the spiralling of a thought

all these strings are attaching to me,
and i can't find the scissors. yeah... i can't
remember where i was, i forgot. knitting it all, these holes
that i need, to crawl through a brick wall,
is hard to say the least.
where's that thought,
that thought uncomplicated things?
where's that peace of mind, that peace
that made it easy?
i got you a murky light, tell me what can you see?


tired body. the mind is begging for release, for time to expand and spread like the tentacles of an
ink-spotted squid in the midst of all that ocean, all that water swaying and sinking deeper into the sand so that it becomes
black because there is no other place for light but in the cracks that do not exist.
all that ocean, rushing against the corners of my skull, and it's spilling. if you look closely, stare directly into
the eyes that are buried beneath my lashes [those strands of piano colored wire] that have closed, behind the twisting memory of green and hazel
and gray that interlace the surface of my iris, beneath these lines there is the sea, leaking. beads are forming,
bursting through my skin and howling for ink. these beads are words,
haunting the invisible spaces between oxygen molecules,
seducing my finger tips with the promise of magnetism, then rushing away just before they're caught
in the steel.
so much pressure is building there, beneath the surface of my body. it's swimming through
my veins, filling muscle with sound so quickly, like violin strings shriek when they break. snapping. small. infinitely important to the symphony.
but the words are crammed between crevices, stifled inside the
moments just before i become silent, asleep. because of a tired body.


favorites:
gone going (jack johnson cover by the black eyed peas)
lonelily (damien rice)
jones green apple carbonated candy
the meditation room at the top of the tower in the morning, by the lake, with sunshine.
bob seger and neil young roadtrip repeats
dumpstered bread
tim o'brien
'the birth of something terrible'
rain on the roof, 3rd floor residence.
falling into schedules
pillows that retain scents
perkins and wine
tangent queen 2.0
co-op life
friends at night and cacciato in the morning
limeade, the slowing down of time, and sleep.


i'm sorry if i'm bad at this. i'm really not used to it... that isn't much of an excuse, but i think it scares me a little to finally have to leave me to love. it'll take me awhile, probably too long, it'll spoil, i'm sure. that's what i do. it's just that i'm trying not to this time. i'll try, i swear.

because if you let your eyes disappear from the points at which they are actually looking, things will begin to grow and sway and follow themselves in circles until their shapes have been totally misshappen. there is a constant buzzing, right behind the ears, and your eyes begin to follow things while they trace even though one eye will ineffectually and incompletely close. then the prickles begin, like pepper and cayenne, and they have melted and begun to fade inside your irises. the spinning becomes like the swaying of the ocean, which comes at five along with the sounds of that bell, that beast that rings across the waters like bullets of forgotten ballet-battled ruins.

there are multiple levels, which grow out of any sort of space that is inside or outside the consciousness. colors and shapes begins to collect words and emotions and ideas like the strings of lightning things that grow from the sky out of dust particles. the traces will never remain like they would in deep sand or between waves at night. your ears and eyes jump to twenty-four seconds at once, still beginning to sprout cerulean wrapped skeletons. hallelujah. thoughts begin to follow themselves down into stalagmite tunnels, rocks and hollow furrowings into the spaces of your brain that are all fizzing (like explosions inside ocean waves echoing through the nerve endings in your memories).