It is funny how nightmares can come to fruition, with the slightest wink of reality inside one's head. I know that sounds crazy, but I mean, when reality appears in one's head, during sleep, it most often comes as nightmares. Unfortunately.
Why can't we imagine life and reality in wonderful ways?
It seems so often that creativity strikes in the midst of tragedy.
Why does something that can ties us close emotionally only come through when the darkness has rotted us from within?
I wish we could tap into this gift of feeling in tandem with other souls more easily,
in ways that were more positive,
exquisitely, sumptuously positive.
Positively together.
Why are we so often united by tragedy, and not bliss?
Why is it that when bliss strikes, we all grow apart? Like our souls in the presence of a feast, must stuff only themselves? Why?

For instance, when loving others you have some pretty profound stages. For instance you have infatuation, where you adore someone because so far they fit into what you think they could be. then you learn differently, and more often than not, you're disappointed in the person they are. And you're disappointed that they aren't striving for this someone they could be. Why can't we first learn to see people as themselves, and then, from that lovely ledge make the leap to affection. Wouldn't it all be so much clearer? Wouldn't affection grow insanely, chaotically, but full of sincerity rather than expectations?

Alas, alack, what insanity permeates our daily lives.

H>T>B

nuts and bolts

crinkle, clinkle, clunk,

rattling inside cans

mashed with bits 

of half-cooked brain

Thank Technology: our friend

frying brain cells

wave by wave

with earnest, bright-faced cheer

Technology,

oh dear, dear friend. . . .

You might be 

Homicidal.

Wasting

Simple and sure.


I've been waiting for you
Unfortunate, I know.
Waiting is wasting
I've been wasting for you.


We had a talk.
Fortunately horrid.
I don't care.
It was enough to sever the sickly umbilical ties.


For that, I am thankful.


You are prepared,
aren't you?


I am preparing.
I will be prepared for the hailstorm that is my future.


Sometimes I feel
Like another refugee
hiding beneath the wooden slats of a decomposing wagon,
waiting for the lull in shots picketing my surroundings
to make a run for freedom
To paint the wagon red.