yr my rollercoaster
prose and poetics seem to grace this journal and the paper on my desk with invisible ink, these days. i've been sequestered in my mind, going time out of mind, like king lear or bob dylan or perhaps a bit of both.
maybe i'm just burnt-out; i'd rather explode like a dying constellation than rust like my old pink bicycle that i rode through town today to get eggs and bread to feed all my pretty ones. i made heart-shaped eggs and toast and guacamole and it could've been romantic had romance not been dead, and had we been hungry. the fridge is full of leftovers; so is this town. i'm beat-down, but blessed are the bedraggled ghosts of sonnets once whispered half-naked at dawn.
i'd call you (and you and you and you) if i could, but i think i need to be alone for now. if the phone rings, maybe it'll electroshock me into motion, back up the old rickety rails of the rollercoaster we built a thousand years ago.
i'd tell you (and you and you and you) about how neil young took my breath away, about how ivan's beauty leaves me breathless daily, about how kerouac really loved women, about how mistletoe breeds melancholia, about circles and lines, about the scale, about this old balancing act, about etcetera, etcetera, sweet ol' etcetera, if i could, but i think i need to get out the duct tape and hold things together like that for awhile.
tonight i'll wear feathers in my hair and write words on scraps of paper until they become truth and beauty, because those are worth dying for.
maybe i'm just burnt-out; i'd rather explode like a dying constellation than rust like my old pink bicycle that i rode through town today to get eggs and bread to feed all my pretty ones. i made heart-shaped eggs and toast and guacamole and it could've been romantic had romance not been dead, and had we been hungry. the fridge is full of leftovers; so is this town. i'm beat-down, but blessed are the bedraggled ghosts of sonnets once whispered half-naked at dawn.
i'd call you (and you and you and you) if i could, but i think i need to be alone for now. if the phone rings, maybe it'll electroshock me into motion, back up the old rickety rails of the rollercoaster we built a thousand years ago.
i'd tell you (and you and you and you) about how neil young took my breath away, about how ivan's beauty leaves me breathless daily, about how kerouac really loved women, about how mistletoe breeds melancholia, about circles and lines, about the scale, about this old balancing act, about etcetera, etcetera, sweet ol' etcetera, if i could, but i think i need to get out the duct tape and hold things together like that for awhile.
tonight i'll wear feathers in my hair and write words on scraps of paper until they become truth and beauty, because those are worth dying for.