The continuance

That was encoded

with the truth

that never was

end: 1:37 p.m.

beginning precedes the middle below:

It is 11:40 a.m. on Sunday, nothing discernible has changed, in the transparent scheme of things, and yet, somehow, keeping afloat, like the Robert Redford movie where he says two words and one of them is “FUUUUCK!” at the top of his lungs when he realizes his water is contaminated.

I love that movie. It is a tour de force. I am not exactly sure what tour de force means, in the original French sense of the phrase, it is something beautiful like a ballerina perfectly executing Swan Lake or the voice of an angel, whenever it alights upon your sphere of comprehension. Take it in. Bless that. You may miss it all together, but that is okay, because the one thing that has been proven is there is some stretchiness to the cosmos, and believe half of what you see and none of what you hear or is it the other way around is good advice because all it’s saying is always get more than one source for your information. Unless that source is something finely tuned and humbly honed [my ears hurt, btw, or more exactly, my left ear keeps requiring me to stick my finger in in as if my hair were a sword tickling all the adhesive that won’t wash away. What is it adhering, you may ask? Oh, do not ask what is it, let us go and make our visit…

Now we have 12:05 p.m. after finding and copying T.S. Eliot (which I have realized says something about me, I’d swear my computer is making typewriter noises to make me feel more at ease as I channel my favorite author, poet, my favorite words in a string, much like radiohead is my favorite lyrical string of music and madness and sonorous sadness all together in a balled up string that unravels like pulling blossoms from a string. I begin. I believe. I humbly ask your forgiveness.

But I do have something important to tell you.
This is say to one in particular who I can never actually tell for if they do not know then they know something else and that is enough, and what would it be anyway, because it cannot and does not and will never exist in that formal reality we know as physicality, the force upon our chest, or the weight upon our backs, the searching you used to mention circumvented by this serious discussion and then I don’t know what, your wife’s nice ass, and my poetic distractions the dark mistress of an ethereal soul that I could care to discuss as time yearns by and I become more and more dissolute and resolved in my dissolution. Does this absolve? You, specifically, of being the leading one of the compliment kind and you can’t do that to someone who is obviously vulnerable so I hold you guilty [enough to say] of having to at least finish what you sought, which was some question that got muddled, and it doesn’t matter in the ways you think I am saying it matters. Absolve your brain of all belief that has not come between us, already.

I beseech you sounds so great in your head but I have never actually wanted to say it out loud ever in my life.

I love you, as well, an over-used to the point of meaningless phrase that always makes me want to respond, “I know.”

570 is all I can bare for the moment.

12:13 pm. Go outside for smoke. Consider jogging.

“Should this be the last thing I see, I want you to know it’s enough for me.”
-Ed Sheeran

All you do is let me down and somehow you’ve been okay with just admitting it, it’s a way of thinking so foreign to me that I guess I don’t believe it or I haven’t been able to comprehend for so long that it has almost done me in on the substantial planetary level. The physical detriments to my soul. I can’t carry you no more. Without a little more truth behind the words, that is. I am such a softie.

A variation on the Phoenix, in my imagination.
A variation on the Phoenix, in my imagination.

I want nothing more than for you to be happy and in myself, that all got lost, when I could no longer figure out what to do in a world that makes no sense to me and which I want to be no part of, and yet I stay. I hang around in emptiness. Floating whistfully away.

In the room the women come and go…

talking of Michelangelo…

It is 11:40 a.m. on Sunday, nothing discernible has changed, Take it in. Bless that.

You may miss it all together, but there is some stretchiness to the cosmos, and believe half of what you see and none of what you hear or is it the other way around. Always get more than one source for your information. Unless that source is something trying too hard to be ‘something’ since the truth is such a rare commodity, it can be hard to recognize from time to time.

12:05 p.m. T.S. Eliot that unravels like pulling blossoms from a string. I begin.
But I do have something important to tell you.
circumvented by this serious discussion, the dark mistress of an ethereal soul, more dissolute prof·li·gate of syb·a·rite bon viveur, more resolved in my dissolution than any recompense therein.

