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Dash off each let ter even if the ink is running low in the pen because the words are conc rete and build the world to stretch the sky and give it blue and make the water ripp le out, radiating, as you make your first steps running ripples into the heart of you to build: a solid earth, a swelling sea, a swelling melody, an old man playing the fiddle on his knee about the earth and sea, and give his years and his past and who he was and loved, dashed off in the marks we know, the currency of dreamers and faith we can repay you, to compensate the effort of an unfaltering hand: one that can love itself as perhaps a Go

To the girl sitting in the nondescript office with a roll of unused color film in her pocket, who looks on everyone else's golden days as if they were any more real than hers now, who attaches religious significance to photographs and dusty memorabilia and artifacts of bygone ages when (at least for cameras) people stood only posing for that moment-- who believes that even now everyone else is living and shedding each golden breath on rolling film, while She Herself is caught in the crosshairs of a broken cheap tourist-stop cracked lens camera, life is grey even if she has a roll of color film and, at least, isn't colorblind. She isn't actua

Ugly, ugly, ugly, 10.56Pm. If it is skin-deep and if I am skin-deep then what of me--shallow, callous, a puddle of sludge left after the cars and heavy rain? A fistful of rolling fingers, like clouds, and it still fixes nothing except marks imprint footsteps kneaded in mud and I still go left of nowhere to run nowhere. because the shoulder refuses to turn the arm, refuses to hit the other shoulder. Because I refuse to work to beat myself because I am beaten and so I bend and the living becomes a spastic jerk, of patriotism: blue and red, to a God who hates me. I offer the salute of a dog in the street in front of a passing vehicle

As you sit there, he stands in the corner of the kitchen. Whistling a song, With his hands folded prettily, and he's watching you: father-- weary, beaten, with flakes of paint and chimney dust in his hair-- sitting down after a long Saturday of meaningless house-improvement toil. The boy, your son, thinks to himself: "What's the use to do such things, oh silly old men" as he continues whistling that little tune, improvisational building itself as it goes. "Hey, there, son" and your voice comes out rusted with ersatz happiness, when the truth is that just moments ago there was some sort of commotion behind closed doors upstair

I'd cry, but I don't know how to cry, I've forgotten why there are wet little trails, running down my face. I'd die, if I knew how to die, but there's no one who could take my place, for they've given me too much: and I cannot just leave yet... and they've given up so much so I can still be here yet, so to my friends, friends and family and fairweather acquaintances, I thank you from the bottom of my iron heart. My friends, I drink to you this water so that I may gladly depart. Mi friens, te wadr iz taring me to parrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrtssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss [automated] Good bye. You'll never know my f

Who am I, and what have you done with my mind? Who are you, and what have you done you just flew out the window and crashed four stories below, why do you look like me I just can't understand, you know, but I am okay in my library holding chair even if I'm not, well, then I can disappear... Maybe I'm crazy and maybe I'm watching myself on a camera and maybe I'm laughing at how many silly little trips that I take to that library when I don't want to see myself, after that point when it's over and mania goes, subsides, even after that I can't prove that I won't still die, Dying is fun because I get to go so far, maybe one d

I must be getting stupider, duller 'cause everything slips by me blind as I am I cannot see but unsee everything that I've learned, oh Kimball forgotten why do I insist on sounding intelligent when I am so barren and whiny and silly and nothing ever goes quite well, I go dilly and dally dark places, but never get better, oh why then am I still here drinking the water for nothing is in me and all is so dried up and in me exists some seeds... flowers, maybe, if I could be but I don't know if I could be, if I could try to be, but I've forgotten how.