so much of me is missing dwindling infinitesimally am no longer what never was
So then is this wilderness? If this voice is in it, it is wilderness . Or is it? And bewildered, I make a play at a play on words and find that it’s been made already, so not so wild after all, but utterly bewildered still. It may be this voice I am makes wilderness of wonderlands by chasing every ear away with overearnest beckonings or wordplay becoming rough and clumsy unbecoming to the ear or eye so a field of language laid waste. My voice creates a wasteland, I might say. A wasteland being a place of uncreation; barren, uninhabited, uninhabitable by any save this habitual player playing at remaking sayings, saying unsense as I’ve said before as I am densely self-referential. My voice is not a fire, nor a storm destroying, but an absence, yes a vacuum that evacuates by lack of force as it’s an unability that’s able to pull fertility, familiars far away from me. In short, I “suck”, colloquially; suck life from living into formless worlds unfertile, never fetid, as even rot would be a welcome presence next to this.
Just sayin’ – A phrase affixed to statements that may seem bold, offensive or arrogant , but for which the speaker refuses to take responsibility. Often disguised as a jest. See also: (just) kidding, LOL , :) and ;).
“I never said half the things attributed to me on the internet. Honestly, I don’t know where people get this shit.”
– Abraham Lincoln and/or Albert Einstein, Gandhi, Jesus Christ, FDR, JFK, RFK, MLK, UBL, ROM (Space Knight), Eleanor Roosevelt, Theodore Roosevelt, Thomas Jefferson, George Jefferson, Nostradamus, Charlie Sheen, Nene, Yahweh, Allah, Batman, Superman, Scooby-Doo, Mick Jagger, Orville Redenbacher, Colonel Sanders, Lauryn Hill, Tommy Hilfiger, Paul Harvey, Andy Rooney, etc…
So, my brain. My brain does so many things to me that I’d like to write about, but my brain won’t let me come out and say what those things are. My brain makes figures and figments and formerly fictions. My brain hems its hawings with hee-haw and huckleberries til I knuckle under sputtering unsense. It’ll be a day the day my brain tattles its tales, I tell you. I tell you I can’t. I tell you I can’t tell you what a tale. I tell you I’ll never tell. I can’t. I tell you I can’t tell.
something dead in me that doesn’t want to die and I don’t know do I want it dead or not or do I want it there just dying all the time as one long dying cry might be my style, a way to exhale always waiting for a next and better breath to refulfill me
I’ve been meaning to post something here about how I can’t get myself to write anymore, but I just don’t seem to be able to find the right words. It’s a shame, too, because writing about not being able to write used to be something of a specialty of mine.
Blocked or locked away all associations made tame, slavish,
depraved . I need new names for blaming, new ways to embrace my shame.
As my most recent bout with sobriety approaches the six-month mark, I find that while I crave beer
far somewhat less than I did early on, I am afraid that if a wild turkey were to land near me, I would fuck it to death and eat it on the spot.
(I wrote this five years ago. I don’t know why.)
The night intended to empty me of dreams. The risen sun funnels its golden phantoms into my eyes. I’m meant for sleep, the silent kind. There’s no peace for me upon earth’s surface. Chthonic gnomes might make me welcome. I’ll join them soon. We’ll dine on magma and potatoes. On occasion I may help out in the forge by giving them a drop of blood or two to whet the appetite of some sword newly made or battle ax. We’ll be, like, Neolithic, Baby and you can visit me if you promise to bring the pomegranates for picnics with the seedy demons down the street.