EditedIt's too exhausting to try to keep up.
manic manic manic manic
(loveletters)
I have no message(s).
Revised BrainstormTime is marching on Without me?Revised Brainstorm
I'm scared
So much changes Seconds, numbers fly by -
And here I am
Sedentary, just as hollow In an ironically brilliant orange t-shirt and fraying sweatpants Staring empty-eyed at a screen
Watching
As time leaves me behind.
The House of a PoetThe sighes crept like dust from the star-speckled windows. Ancient blinds pushed aside, creaking; molding lace unraveling with threads spinning gently in the northern winds. Inside the vined, crumbling facade, gnarled eyes peer from peeling wallpaper and cobwebs are hung as tapestries -- taking deep, tolling sips of the ambiance. With a knotted chair purchased for yesterday's lunch at a thrift store, its barely fluted edges worn down with thought. If this is the portent of tomorrow, it is stained with ink and candlewax that carried the sweepings of creatiThe House of a Poet
generatorscrapings:insomniaI press my hands against the pallid basin -- The hard, gray stone smells of headaches and of this long night when all I need is a glass of water and yet my tongue screams for quenching. My eyes shudder, battled ships on frothy seas that careen foolishily out into the hour hand of the clock. But I keep vigil, my mind twisted into delicate silk knots of anxiety -- wondering when the hollow light of morning will come and empty relief into this fragile monophony. As I draw my charred manias into sobriety, I knit an agitated quilt of sleepless nights and lassitudes meant to crgeneratorscrapings:insomnia
unfinished as of 7.3.07I scrape only through Plathitudes, swimming sluggishly down Shelley, immersed in a simmering fever of a callous degree that fights for those who hung living portraits on the slate of the mind and thought within the oblique twists of the wallpaper. This is a hot red streak of artistic passion that once infected the fingers of those who made instruments of dusk and leaves, and who crocheted the stars a blanket in their first poem about time. It is the same disease that slaughered Hemingway, Arbus, and Woolf as they plumbed for meaning and swept ashes into their coffins instead; that deunfinished as of 7.3.07
In the Style of Stein's.....In the (Attempted) Style of Gertrude Stein's "If I Told Him: A Completed Portrait of Picasso"In the Style of Stein's.....
i am i am changed changed changed i am changed am i changed changed changed brushed brushed and set side up how i am changing a red in the hand changing red chameleon red, red dice, dice, redyellow dice, I am changed green luck kiss the dice blow the i dice to the blue am indigo streak of the changed kiss it touch it change it touch it touch it i am, am am i am changed in violet it empties my fing
Regretful
--
I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart. I am. I am. I am.
(Plath)
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