post oar

closed eyes open; immediate blast of air and color bring them to a magnetized squint.  streaks of white light, undefined sharp shape, a complete exit of molding that my physiology cannot contain.  overload of experience.  after hours of this, like collects with like, things start to make sense, turn upright, borders seem legitimate to my own interpretation.  hues and shades sharpen.

left, right, left, right, spring, spring, spring, spring, that's what i tell myself as each foot leaps to catapult and i reward myself with a higher heart rate sustained for at least 30 minutes.  my eyes blur left and right to keep myself safe every block or so.  i get back and breathe deep and stare at the wall and it seems like it's moving slightly, bowing in barely, pumping out just enough to notice, like the wall is breathing but knowing i'm watching and trying not to be obvious about it.  the electric toothbrush cleans real well, super well, but it joggles my insides, reverberates my something-in-my-brain and makes the numbers on the digital clock in my bathroom move really funny.  like i didn't believe the way the numbers moved at first, and had to stop, and stare, and then try it again, and have now just resigned myself to the fact that they bounce all weird when i'm brushing my fucking teeth.

as i lay, i wonder if i'm unconsciously only turned on my left side to try to get blood to that half of the brain, to keep myself from imagining what could be and to just logically lock myself into a rigid set of breaths, an unquestioning, an ignorant blink.  like a limb kept low and gravity collects the blood, my brain is sensitive to motion these days since my myriad accidents.  i stay still except for my constantly moving legs.  i more often than not drift to sleep and am jarred awake within moments by a quick raging dream of losing my step and trying to catch myself, by an object coming at me that i must catch but can't, by an imminent conscious moment where i must act quick and rescue myself but am unable to.  colors appear in my eyelids as about 5 different shades of black, with amoeba-like shapes and drifts, my eyes close and feel like they're crossed, i try to straighten them because it seems healthy and it seems like i do, but i can never really tell.  the lights my vision create flutter and pulsate, and return as they were burned all day long, and it takes all of sleep to put them back into poor working order again by sunup. 

WHERE DO YOUR EYES GO

different patterns:  jutting out from the walls is paper and ink, things that are creative and pleasing!  my eyes go there by instinct, but i chastise you for your eyes landing there.  regular colour is like sleep and breath and death, it leads to little cognition and zero orbitals, no melodies; we search for coercion and flannel and explosion into.  anything that's different anything that is different

familiarities:  well, we come back to the usual, to make ourselves feel better.  to apologize for giving in to the difference.  we resign to comfort.  we are sorry.  we look for someone who might be our friend, who we could nod at, what would wake us from feeling solitary, asleep.  we're so used to looking at moving pictures on screens that it hypnotizes us, me, sorry, me, i, me.  i continue to come back in gaze to that solid screen on the pinball machine, it's a face, it's close to the mirror, i understand it somewhat, i pretend like it's entertainment, like it's something to do.

attractive people:  your face is so adorable, i even like the pores on your nose.  i'm VERY sure that you hate those slightly enlarged pores, but i think they make you more human, all the more beautiful.  your small blinking eyes glow with purpose.  your curls radiate the creamy skin within.  frailty is your hesitation, as is mine, and that silence draws me more, to you.

away from:  shrug shrug dart dart dart dark close feign feign pretend to check phone pretend to think about something shrug shrug yawn fake yawn, close gaze in on paint, wall paint, artwork, that which pretends to have such intent and purpose.

i sometimes wonder if i'm slowly being poisoned or if that's just the way i view the world

i wandered outside to switch up my surroundings.  envisioning all the possibilities, i froze just outside my front gate in the mild 40 degree weather.  i could go to a movie?  my mind rode the train to the theater, looked at the movies, couldn't decide, came back, saved money still frozen.  "i'll walk to buy the day's paper, a hot drink, some black ink for my rubber stamp," a scale of need vs want tipped in the direction of want, shot down still frozen.  collecting my tips from last night brought a quick, decisive vision of 'put-it-off-until-tomorrow', pockets empty stand still remain frozen on the sidewalk.  i looked at birds, interesting graffiti, questioned phone documentation, cheapening my direct experience, frozen seems so clean and present in comparison.  laundry tomorrow frozen.  sell car -- why not -- because i like it -- frozen.  contemplate change by not changing anything, starting to thaw.  with this thaw, i return inside, sit, type, stand by heater, stretch.  reheat leftover chinese food as a switch to my routine, because i usually have eggs and spinach at this time, and chinese only after 4pm.  reheat leftover chinese food to prove to myself that there is still something spontaneous and interesting in my movements and moments.  such spontaneity is a nail sticking up from the vast floor of earth, i scratch my foot on it, don't even draw blood, but seem annoyed, hammer nail down.  cold.

