justwrite 31 march

The space I chase is out of reach again
The trend unwound, confounded
Astounded by inaction and bounded up in traction
I have broken my everything and the sentence is clear
The end of this time and the start of some other
This is the challenge the ballast I’d toss out to ensure sleep
To creep through an open door or to create my own
Striding confidently through and over and around
We have found ourselves to be able

justwrite 30 march

With its sicksweet smell
its certain scintillation
crooked imagination unfolds
seeps through the dark/ the mind—
posing questions: without hesitation
raised, praised, staged for review—
lips licked thick with appetite,
ragged edges caught on night and wonder

the plunder of midnight consideration:
a weak harvest—crops too beautiful to grow/
ideas planted and dug up, shrugged off—
the fruits of some other wonder
where I’m going next, other subtexts
too uncertain to hurtle forward in any direction,
under and over-correction, constant rejection

(the twenty-minute-late watch
beeps in the hallway drawer,
twenty minutes after some unknown hour,
already passed)

the strands, uncommanded, run rampant,
rushing to unfurl flags, to drag along sufficient attention –
to sink to some unworthy dimension simply to feign interest—
the brisk trade in yes and no—
the rare pause to pick apart a clause
that could grasp a golden nugget—
but that one’s not mine to mine—
the long-imagined shine of opportunity coinciding with availability/ eligibility

this is a self-important text
but insomnia works likewise—
disguised as worry and unabashed confusion—
the illusion that these decisions are so important/
that morning will never come if no solutions are reached—
once more into the breach, the dark parts of things—

justwrite 29 march

It is thickdark already when I notice but I have spent the day sowing seeds growing weeds and also flowers powered by imagination and fascination with possibility the probability of failure and the optimism that shines through my teeth caught and released a thousand times a day it is now in the close and quiet that I find these seeds have transformed the normal of simple sleep into a deepawake examination the growing up and out of those doubts and wonders fed by wakeful worry as if to hurry away I roll over and the other side of the dark is just as certainly lacking for answers the blank and the banktellers unable to release deposits I am in withdrawal for answers and the questions grow throwing back their roots and rushing upward where will tomorrow be and what will I do after this is done after the songs have sunned themselves and turned to otherwise plans how will I feed myself my needs and who will take care of the everywhile else the piles on the shelves and the lists that line the walls have you stalled out yet are you getting this down the pillow takes note of my breathing uneven and catching I’m hatching a plan for clearing these decks for sticking out necks that ought to be risked but those seeds have resisted on-moving and I’m losing ground the blossoms block out the stars and the overpass cars are pale in the nearby it’s a hard sell to spell out all of these worries but no hurry for there’s nothing else to buy there’s nothing left to try but the other side of night and by that time nothing will be solved but the light

justtwrite 28 march

One more go at the show of an insomnia bouquet we play our parts but the start is hard to follow and the middle’s much too shallow we’re fallow like fields that can’t yield the wonder the worry the plunder of pirates stealing the stage caging all the geraniums and leaving the roots to rust can you trust that sort of logic can you toss sense out of reach I am slow on ideas still they’re spilling everyelsewhere there’s no way to compare potential with dimensions of possibility the truth we see and the numbers we add up the coupled digits and the illegitimate fingers pointing out the lingering the doubts we sing on the streetcorner merrygorounds we’ve found our offices convenient but the lenient press can’t have their shirts ready on time can’t wine while dining can’t spit while shining this is a topic I can’t stick to an unworkable glue and an alabaster brush the way certain words herd themselves together the feathers we’re all of forever and forever the whether or not the dawn and the lion the witch and the wardrobe the earlobes heavy with mis-aimed commentary staring back in the face of interruption what I’m not getting done is piling upward an absurd number of pages upstaged by running or juice or eggs without end we’re pretending I’m a writer we’re pretending I can do this and sometimes that’s enough but you fall and catch your bluff even as it passes you by plummeting down it slips and someone else calls out yes I see it I see it and I can get it for you if you want but it haunts you and you see through to the end of abstraction the contraction’s over and all that’s left is the apostrophe where something better might have been

justwrite 27 march

If brevity is the soul of wit an insomnia bouquet is the toast of longwinded writers winding their way through the dark kissed by ragged lips caught on uneven edges hedging bets and trimming the limits we swim it back and forth that supernatural river the one in that Ginsberg poem that’s an allusion to mythology just like this has been its own allusion it’s the truth in bloom and scattered like pollen all over the polling places where daywalking dreamers squirm in unlikely awakeness the states of twisted worry hurried along their own singsong alarm clocks signaling the end the end the end when really it is only the middle and hardly even that far anyway I am writing to tell you there’s nothing to be done about the schedule and the meetings are unfit to be changed much less held at all we’re pulling the thing together with string and tape in the first place and there are people who talk as we know as we go deeper into night the glories of those storytellers grow and we know we are little in comparison with think our words so shallow we wish for daily bread instead of all we can eat we meet makers of our own design and feel finally this is it we’re scattered like ashes while still alive still waiting to arrive waiting still to thrive on some unexpected wreck of an idea to grow and nurture along with success the rest of a haunted hope gasping with pleasure at the tiny green leaves as it breathes into a slightly brighter shade the got-it-made still far away but the hope something to hope after even if there’s not enough sun even if the candle’s done all it can for the night and the shadows fold in we’re holding cards and shuffling the deck’s got all hands and no waiting the feet meeting some resistance stumbling forward into the after the timelines skewed and the blinking lights used to the disturbance simply do their best to rest when no one’s looking I am cooking the kinds of foods that ought to be good for you though they don’t do much for me and I’m free for further developments and I’m keeping my phone nearby though the calls stall out and the space here is in no way clear for take off making off with the goods and unsure of whether they might be bad it’s a stab in the dark the sweetsick of insomnia gathered in its flowering strength

