4-21-93 Getting Geared, again?

Whoops, dead stop.  My thoughts turned to reality, and all incentive vanishes. Have I ever had fun?  Yes.  Will it come again?  Who knows.  But what happens when it all rolls up in a ball and you dissect it, all of the spaces eliminated, and a cold hush pervades the populous?  Well, one thing's established, one thing is sure, one path is too littered for passage, one bridge less secure.

       Bounding over the edge,
       a dark shape once real,
       falls to his doom on a heightened ledge,
       but no one asks him to feel
       as though it was worth it,
       when they turn from the lip,
       And after he'd finally hit,
       a small one did quip,
       "Don't forget to right."

What does it mean, all that happens, it seems so stupid at times, as if there were no purpose to it other than embarrassment or pride.  I don't care, she didn't ask me.  Maybe she did.  I missed that.

4-20-93 she deserves it.

Sure, that's the picture - A once noble gram now turns to a shallow comparison of memory and feeling.  Every time that the planet shifts beneath the foot, a complacent sigh rests in the clouds;  it's an omen of flight, don't deny the pleasure of the aloft.  As it was once said, "That's what you're asking for."  And thus she asked of me:


            April showers amidst dark bowers,
              stretch solemn the dusty walls,
            Armpits of street deep and dead towers,
              And fit to the task of the catering calls.
                        When he awoke,
                            he found beside
                                   him,
                         a poem like a joke,
                            a phrase inside,
             

"Don't let the shadows go!" was the echo that murmured past the ears of those asleep and those awake.  The awake are the more-important, for amongst them was the one true  one true..

4-18-93 Here it is.

Meager days after a failed experiment, the pen runs again, down down the page, across and over into unknown places of deepest inquiry.  Man o man, never trust one, never.  They just don't hang on the same wire, they're just running on their own rules.  It has nothing to do with me.  I have to keep that clear, have to have it in my forebrain, no mistakes, I can cause myself too much damage.  Everyone else glimpses the ripples on the surface, as the blasting current below tears up the sea floor.

     I entered a bad agreement one day,
     Placing bets upon where my soul could lay,
     In fact, it was quite comfortable in that bed,
     Lo, it rolled me right off, and I lost my head,
     So now I look no more for such place,
     And of that contract I try to leave no trace,
     But the future is questionable, my friend,
     So hedge all bets until you've tasted the end.

An apparition came to the doctor the day before the operation to warn him of the lines he would cross.  After all else failed, the poor doctor flung himself to the wall.

4-14-93 Here We Are.

And here we've been.  Tomorrow is serious mail day.  And I do mean serious. Every little letter you'd ever want to write, write.  Postcard, envelope, the gear, the script, all together it means communication.  Ha ha.  Sure it does.   A communicable point, right?  And what holds the forward door?  How can one assume by whence they came?  There's rarely a connection twixt the two.  And off and off they go. Work, work, work, and never stop, until that day that's planned and has your hand in its unveiling.  So we go, off and off.

    Captions beneath the frame,
    denoted little to his brain,
    And after he had looked enough,
    He pulled out some gloppy stuff,
    that he'd been hoarding all week,
    From ever since he'd been called meek,
    By that big and ugly, traveling sheik.

Hands clasped hands as the feet shuffled past.  Words were mumbled, half-somber, half not.  Cold hands, warm hands, thin, dead hands.  Words of light-spoken trappings or full of low rumble.

Anyway, the time went well, and times may continue in such direction.  Ye shall zee.

4-7-93 I should write.

I should've called.  I should call.  I might call, but who can speak?  Who can utter.  Who has the ghost?  The power?  There's hope deep in the ocean trench, where the glowing predators play amongst the ancient, chrome bones of those creatures we all knew to be truly bad, and spawned of dark domain. Hunted, as they were, we ran as far and as fast as out friends could take us. So what if the ride was short or long?

     In another room, a game goes on,
     between living, and against non-,
     So we listen intently, our glass to the wall,
     hearing small cries as the creature does fall,
     and hopelessly returns,
     only to be played off with melodic call.
     And when it's all over, when it's all been joined,
     after hopes are fed, or dreams purloined,
     There will stay one soul,
     to carry the bowl,
     And give it another try.

So, lately things are confusing.  Doubts are my worst doppelgangers.  They come in all shapes and sizes, disguised as some important folk, sometimes as a type of hope.  But in the end, the rub's the rub.  Turn the dial, poke the plastic buttons, speak vibratory-english into a magnet, and see what grows therefrom.  Phuture!

3-31-93 I don't feel like Writing tonight.

  Things are going, still don't know where.
    He screamed, "There's a fire in the screen
    in the hole in the bowl!"
    Don't worry, it's only
      my alone, not lonely
      Dog wrapped in bologna.

  That was tough.
  Scratch my feet.
  Work work work, right?
  Please, please please, ¿sí?
  Hope hope hope, yes.
  Was that the midnight caller?  A little tardy, one might quip.

One hour later, the phone rings two and two thirds times.  He enters in his memois,  "Damn if she doesn't know how to make one wonder."

After seven years, one begins to feel like a world has escaped them, one inhabited by brighter beings.

3-25-93 Finally.

Well, what's to be said, when all is done;  something unlike the bad dreams, yet not quite the best.  Well, it's a perspective, that's the key to understanding why we cling to our objects and how they stand in relation to us.

I can go on and on, and I'm sure some of you would wish for nothing more, but there are greater things to waste time on.  That's not true.  That's certainly not true.  So we flow, on and on and on.

     Feeling, sensation, a form to the touch,
     When, at the bottom, you'd hope for such,
     At the top you'd think it wasn't much,
     And so 'tis always denied you.
     Take a pleasure from out a dream,
     Secure a thought from out the stream,
     And hearken back to word's bright beam,
     It can only be worth, true.

Begin the story about the tribe, the unholy alliance of land dwellers that ran throughout the plain with a bloody hand and tarnished soul.