Hostile? Illiterate? Crazy? Uncultured? Everything bad that has ever happened to me has happened in this city. How is it that it is so hard to escape. I've taken dust from the sky and rain off the pavement and molded them into hills to hide behind.