Some Things You Give Place For... Some Things You Don't.

Kristine's advice?... Don't look. Just glance. At everything. Confusion and distraction. Welcome. Motion... But then returned from the day. Closing your eyes won't help. You may just imagine the end before it comes. A hole? Gaping? No... Numbness. Nothing removed but feeling. Not cold. Not empty. Lifeless. And failed on the edges. Yes, as in the dream. Aliens, abyss, and all. Locked in. Not even a block. Hysterical. A fire fueled by saline. Gasping. Only able to watch ...escorted away. Powerless. Lifeless. Then what? A monument to your excellent choice? You in the box with the billy goat's gruff? Little reassurance that. The list. Burned in its own bucket. Fishing. Walking. Hiking. Running. Biking. A movie. Forever clouds. No one to teach. No one on one. None to share. None to push. And still no chill. Nothing. A dead weight. Engrained and not a part. The frost come early. And then the lies. No place. No place he says. No fight. No place. Shut down before the start. The blocks removed. The race canceled. The track torn up and gardens in their place. But what then of the nail? Well, agency. And thankful that too. Most so, given the option! Removed by One who has the power. To give place. Not weeds or briars, but a grove of trees. And all that that entails? Truly, truly the hardest part.

...You'll Find the Answer to That Question At the End of 23

Which of course makes 19 and all before it moot. And just short of 20000. Like everyone else.

What's The Answer to Number 19?

So I'm looking to cheat, really. I never studied this. Well I did... but apparently it never sunk in. It's quite amazing really what refuses to sink in after you've pounded it into the sand. I mean, so who cares if there are two eggs in the ingredients and three in the recipe? Tangent. I couldn't do it. I want those eggs. Me. A little bold? I mean it's not like the chicken made them for me right? There's just some farmer harvesting eggs blah blah blah. Done.
Some things are bloody hard to get homogenous. I mean sure... amorphous? Not a problem. Even pulling things out of a net. Blow up lawn ornaments.          ...sequins and glitter shoes.

So I wait. For the answer to come to me. I might get frustrated enough at some time to take a nap or even several laps around the testing center, but I won't just fill in some bubble. I can't do that. I won't do that. Believe me I don't want to stay there any more than you do. You just haven't taken seven hours on a test before have you? ...ok, maybe I do... So for the next several minutes what do I do? Well, I plan to take Brother John's advice, get some writing on the wall or at least in a binder with a really nice cover. Lamb. Good for the skin, bad for the eating. Unless there's a roll. So yes, while I'm standing here, I will take the cucumber sauce please.

And By Then Too Late

Damage. So far from that scene. Still frames and frames per second. But both still. And nothing continuous. It can't be. Not with one so unschooled, so reprobate. To retract and there an asp. To hold on to nothing but ash. The spin. The words you never hear him use. No. No, he is good. And it has served him. Happy since the day he was born. Real as the socks on your feet. Solid. But here? Limbering. Lingering. Lurking. Nothing but fear. And so rightly so. I now have something against. To detain? Shameful. But what of that which will not be reformed? No anvil or hammer. No heat in the fire. No bellows. Waiting cold for the solid to flow.

Too often. Too awash. Too false. All knew. ...And now all know. And who cares if all come to know. Therein is not the shame. It is in the pot. That jar of clay. Sullied waters seeped dry. No summer breeze, no winter snow, no spring shine. No autumn chill. Betrayed by the shell. Cracked and calloused and unfit and unclean. A failure in his own right. Complete. Utter. And full. Compounded by the sun and by the stars. Corn husks and cabbage. No not till all is used. All is taken. All is lost. Only then.

No. No sister. I won't be coming home tonight.


I grieve.

A Few Too Many to Name

 

So I'm not surprised if you can't stand it. The air is pretty bad and well... there's no land for miles. Miles are pretty far by the way. Further in Sweden. ...but that is an entirely different story. A long one. A different one. And entire one. Don't think that you can rant all you like out into the canyon and your voice isn't heard. The canyon hears. The rocks. The geckos. And even the stars (the vacuum of space is a myth my friend. Shocker I know. And objects of different mass dropped to the earth do not hit at the same time. These things you will just have to deal with.) But that is an entirely different story. Enter digression. It doesn't leave with the wind. The wind carries. As the dust and the rain. You don't have to speak up and keeping your voice down? Don't bother. Your footsteps will be heard in the empty hall. And so will the door. But cheer up friend, there's gold in them there hills. Been diggin since '49.

I can't either.