nothing in the refrigerator nothing to snack on to pass the last 20 minutes before i go to sleep. shame. the most painful part of the day turning 1 page in a book. rushing upstairs to find that my water had spilled, i was most devastated. it has been far too long since we met, the days are beyond endless i have almost forgotten when it was i last looked into your eyes. the careful pain and humor swirling endlessly. i must be able to stare into them. do not blink just look at me, out beyond there is a house with children playing on the roof. this is dangerous.

ta t ta ta ta ta tat ta ia ta tia tait iat iati atita tait

-the sound of a white porcelain plate bouncing along the pavement.

i'm just passed out in silence, my mind is scattered in a million directions so that i can barely think. this feeling of being lost inside of my head is a maddening feeling; i keep reaching out to grab something but it all just evades me like atoms and what goes on inside of them. now the fan is off because the weather is getting cooler. soon i wont be able to stand on the wood floor barefoot. the chilling touch of wood to skin in the winter can be arresting. nice kitchens remind me of writing on blank sheets of paper, sitting at the kitchen with a bottle of wine open. it should be in the afternoon or around 9 pm when the night has settled but there is plenty of time left. the end of everything at the corner of a bar where the windows are shut in with plywood, an old willow tree overhangs outside there is a pile of wood out front and a yard with couches and chairs, a hookah, ashtrays, bits of wire picked apart burnt down candles, wax spreading across a glass & metal table, a half shade built out of wood that blocks the view of a train track. there is also a swing set in the back and sometimes even people swinging in it, getting drunk in the middle of the night, men and women would ask each other to have a talk outside or have a fuck outside, or have a kiss, or have a smoke, have a read, whatever it was it usually ended up near or on the swings. inside there was a television that played movies perched behind the bar, the bartender drinking out of a cup-coffee, sometimes coffee and whiskey, smoking cigarettes reading literature. underneath the counter were poems-forgotten phone numbers left over by forgetfulness. sometimes he called. HA HA!.

i had this premonition once of a boy child exploding out of a blue volcano, somehow glorious in a deepening twilight lightning bolts a moon, a forest & lake, hunched out of this resplendence to arise Arise. he crawls away from the disaster all smiles and shaking legs that are burnt. he still feels the idea of them being there only that he is just moving across the ground with nothing past his waist, just wanting what he can't have.