justwrite 26 march

Insomnia bouquet tossed overshoulder and dropped accidentally then clung to so strung through with wires that the tired petals can’t fall so tall an order so sickly a distorter of efforts there’s something hurt in the state of Denmark or in the pool outside I’m striding daddylongleggerly all across the face of this space and the map is tangled in my toes I rose to the occasion but I played again and again the hand dealt I have made the most of those cards I’ve been hardpressed to be best and do the worst rehearsed solutions researched contusions of the brain we’re remaining underfoot when we ought to be overhead I twisted my ankle instead of making progress but there’s a real test to be passed glad I’m not last in line the sheets wrapped and twined around unsuspecting dreams squeamish and tired the sweaty neck and the wrongly bend wrists we’re missing something and it’s hard to tell what or where it could have gotten to I’m almost through with the sheep and the deep breathing but no closer to receiving that release that grief passed off and into the sandy night raising dunes and fool moons the rising of tides it’s high time it’s another idiom from another country we’re bumping along the road and wondering what we packed what’s for breakfast and what will I do with the rest of my life am I too fat and will I always be where is the ceiling and will I know when I’ve hit it I’ll admit it’s something I didn’t plan I never scanned my card in the reader and now I’m just feeding thoughts into the teeth just catch no release and the tires melt into the road we’re exploding with connections the synapses the dimensions too undimensional to take a full millimeter teetering in and out of time zones if I were somewhere else I’d still be awake but it’d be acceptable we’ll make lists in the morning so we don’t have to finish them in the dark or we’ll start the lists tonight and then zenly set them aside as once again I’ve lied but trying counts a little in anything of the sort or so I’ve been told boldly ignored snores like horseshoes clinking solid on the stake mine’s amiss and the mistake’s all I’ve got to go on for now

justwrite 25 march

Drained out of me the free radicals run around their pretty petty paces spacing out and widening the siding of the building looks like slides against gravity the clarity is shaky and my ankle twists the wrong way a strong play with words herds us along and strong-arms its charms into ever-reaching cereals the bracelets and any other princes the references and the cables the clarks and the gables we’ve never watched clerks and never listened to hurts these are the references lost these are the tempests tossed and I have gone for a run and I have returned the squirming wonder of overripe day playing itself out until the end I’d defend these choices but the gist is resistant to reason the seasons change and the windows open the cattle call and so do the birds it’s absurd to set aside all of one’s pride because where will all the lions go and how will any of that goodglow flow if the carrots run out and the sticks come in?

justwrite 20 march

There is some catching up to do but the brew is too strong and the day is not long enough my shoes are scuffed and there are other concerns we’ve earned the right to be left alone but the forward motion is pressing us backward the wind whips our whiles about and our wits can’t help but shout as the weather changes hands the minds that understand and the wheels that still appeal to our senses overload with mud and other artifacts of spring we bring to our attention the dimensions of time and space we are the wizards and our faces are full of teeth the right ones the bright ones brimming with hats and scattered like sunbricks tossed out into the everywhere crashing through windows and startling the dust that hangs in the air unaware and undetected until the light is internally directed we are pressing upon instincts and clinking glasses we ought to wear contacts we ought not to drink but the signs point to the far walls the alligators dream and the pot calls all the kettles home to roost the chickens black as can be and the party lines free and clear steer as you wish and toss back the fish you never wanted to eat anyway we greet fair play with pleasure and the rest with disdain but the main thought is how to wonder where to worry all the ducks are swimming in the water but their daughters and fathers and mothers and sons are stuck behind desks as the sky comes unstrung all the angles as they try to face the gravity yes face down it’s the only way we eat more than one or two bagels a day and we find ourselves rounding out with holes in the middle the cream cheese riddles solving themselves we are dissolving the gels and liquids of our own imaginings the gatherings like magic the game renamed from childhood neverminds I’ve left behind the stage where I teased after this much like 4H versus girl scouts the pushing off of adolescent doubts we are fierce in our differences and we are the changers no strangers to goals and knob-kneed foals in foolish galloping strides with two feet wonder-tied as we hurtle into the next

justwrite 19 march

A little bit is better than nothing in this case although the faces I’ve been making and the vows I’ve still kept breaking are well behind the common lines the procedures the knee-jerk reactions that land us in traction when we can’t control our pesky selves the gravity of the situation stumbles and falls forward nine point eight meters per second squared I’m aware of the measurements and the pleasure sent packing after looking for its socks we clock our accomplishments by the minute and to spin it we’ve got to have pointers annointers and jugglers we thuggishly endearing while fearing the best we wonder after the worst the first of many occasions when we’ll stage taxi strikes and sit-down stand-ups the couples and the single trees weaving in the springtime breeze we would like to make recommendations without hesitation but the stutter is the first step we’ve leapt forward many steps we’ve wept in dramatic irregular verbs the swerves to miss glistening sense when really what we want is cash on the dollar for keeping a clean collar and eating with a fork