Excerpts From the Notebook

Something to Forget About
It had no fear
It's red, knit hat kept the chills away but the little white capsules barely took the edge off.  Funny how it was on the edge of that ravine when it spoke, "What makes man alright?"
Questions that could be misunderstood, mis-construed, and misinterpreted always twinkle delight in that wise mass.
The edge went farther away with each tread exact.
"Man is alright when he plays."


Beau Tie
Out about stout behaviors     so obtuse
we found inside those gaps only our tongues could touch.
Then we swapped spit, dreams of nomadic adventures with tree houses, horses of every color, alternate realities... We let our existence comingle a bit- a vibration pulsating another, an unchoreographed dance we don't know what to name.
You once saw her dance. 
What was she then? "Bohemian Beauty" could be so obscure so we go with "How much did she do?".  But all is well when out pupils catch that exact and very brief glimpse, time of complete and utter lack of disturbance. Where that silly love drug makes eyelashes curl and fingers tickle. We stop asking about the circumstances in that moment of blissful Be.
She always said you could be a captain without a ship. You always said she'd be first mate.


Got High and Found You Again
That night went on but we didn't have to speak about it. We saw it in double vision- ours combined and shared. Your heart ran faster than mine but I remember making it even faster. Our red eyed mirror, our sheepish grins, our frailty.
We didn't need to pass notes. We check 'yes' or 'no' in our cognitive section and send it via hand held holding. The heads that piece together. Fragments of our lost human emotions pieced together only for the breaking, wandering soul-like creatures to finally catch that glance. That glance where you both know your soul's kin is close and reaching for the bright gaps in the fragments.
We did not speak of what we'd be when we "grew up". We grew into each other instead. And we found our muse.

Call Cannot Connect

Perhaps I'm misunderstood
because I don't explain myself.

I want it out of me.
Put it on paper?
Get a reaction of some kind?
Talking doesn't always do the trick
and some are hard of hearing

I've been told I talk at too rapid of a pace,
  and my stream of conscience doesn't flow
Told I'm not an outcast, but "unique"
Told I'm not deviant, but "opinionated"

Limitations and expectations stretch
the nodes and nodules squeeze

An odd fondness for humans, I have
We have to give a damn
  or we have to make it known that we don't give a damn
   which is really just giving a damn
     about not giving a damn

I've been told I think too much

Speaking in quips
making metaphors for life and time
 I come off as being a bit stuck in my own reality

Criticize Me in My Trip

i have not been fascinated
       <like this>
In such awhile
Thoughts a flutter
 Images: distracting
    the ones I never paid for
    Or paid much attention to
The key that makes the door more than    
    A wall
A story more as
    A synopsis
Language more than
    Meer communication
Is this what I find so fascinating?
   A whirling, vibrating fan
   An ashtray full of our last night’s adventure
   Sleeping cats, yawning cats
   Dirty clothes strewn about
i know this place is lived in
Comforts  e x t e n d s my stay
progress
movement
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