as my eyes opened this morning, the chill of an empty room compounded by the fan blowing ever steadily onto my freshly shaven head, the effects of the pills that stop my ceiling staring antics still fuzzy around the edges, focusing on focusing my pupils, ever the indignant students lately, i felt as if today was the day of happy change

not a metamorphosis, not a pupa escaping the chrysalis, though apropos considering the warmth of my blanket cocoon, nor of reckoning, at least i hoped not, i did not feel ready to face the day of judgement quite yet

not before coffee at least

need to really have your ducks in a row if you are up against the almighty, at least i assume you do, she and i don’t really talk like that

i try and talk to her but she is indifferent at best to my questions and suggestions, which i suppose is better than her actually answering and being the only one that can hear her

the thin line between sane and whatever state of fragility i occupy is tenuous enough, thank you very much

i am more than capable of making monsters from molehills, seeing too much in too little as is

i sometimes feel like a private eye with bundles of information and all the clues but on the wrong case, investigating the right suspect for the wrong crime

like playing connect the dots on a rorschach ink blot

that looks like my mother’s stern disapproval, that is clearly two geese having intercourse, more sex, even more sex and the rabbit looks very unhappy, a wire coat hanger against bare knuckles

that is the gates of hell, wide open and inviting, flames coursing along it’s frame and there, in the very center the inviting hand of a savior, or perhaps the devil, maybe both

the brain works but the wiring needs redone, refined, the piston firing but need retimed, readjusted, maladjusted, the seals are busted, the frame seems rusted and on a whole it feels disgusted

this is about finding yourself

this is about today being the first day in a series of days that can only get better

not about where were you on the night of the seventh, on the night of the sabbath, who can collaborate your tale, i need names and dates and times

maybe just a date

are you free after this interrogation, i made coffee in case it was the end times and after a pot i am vibrating just out of sequence with my environment

want to vibrate together, seek a new reality, not augmented nor virtual but brand new where we control the aspects of time itself

where one kiss can last for decades and our bodies can wrap together, become one, our pulsating nebulae forming a halo around the sun

like the winter sun, all light and no heat, reflecting off of the snow and threatening to blind you

all light and no heat, feels like the hidden meaning in my state of being

feel a lot like a poem, the prose of one who knows there is no point on the end of this pencil, no nib on the pen, mislead by missing fragments of the truth and nothing but the truth so help me goddess

so help me please

it is cold, i am shivering and naked, trying to reestablish my place in the blanket fort, leaving enough room for the comically large coffee cup, the cosmically large sense of defeat

hedonistic and apologetic, photogenic and blind, bound to this plane, plain and purely prophetic and knowing today is the day

it has to be

following the map to the right destination but of the wrong state, of mind, of being, of chemical decomposition and breaking down yet again

not again

shaken to my very core by the feeling there has to be more to the scraps and crumbles left behind

shaking and sore, one misguided mountain climb to go, one more great adventure in the Serengeti of the mind

lion to myself, prancing like a gazelle on the cold tiles, laughing like a hyena and graceful as a three legged giraffe

today is going to be the start, my starry eyed glimpse into the future of uncertain principles and uncaring principals

of weightless floating and wayward failings, ever down into the great unknown, alone and unaware

solving the crime before it occurs, the private i, the trench coat wearing defective detective on the trail of the as yet unseen

sure luck homes and the uncanny knack for causing a scene to unfold in my mind when looking at simply anything

i need to quit

quit writing about a life i barely want to live, writing in general, it’s going nowhere

get my private eye license and open a shop, help uncover cheating spouses and drink whiskey and live on the poverty line

sleep in a worn trenchcoat with my trusty revolver and memories of you