Inside the Words

Inside the air I see a need to speak, straight through backwardness, and in a very indistinct way I see a way through the words.

The Depth of Paper

none of these

lask

words belong

millicent

each one stands

peter

in seclusion from

variance

eachother 

graven pore removes coin vision

milk remote

hotel mists

grain water knife

horizon hotel water

horison angle flashes orange

A golden rage in August,

the risk of skipping off the surface,

how to learn to begin.

The Depth of Paper

Write Everything Exercise

Graven pore removes coin vision

milk remote

hotel mists

grain water knife

horizon hotel water

horizon angle flashes orange.

Location

I look for myself in my bookshelf.
 I look for myself in my rumpled covers and tossed aside pillows.
I look for myself in my laundry.
  I look for myself on my desk,
   in my cupboard,
    the carpet,
     the paintings on the walls,
      the mould in the shower.
I find myself at home.

Silencism

An inhalation, a hummmmm,
The street desert at midnight in streetlight,
The middle tone, the pause to breathe,
Then gentle words goodnight, to sleep.

Silencism

An inhalation, a hummmmm,
The street desert at midnight in streetlight,
The middle tone, the pause to breathe,
Then gentle words goodnight, to sleep.

Tightly coiled spirals of semantic madness wheeling out like spaghetti every which way.

A mad wanderer explores the sea, and charts the undulating waves of thought.

He alone knows how to proceed, but knows not from whence or where.

Where am I?

Should I start again where I left off? Lift all the loose threads up to braid a poem? Am I suffocating myself with this systematic whirlpool of thought that I tend so carefully? I think I’m being too careful. I judge what I post here by my own standards, and I fear that my thought has grown a bit wild in the dark. I’ve become too sensitive taken up in books, and dreams. Where am I? I invite anyone who visits this place to make a comment and tell me what they think.

A huge weight of heat wakes me as I choke for air. A blanket of flames wraps my feet, my clothes, everything around me is on fire. I run naked out the door into the rain...

I Don't Write a Text

I don't write a text
I write a body with a skin
and bones underneath,
A life.

I don't write a text
I write an object,
With a surface
That covers something unknown.

I don't know what I write
Perhaps it's not for me,
or not to be known at all.

I don't write to remember
I do not write to know.
I do I suppose, write to wander.

As It Were

The truer reason

Feeling spoken with true feeling

Were a word

Always as combined reason

With truer reason a word feeling