Thursday, 26 August 2010

old poem, like the others

You cannot allow the mind to stop, it has to go somewhere

And whereever it goes is whenever you are going to know

As if as if you could

You can’t you can’t know the kind mind and iit’s infinite misspelled it’ses

And everything is a brilliant different color of the same thing

We are muck and grime and beautiful flowers and flames that open and



And stop for seconds but don’t stop for more than a few

And if I was stupid enough

I’d probably be smart

But I don’t just don’t just can’t just get it together and I


Do it to myself

And I am a collection of random things and that collection of random things

Is sometimes stoned and really usually all of the time high

At least in this state of mind, that one this one that you are reading and sometimes seeing

And I talk in absolutes

And I am absolutely positively uncertain of absolutely maybe everything

But all I can think about is nothing

But then nothing becomes the realization of everything

And my mind cli i i i icks

And sometimes I say clikZ and I’m cool

But most of the time I’m not

Did you see when it snowed last winter,

And while I was walking home I thought I might’ve been in massachusettes

And my ID would probably already be horizontal, and I wouldn’t know you like I do now

And what if this is a rant or just a few letters that might

Sound good if I use all of the stupid extra unreal extra-terrestrial and by that I mean other than the structureofthewordsoftheneverendingsentencess

The mind hits a block and you worry if you’ve fallen over. Are you there typing? Am I here reading this? Is the page mine or yours, or mine? Have we fallen together and maybe I am the page. And maybe all the and maybes in the world won’t stop us from eventually crashing together in an under-lying theme of absurdity.

What if I’m stuck here, on this page, getting better, simpler. But is each of those a breath?

Do you want to know me when I’m older? I don’t. I want to know you for the rest of your life, and I also wish that I’d known you when I was younger, and you were younger. But I don’t want to know me when I’m older. I don’t trust my mind to age with grace. It feels frayed enough, and I’ve heard that sanity is best built on a solid foundation. But I want you to know me when I’m older, so that I can know you when you’re older too.

And I can think so much of myself, but most of the time I’m thinking of you.

And is this a love letter? Can a letter be in love?

Can I be in love with you? Still? Or is it too early? Or what if it is beautiful, love? And why has that become a question?

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