cuts. dashes

the group became tighter

careful about who they let in and who they let out

ritualistic

 

some wanted in but could not get in

some wanted out but could not get out

 

those who died

were revered

typewriter. six

the voice of the machine
unmistakable. a whole room listens as
the natgeo journalist in the forest of my mind
takes a tentative step forward

that night
the ritual

a quiet preparation of the scene
the placing of a sheet
rolling it into view

the smell of oiled letter arms
placement of the fingers
for some thought momentum

the ringing of a bell
the end of every line

i slap the arm to sweep the barrel
down the rail again
hit the block and then recoil

writer’s block…
deus ex machina

carry on

depression

My skin so thin and traveling has been hard to endure no matter how local it could be the neighbor and dare i dial your number and be confronted by you and me.

My mind unreal looks for finality in rituals which have no end. Shopping the last pear half or double dozen of egg. Wishing i may never bleach the bathroom again.

All work to go away with every single necessary interaction. The ceasing of small pleasures even, only to take more sleep.

Only to dream nightmares more real than conscious reverie and only to wanna end to those, too, and only to wake to more dishes and emotions to contend…

and the very great pressure of you waiting for me to prove myself real.

fishing. indoors

a season
a reason
to get out of bed

a number
an order
a substitute
preacher

tossing
the thoughts
in my head

i’m hungry
i’m thirsty
predestined at last

i turn off the radio
deadbolt the doors
up on my toes…

then cast

my spirit likes soft light
and shadows
to play

even better if
it rains today

with knees to my chest
i sit barefoot
facing north

and wait for her
before

the sun up
lifts all life

i set the trap
in silence