musings & scribbles

Year: 2006

  • can’t sleep

    fall asleep for 2 hours, wake up, and stay awake another 4. should i go back to sleep, or take another nap in 6, or just lay on my back until the ceiling resembles stars, the mini-mountains, shadowed, showing some mark of a stabled/stationary existence, but i know, with a pinch/apush/aslightbrushing, they will fall/willcrumble, as all do, eventually.. and where do they go, these fallen remnants of a ceiling, of what is oft-seen by night, now hidden within the sheets/the carpet/behind the desk? and what of them now? what of them then? what if the vaccuum picks them and places them, distanced, from their origination?.. though, the ceiling is hardly their origin. no, they were before the ceiling/the mold from which they hung in right fashion, though they belonged elsewhere.. perhaps the plaster next were used in mold of bust, of carvings, gone through with care by wretched artist, fumbling to be known/recognized/understood as other than a simple chipper of a mound? the tv calls, and i, weak/a weektomydebts, i look down from these words, in shame, and pray, though rarely i do, pray they be a remembrance of these noble stalactites, fashioned to be ‘bove, as, in art or placement, they, through careful hands or swift swipings of a brush so used, they, in fall or stance, so known as more, as though they majesty’s fractal musings, left/or placed/or ‘signed to be, are beauty, they, those/these landers from unknown, stars, but shining shadow ‘pon their selves, as do most in wait of notice, though so purposed they may be

  • i’ll put it in a note

    i’ll put it in a note

    “don’t forget me”
    squi/rumbles the
    unfed, unthought of gut,
    though a bit bellow belly
    and more to the rear..

    clamped, wishy-washy/tight,
    the shoulder-high head to side,tilted,
    a slant to see as eyes take,
    transfer/transform/transmognify
    the too-distant touchings
    from a universe outside the skin,
    the ah-waving hairs of tip
    and, lost, i follow, back
    inside to wait for chance,
    a happy stance i may not know
    without.

    veins, twisting, tighten, brought fluid with the thought of something more, something outside, yet i am there, on the outside, seeing/feeling/touching/knowing/breathing/intaking all and yet i know nothing of them, except the weather/the calm/the rush of wind on palm from fingers, tracing thought in rabid raze of thinkers’ pace and though i sink farther, i rise, i rain as cloud upon these keys, to know where storm may lead, and though i feel a sense of calm, this rage, this flash, lingers on
    to where, i know not, yet go, a hollow vessel, filling, leaking, holding close the image/clear, a brightened path brought close by taken steps/stairs/stares at blank, and dark, at shadow/red of veins

    to chris maine: read the first two lines and the last two.

    • musings & scribbles