8:25 am

oh mornings
with your coffee and sunshine
and loads of friggin opportunity
though I can't even fathom
what I will do today.

Yes, it's nice to sit outside
right about now
but I have all my stuff here
in my room
and I don't even have to leave it.

Oh, self-induced hermeticism
and lexicononinventism
and blah blah blech
I'm far too tired
to be proper right now.

Sarasota Short Story: Wednesday, Post Nine.

9:32 pm. Man in running shorts, cowboy hat, other acoutrements approaches me. Flip flop noise comes from plastic shoes. Carries an umbrella, tells me I'm "ADP. All Day Pretty." I thank him. He also tells me I shouldn't drink my coffee with the lid on. Something to the extent of "the warmness does funny things to the plastic." Plus, he adds, it will taste better. I told him I have my reasons for the lid.

"You know black Kim..." man at the other table says. Says it costs him twelve dollars a month to stay at the YMCA. The tablemate, a woman's shoulder, is scarred. She wears a bikini top and a gritty laugh. People I know are inside yet I'm out here, withdrawn from something and drawn into something else, a conversation that's not mine. I know I'm avoiding something but I don't know what.

I'm reading "The Me Nobody Knows," copyright 1969. Page 20:
"I am not like all the other children. I'm different because I like to hear birds singing but I don't like to hear people shouting. It is not nice to hear people yelling or shouting in the street."

sometimes I catch people looking
their senses are taking me in
I'm wondering how neurons are firing
make my image permanent?

I'm sitting on a blanket
hitting notes for the turtles to hear
the world is nonexistent
save the space between my ears

"Big Boob Italian Food." Wish I had big boobs.

A day in June, indeterminate numerals preceding.

People people people.
Everything's cool, remember?
The method of paint chips peeling from wood
the sight of a sparrow is changing my mood
the world that surrounds me is fascinating
to see the potential in everything.

Reading "the White Album." Joan Didion. Page 55
"Diane also reports his enthusiasm for the Museum of Man in Paris, which seemed to him to offer, in the hour he spent there, 'a complete education,' the 'entire history of the human race... in summary form. '"

DownTown Universe

Freestyle walking, freestyle breath in
your prowess of droll, improvised speech
(unfathomable, on-the-spot!)
skimming off the top your knowledge of the world
separating it out, collecting what is solid just for me.
I am in awe---> or, you could say
taken aback.

Show me things of the world I do not know,
might never see
(the places that have existed far longer than you or I)
the people that built them,
that founded pieces of our modern world.

I'll show you the colors as vibrant as the objects intended,
light is to be interpreted by your eyes
(yellow yearns to be captured so vividly)
It's not in your fingers or muscles,
it's all about seeing, I say.

But really I must listen more closely to you
hearing what you say between what you don't
(sensing the tension in the air)
the pitch of your exhale
whether the soundwaves confess your bewilderment.

These things are what I know to be truest
most concrete connotation
(the least sturdy in scientific ideology)
they are the constructs
proven volatile by their own volition.

Show me about the movement of time,
of words and their transendence into the world
(I want to know more of your soul)
brushed away by wind or still permanent?
An unmoved nonmass of love versus nothing
traits that know no weight and still
are the heaviest of all.

Marina Far Away

Man on a boat all by his lonesome. Sharks are churning, his heart burning for someone far away. Paddling towards nothing, lost in the current, while a bird flies overhead. The man's vessel, his only companion, is also dead. A bone, bleached white, is the remnant of a skeleton once wrapped in life's intricacies. His stomach is blank again. The mind decays as the wind fades, the stars have all gone home. Rest comes over, eyes closed in reminiscing 'bout the people he once knew. The house that held people, church's sharp steeples impaling those that don't believe. Their souls lie on stakes as examples. The bodies won't wake from a constant state of past. No more worrying.

What is love? (as written sometime in March 2008)

Love is so different each time you feel it, it's caging freeing learning dying outstretched arms, all-encompassing. Sweeps softly, hits hard never know where it's taking you. Guess the one thing in common is that I'm led there. Love always leads the way. Guides me, holds my hand and head when I need it, out reaching branches into a vast void of growing living things, that one tie to the rest of what is good in the world. Seashells and stones, all permanent, and in contrast is me - sitting on such pillars, monuments of that permanence, and all I am is flesh organs feelings temporary. This breeze hits me as a transient voice speaking what I need to hear, love is in the air as they say and here it comes. A gushing, blustery, unfeeling force, cold or hot, gentle or fierce, always changing like love does. I cannot adjust to it, always putting on or taking off a jacket or sweater or sheild from letting these things hurt me or grace me. Locking it all out is what I do, I suppose. Idyllic scenery, tumultous forthcoming of doubt from my elbow moving at the joint and allowing this hand to transcend its own consience and just record what's required of it. It's calming now, is it ever enough? Is this love ever enough for me? No, I say. I must dig, chip away at sedimental impact to find my core, my heart underneath the sedimental accumulation, calloused and hard but yearning to be found. Find a way. Nine more minutes, all I have to this world. What will I say within them? What can I convey while the arms keep moving, how will my words affect this place? They won't. I'm glad. I'm glad my doubts, ruminations of impractical and irrational ideas never reach any other eyes or ears. Don't think about it, some say, but I say think all you want. It won't change the world but it can change you, save you, from diving off into some lost cavernous existence not knowing who you are at heart. Love isn't cloudlike, isn't similar to anything else. Its definition is exclusive to its own vocabulary untranslatable to English or any other audible language. It's soley felt within. I just hope that, amidst all this uncertainty, I can feel it to the extent of sustaining reciprocated love on what I can give to another. I am afraid of giving too much for fear of not receiving it back, but that's how the story goes. Selflessness is the epitome of gifting yourself to someone else. I know one thing for certain among all of this - the one thing in this world that will sustain me is love, always.

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