And what could this absolve? You, specifically, from any belief that has not come between us, already, in passing misunderstanding, a specialty around these parts where Twin Peaks destinations tend to ruminate too long in my world.

The women come and go
prattling about Michelangelo

Oh please do not say
what is it
Let us go an make our visit

like a patient etherized upon the table…

I slip off into a mindless slumber where the senses are shattered so the inverse proportion can be gathered by slicing and dicing thru skin, blood and bone to save some aspect of your anatomy they believe something about that makes them want to patch it up, enhance it or downright remove it…if that were they case, I would have them remove any memory of pain from sciatica as I am now holding my neck in such a manner as to cause ultimate pain so I must stop with the inspiration and re-feng-shui the roadhouse blues, deal with the very real anxiety from being contacted by people who want to yell at me for some reason and want me to do all this stuff for them and I can’t possibly do everything they ask not to mention what I need to be doing not to even consider the fact that there are things that have been gutted from my life for this very reason, and the crux of the situation is that I never learned how to set boundaries so what starts with T.S. Eliot ends here, with my
stream of consciousness
on the subject of

Let us go then
you and I
where the evening
set out
against the sky

and then I bash myself for not being a better poetry memorizer, I only know snippets like
“And naked,
climbed the weather”

But it’s my own words that
fill my head
as in
rona you called and i answered
full belly moon
and more to the point
those were narnia-blossom-love odes
I could never achieve

now having been
siddhartha-sized upon the table
I am
striving for
emotional honesty
some sort of contribution of
innate attributes that are valuable

level of zombie apocalypse preparation
producer skill set (always useful,
like a leatherman),
saturation level very high
blood type unknown
could easily die
if you
inject me
with IVP dye

but there’s no reason to
do that
you need
a barium swallow
which sounds
like a
type of
not the regular
suburban swallow
but the barium
Not as bad as the Boku Harem of birds, the sparrow
massacring blue birds maniacally
and just for fun
then making their nest on
the dead bluebird eggs
which they eat
Nature is cruel
not pretty
in fact
dolphins are known to violently
violate porpoises
(that’s just strange)
everyone knows
that chimpanzees
can rip
off body parts
like nobody’s

This is a re-write at the end of a day and I merged the two and I’m hoping no one’s listening, except my publisher-to-be and agent-nanny.

Namaste, let’s call this the ONGOING ICARUS of February’s Life Story.

I’m trying to get a few different stories going now so they evolve into books or scripts or vials of story you snort before going out to the Blade Runner Star Wars (i can see it in my head but it’s not been made yet actually) -well-lit stairwell leading to 5th Element type environment–but at night. IT’s not dangerous. Yet.

So by the time it’s ten years on, I can teach story telling thru multi-media platforms/interface/just not in da butt stuff filmic reality, community college Boulder or Bozeman or anywhere mellow where I can have a cabin, a dog or two and definitely 2-4 horses and live out my days not too shabby, working on these fucking books which I sell at the internet fair (we have spaceships, 4WD trucks and sports cars for different modes of travel in this future world of Keanu K. Dick) and contribute to that non-profit work I know how to do. So full circle fuckstick I will be. That’s the goal which means at some point I have to get over my email anxiety.

I could survive a little while on all the excess chub I have gained despite being fairly active (not just laying around watching entire seasons of tv shows) from chowing down on retirement fatso fare (they are killing those old folks with Quaker midwest cuisine which means “is it really food at all? we can’t be sure, love, snide new yorkers and pass agg southerners)…but I know it’s related to anxiety and not being left alone–because I could never afford the real estate and the gate.

And on to what might have been is over because it never was and there are things that could be better than what just happened to make me so sad in the first place. That is not something anyone is likely to get to and if I may ask, if you read this whole post, could you comment with the words: THANK GOD THAT IS OVER> so I know you read the whole thing!!!

Much love to all my readership.

I cannot thank you enough.