justwrite 17 august

I am ready to tell a story but it is three months too early I am a week late for writing a different ending all that’s left is pretending defending beliefs and seeking relief I am an imaginer I live with my feet on the ground my head is in the trees the clouds breathing loud giraffe breath what’s next is unknown more time on my own but not quite alone there are answers and questions there are multiple dimensions we have high-level retention for the chosen lessons the fears we feel the steel we steal to keep under our pillows to slice up our dreams to dice up ice cream and feathers weathering the confusion the illusions I am keeping in my pocket are locked up I am talking a good game but walking a different way the weather changes and we rearrange or answers we take our chances and fake romances with misshapen clouds allowing the crowd to denounce itself to toast health and celebrate wealth shoveling coins in the air and fairing well we felled those trees we breezed through that scale I cannot tell I feel quite well but the forecast is uncertain I’m hurting but leaning in the right direction can’t trip over something that isn’t there can’t pretend I don’t care I’m wary it’s scary but gotta take risks gotta shake fists in the sky and wait for the explosions we are roving over the waves the wandering we save our lunches in ziplock we concentrate on shop talk I haven’t heard anything about that today I’m saving the receipt but there’s enough to eat for this trip I skipped lunch and bunched the honey in my fingers lingering in stickysweet thoughts caught up in my imagination the fascination with conversations that happened and those that never did dream big and talk on the phone call home and wish for another birthday bonus the hocus pocus stroke of midnight the early morning time seeming fine for a chat and that’s that scattering spiderwebs that cling to the ringaround rosies the supposed closure seeming weak and cold holding a hand that turns out to be my own