But

(because i wanted to say something, but can't center enough, so borrowing from the other day when i could: this will do for now)

You have?
Sure, hasn't everyone?
Well. Confused. I don't know.
I didn't think so.
I don't know you. Not that
well.
How can I believe you?
You look like a pothead.
Whatever that means.
Aparently everyone has their
secrets.
My eyes are generally red.
What does that mean?
Especially in a world where
God is dead.
Whatever that means.
"With greater power
comes greater responsibility."
Age is power, supposedly.
I don't have to eat the spinach now --
not if I don't want to.
Limp. Soft.
It will not go inside me.
I can choose this time.
Supposedly.
An old man sits,
soft and limp.
Not one, but two,
strong young men stand.
Circling him, surrounding him.
Hovering. Heckling.
Leave him alone!
Two shout, as we drive by.
Too afraid to stop.
Or careless. Maybe carefree.
He's not our old man.
He doesn't belong to me.
I have other problems,
on this side of my white-picket
balcony.
I'm suppsed to write this book,
a precious look.
All I can think is:
What the fuck does it all mean?

for kins. and then for jesse. and then for dot dot dot

you are supposed to be here. how do i know? because doblets of water are dripping off the leaves of the trees outside. they are red and yellow and green -- not quite ready to dance down. not quite autumn yet. my balcony is soggy because the rain gutter is overflowing. the lights flickered off and on again. you usually bring the rain, but this time? you're not here. so who brought it in their pocket?

and then you, jesse. muni came out when you popped in. now she's hiding again. and i'm laughing because if she is my deamon, what does that say? and if you haven't read the books yet, will you even get the reference?

last night i knew it was time to finally go to bed when i dropped all the tortillas on the ground.

distracted. again.

focusing enough to know i'm distracted.

strange when coughing tastes like something, though you don't know what. and you haven't eaten anything in awhile, so it can't be residual flavor. is that what my insides taste like? not like acid -- that's different. this is earthy and dry. this is the seasoning of my flesh.

and the sound of time ticks on.

to be sick is not a wonderful thing. it is a wonderful excuse to sit around in your pajamas all day, though.

focusing.

nevermind.

hoookaaah

my head is full of sweet hookah smoke and i know i'm gonna have to use it fast because pressing hard, leering close, is the old face of reality. there it is *points* i can see it through the shifting, lovely haze.

use it for what? i'm not sure.

i have a house, that's one thing i know we work for. it's important to have a roof over your head and a floor to sit on (or a couch, or chairs, if one is inclined in that direction). these things are important to have so we're not just sitting in a park or on the cement. it's hard to sleep in the park, or to smoke hookah on cement. it's hard to make food without a house -- refrigeration is key, as is a stove. important.

in america, it's important to have a vehicle too. most of the time, and in most places in america. work. school. socialization. meetings. so we have to work for that too, because self-transportation isn't free. neither is insurance. nor gas. blah blah.

food. clothes. shoes. domesticated animals. caged animals, or ones that live in tanks.

then there's the entertainment we use to distract ourselves from that old face. from it's constant, ever-leering face. this too is a necessity, though some may disagree.

posted before i'm ready... more to say but cut short. reality sets in sooner than expected.

so i don't forget...

If the song of the bird outside on your balcony
rings higher and sweeter than the song of your phone,
if the arms and the blossoms of trees are your home,
and the sky is your comfort, where ever you roam --
blessed are you by me,
one whom you'll never know,
together we'll share this love
in the fields of words that we sow.

~me~

"our hands are tied"

trite phrases. what to do with them? a woman's voice gets a little flustered on the other end of the line.

"we can't do that because we don't know if you're who you say you are."

"oh." my voice is dumbfounded because i thought there were ways to prove your identity over the phone, by giving little treasures of information out, piece by precious piece.

that's when her voice peaks, as if my simple puff of a word is an accusation. which it's not.

"well there's just nothing we can do about the situation. our hands are tied."

and i'm thinking, what does it really mean -- to have one's hands tied. how many of us have ever had our hands truly tied in our pasts? not of our own free wills, of course.

and then for a second i'm having visions in my head of struggling. my hands and feet are bound tight and my muscles hurt from trying to wriggle loose. i'm exhausted. i'm gagged. i'm panicking and crying, not so much from my pain but from my confusion. what's going on?

back in real life, i'm still on the phone, and the lady sounds somewhat panicked. maybe she does recognize the meaning of what she's saying. or, my guess is that she's hiding behind a phrase she's heard and used a million times before, but has never stopped to think about.

flippant. frivolous. afraid.

people should own their words.

it just kills me when they don't.

beginning. again.

this is me, sitting with legs crossed, bending over a celtic-cross reading. it's my favorite tarot spread. my legs and my ass are stiff from sitting on the wooden floor for so long. i'm not a seasoned reader, see. in fact, i only read for myself, see. so it takes me awhile to swim through all the symbols to find meaning.

(distracting thoughts as i write: note to self...call landlady to get address for rent check.)

so i stretch my arms and my back up, and i rub my head. i don't understand the universe. i don't really know if i can trust the reading. i think i can, and i want to, but i'm not really sure who or what to trust 100% of the time anymore.

i say anymore, because i used to trust in god as a very defined figure in my life. and i trusted in his prophet(s), and in the things written in his scriptures. and i was very trusting in general.

(looking out the window i think: i'm glad the wind is blowing again, and that the leaves are rustling. the air seems strange when it's too still, like it was this morning. *tinkling of wind chimes* autumn will be here soon.)

but then there was this incident involving painting a peacock on the sidewalk in front of a business on main street, a very pretty person offering me a rich swirl of cold coffee topped with mounds of whipped cream, the afternoon was sweaty-hot, and i thought, "why not?"

it was bloodyfucking good. and i'm still standing. no lightning striking. obviously it's not that simple, but nothing is really simple, is it? only i'm learning to love the differences and the difficulties in everything ever since. granted, life is harder when it's not simple. which seems like a simple enough statement.

but i'm getting off track. celtic-cross. of course it's not this simple, but in essence my reading said i should trust a new path, a new direction. i should be brave and let go of the dreams i had before. they were so safe, though. they would have been secure -- both financially and professionally -- and they were good things to work towards. that's why i'm teetering still, trying to decide...i guess i'm trying to decide how brave i really am. or want to at least try to be?

and yet, is anything ever really safe? in reality (whatever that means) was the security of my first path merely a delusion? i don't know.

and maybe that's the point. if there has to be one.