Monday, April 11


i had a conversation with my mom tonight
and i asked her for a (favor--)-- that
when she dies
and if there is something after this life
to do everything in her power to send me a sure sign that
     she's still there
and this
                      the end.

she said she'll send me birds,
and I don't think I've heard anything        


Sunday, September 27

tell, tell, heart.

sometimes i tell myself things to get through work, like
ten more minutes until i have two hours left, and then
half an hour until that hour is almost over, and then
only one more hour after that...

sometimes i tell myself that writing words in a notebook
is as good as real company
and then my own stories start to seem more real.
it makes it scary to sleep at night
knowing that something is watching,
even if it's just my own shadow.

sometimes i tell myself that dying must feel something like flying.
and how i've been wanting to fly for a long time.
how light it must be feel...

__' -------------------------------------------------------
________'-------------------------------------------- _
___________'----------------------------------- ____
______________'-------------------------- _______
_________________'----------------- __________
____________________'-------  _____________
_______________________'''' ______________
___________________________' ___________
______________________________' ________
_________________________________' _____
____________________________________' __
__________________________________' ___
_________-- - - --   -       --           -                     - -        

then i tell myself to wake up and put that thought away--
away in the darker recesses of my mind where i can't touch it.

[alive] to -tell-
another day.


Monday, July 6

the anti sublime

the haziness of hot summer and of cigarette smoke ----shimmers on blacktop---- makes me feel like I could melt. like my \\\ self could melt away. . .

i feel the weight of what is NOT me and of what will exist when i do not.

            I guess,
they're the same in a way: me and [           ].

. . . \\\ .

the mundane feels vast.
the "greatness" of "[un]-me" feels immense,
but familiar,
like. . . . . .                
. . . \\\ .


How ever so sublimely we live through it all!