diary

Journal # 10.08.2016

This morning I found myself splashed across the walls like water. This morning I woke from a nightmare being hunted by a man with a shotgun. Before dawn I am docile and careless, the sheets you tore up and me within them, before you left for your job and an eighteen wheeler and ten thousand gallons of oil. If only I can gather my self and my focus, today, the cell phone my natural enemy flat-backed on the dresser. This morning I shower and untangle my hair. I wanna good cut, I wanna change, I wanna punk it out with a streak of black and some sharpened angular curled tight at the nape of my neck in the back. The necklace my friend gave me several years ago, the silver icon hangs just below the the new one on the thinner chain, the hanging dove I got to remember my own ancient history. The light comes up blue in the city around me, loyalty and new love arises in me and I don’t know how to handle it. How can I fall in love again without fear? I cannot withstand another fall from great heights. A burgeoning skepticism clings to the edges, the water mark, and won’t wash away down the drain. I wanna live is all i know anymore… i wanna live or there’s nothing left.

life fully hydrated -iv-

The future will come into view, and tend the artificial light. Someone’s gotta do it. Maybe the ones who like to make points. Or the ones smoking freely of their legal painful swollen  joints. So what if we face reality. What’s the big deal about turning from it? Why not more embracing of the broke upon the broken? It doesn’t mean you like it. It may not mean you’re next. You’re eyes might change , for sure, might lose a little color. But the pale truth of compassion may be best in black and white. Those are the eyes you wanna stare into….all damn night. The closed become open minded, to air out their shuddering great depths of chilling pain. Those who ascend in great haste, from personally selected lands of sordid waste. Some to broadcast and podcast their pain, others lobbying  for just a taste.

Comedy is a wonderful treatment plan. And walking or hiking. Watch out for the men, girls. Their kinda hiking is hiking skirts. Parting the fabric seas for the young sprouts, the future of the human race… the wannabe materialists and the gonna feel deprived. The wannabe famous and the gonnabe famous… the future chicken tenders of the couch (to replace the current tenders of the couch). Turkeys. Cornish Hens. Nightwatchmen and women of the virtual screens (television junkies). Eyes fixed with such discipline. Clucking in all the right places. Pecking when necessary. Necking during commercial breaks. Braking to a perfect stop, when the feature doubles the creature… the wanna get paid for their efforts, the gonnabe disappointed again and again (myself included).