focus and forget

if there were a language that i knew you all didn't know, i would speak it, type all of these words in it, and tell you simple things that sounded beautiful.  you'd admire the sound, the collection of letters, the visual flow, the feeling that i truly wanted to convey something to you, yet was unable to. 

i would explain your fears in ways that trivialized them, you'd stuff them in your bottom lip and spit them out, you'd grow them and pluck them as soon as they appeared.  i'd put words in aluminum and watch you consume them, and after you easily fell asleep i'd collect them, recycle them, so when you woke you wouldn't have to deal with them.  i'd build paragraphs that you kept in shoe boxes in the closet, that you tried to forget but couldn't, that your partner was now slightly scared of, that you meant to throw out when you moved-in last year but couldn't.  the punctuation wouldn't even be recognizable or distinguishable, but you'd still keep it in your wallet, put it in your coffee every morning until you started to feel a dependence on it.  just reading it would make you space out in the shower and perhaps even sit down until the water was uncomfortable and luke warm, hearing it would calm you while standing in line.  i'd be speaking it to you and only you, you'd know this through tone, through innate spacial cues, through eye contact, through what you used to think your understanding of love was when you first understood the feeling of 'love'. 

it'd speak with statistical reason and confidence.  like if you heard that it had happened 95% of the time given the same circumstances, and you'd feel comfortable that it would happen again if you wanted it to right now.  and you wouldn't have to over think it, though, you'd just know that confidence without the numbers muddying it.  the language would be the texture of oil at rest, of newly dried concrete, with the smell of fresh cedar and the crush of dried pine cone.  it'd be nose to neck.  i could speak it without hesitation, i could speak it without thoughts of recourse, i could speak it without inhibition of personality, i could speak it without any kind of offense, i could speak it free of stutter, and steady of faith.

but i don't know that language, and if i did i'd probably just take it for granted.  it'd be a commercial on mute, a crumpled up receipt, a shiny nickel on the sidewalk.

i want a girl who forces me out of my habits

i want a girl who forces me out of my habits

i want a girl who forces me out of my habits

i want a girl who forces me out of my habits

i want a girl who forces me out of my habits

i want a girl who forces me out of my habits

i want a girl who forces me out of my habits

i want a girl who forces me out of my habits

i want a girl who forces me out of my habits

i want a girl who forces me out of my habits

i want a girl who forces me out of my habits

i want a girl who forces me out of my habits

i want a girl who forces me out of my habits

i want a girl who forces me out of my habits

ready when you are

i constructed thoughts of what to write from a slight hangover headache remedied by ibuprofen, coffee, tv, mariquopa.  they tied together like a birthday package that had been unwrapped, large shiny ribbon pulled violently apart, ornate paper torn with surprise and irregularity, gift peered at, then recreated and rebuilt around it again, for transport, for a show of nicety and convenience to the gift giver.  my thoughts sutured without the help of tape, but only a clearly seen and recognized rip, pieced together.

i thought of how the thought could become creative, translate to others, drip onto paper.  how it could be sung in song, hiccuped over beer.  how it could be cooked with potatoes and garlic, how it could be smoked or flushed down the toilet.  but it'll probably just get driven over multiple times, scraped against the worn curb as i parallel park repeatedly, if i could only get it on the first try.

coffee is my tired and expected metaphor, "coffee is my inspiration".  windex is my eyes, clear tape is my curiosity.  a good stapler is my curiosity, a good stapler is my creativity.  new curtains are my future.  slight pains in my foot, my knee, and the side of my left leg are my challenge, my buoyancy.

she is annoying and i am alone

i go through torrential downpours of need
    and want

and suffer the droughts of cups unfilled.

i try to use third person,
to talk at myself, to make things more tolerable,
but i use the same words, locked, repeating

he stares at beauty from mind’s eye, he feels repose and lack of creativity by the mold of sex drive
he tracks
he folds
he whines with turning of gears.

he fights restriction, he feels creative, he postures his hands accordingly in the mirror so that i can see.
i feel creative; i wash with desire. i wriggle in bed and bother no one.