text books.

stuck.
well they may not be this dry, or dusty.
but they still make me sneeze.
& yawn.

freight train running through the middle of my head.

Vivien Leigh and Laurence Olivier in That Hamilton Woman. (1941)

the collection. 3o-something & growing/losing count.

the idyllic sweetness of being [boring]:

• romancing with books of sorts (5 going at a time is the only acceptable way)
• sleeping in, rarely past 9am.
• owl organization
• "there goes Riel, searching for the meaning of life.."-ZA.
• inspirational films. of love. of loss. of influential woman; tamers of the wild, of beauties & their beasts.

A long, long time. Won't you come along?

In the land of Deja Vu, where everything gets to you.
All their stories make you weep
Treasures of the past, wished not keep.
The Oceanids scream "Come with me";
entrancing, passionately romancing
Locked in by the undertow;
only way out is to give them your soul.

you can try to hurt.

empty old radiant eyes.
left alone to dwell, swell, weep, then dry.
haunted hearts fading into dust, ash, then to must.
all that's left is no one to trust.
you can try to hurt me,
but it just won't penetrate.
atlas had the weight of the world,
and there is no way to pretend
that malice such as yours, even bothers me
slight; with the weight of this continent
backs will break, so will collarbones

Charybdis of the Sea

and she fell apart; sailor versus Charybdis of the sea

never meant to be floating along the water

ever so eloquently she would whisper things to me:

"die amongst one thousand and one men tonight, die for me!"

until the efforts of mighty hierarchies

flooded through the sinking galley

never to "float, sink, or die" she swore

paddling her oar.

"I may not be human, divine, or dead.

But as long as I'm living,

I focus to keep far apart from each, as the Sailors of Greece to Charybdis of the Sea".

long i've been waitin'

two decades plus a year. breathe it in. soak it up. whatever your (choice) method of application is, i am feeling it. almost ready. but not quite feeling right. until i begin what i've always been waiting for, i'll be here, but soon walk out-that-door.

to heal and to grow.

And the hearts the reason why. It’s always “why”. It’s always what you spit out when you say “what if”. What if I were that way, what IF I’d done this. It was never the right way if you were always cursin’ and spittin’ and making your head split about all this same old type of bull shit.

Sometimes thoughts of you, you in the past make an ache in my stomach so great, you just want to drop whatever your carrying, however wide, and worrysome you may be about letting go. but the thoughts always retreat to that great infinite answer of “no”. it’s the love that was lost, the love that was meant to be buried, buried in a hole so deep that even if you tried to dig it up years later, it’d still be covered in mounds of moist, motionless dirt. Soil that seemed so soft, so many years ago.