post 8 november

justwrite 8 november

the bell is ringing and the machines are singing themselves to sleep the deep end is drowning in itself the wealth of information up in smoke poking the clouds with rounds of billowing the pillows we sleep on sweep up the leftovers the dream bits screaming wits’ end and pretend imaginings like the showers we are taking have taken will take mistakenly when it’s three in the morning and what we thought was dawning was really tosleep was really the keepaway game we named tomorrow there is no bus coming at this time there is no situation we can explain with the limited vocabulary we have acquired in these few years the weeks that feel like lives the knives that cut the chapters apart are dull and so are the brain cells that stretch them together firing and doing that synapse thing to sink or swim in someone else’s story I will write my own night I will take into consideration my own fascination with language with dropping off baggage that I don’t want to carry to marry my words to my thoughts and to have and to hold the colors from my tongue strung up like so many laundry flags fanning the afternoon when there is a breeze when the trees let in the sun when we have hung our messages and we do not need billboards we have stored the clues and we will use them as we see fit as the sizes flit back and forth from small to large and when we are not wearing our shoes they choose their own paths from the front door and what’s more they are not confined to our minds they travel freely they should be followed and not hollowed out with doubts to fit our own fat preferences or feet if it was up to me I would wonder who it should be up to and I would take charge but we would mainly be walking alone together and the weather would be fine a find no one would mind mined from gold