justwrite 18 may

why is it that by the time I have a riot of quietous opportunity mobbing me from all silent sides there is too much tide to turn back too much rack to tack up to experience too many legs on those bugs scuttling underneath the everywhichway language barrier I am not integrated instead I will disintegrate complacently refreshing reloading every once in a green scene in between cheese and bread instead of meaty defeat we are scattering clues to use in later reconstruction it’s not quite a crime scene but the same themes hold true and where were you and why didn’t he but how could she and who took the last sip who wrote the last word absurdly out of keeping with the introduction we are our own destruction we are our own rewards solving swords and other pointy reckonings beckoning past the crucible other allusions and confusion where we have ideas and then they leave we want to write but often grieve the depth of field the lack of yield and again the trend I cannot defend the senseless sentences but so are they all all honorable and brutus the most and aren’t we all here to bury Caesar and not to praise him aren’t we all dressing on marc antony’s speech we reach outward into the elsewhere we compare our mirrors with clearer skin and blurred vision and lips that release only the right words we have heard our voices and we have wondered who wrote those scripts who can be held responsible and the answer is often surprisingly on the near side of the horizon