Seattle

Call it a ritual. Call it whatever you like.

How phrases come back to us in recycled yet reinvented contexts. How the changing weather and phases of heat and light bring out the most vegetal thoughts and movements from our muscles and our organs. How we said we didn’t mind, but deeper than those words was a longing that had no outlet except in anxiety, as we shook and sweated, and put on grinning faces, thinking that idyllic, pastoral settings would be enough to do it for us…for the time being at least.
Put on the suit to fit your fears, tie it at the top. Financial woes betide the shifting movements of the moon: some kind of menstruation of the Earth as she spins her yarns ambivalently…lost in space.

Somewhere across a sea, Ori knows me, and a hometown with streets and rotten old stone edifices so long sitting convulescently holds my ghost as the streets are walked to waking. Meanwhile frozen dead guys continue to instruct cigarette soaked bodies sweating bones and bracken.

I write because I have nothing to write. Anything I have to say, I’ll just say and so I ramble and wind, little artifacts that may or may not speak to people who may or may not give a shit about who I am. While away the time, feel productive, feel like produce, touch a little knob of history, wipe the slate clean, clean the slate black, talk back and immediately after, apologize. Like some macabre baroque polka, the ballad writhes back and forth, seasick and melting, letting words work their magic in the back of an uninspired mind. The moment of balance comes at 5:12 pm, I’ve heard, but beyond that, I’m at a loss.

Tell me tell me tell me elm. What does an elm tree look like? I don’t know, but I do know that those are clearly aspens and you should know that because you’re from here. We made peace, but I was too drunk to remember how. I can’t remember any of our chat, only that I walked away feeling good. But then again, he was always a great rhetoritician, a sophist, and completely full of shit. I’ve probably fallen for it again, but I know I no longer care. Bullshit is preferable to angry silence. I own that anger and it’s up to me to discard. I guess I’m afraid its loss will leave me with very little to hold up to the light, so I hold onto it in lieu of something more worthwhile. Meanwhile, we walk along a razor’s edge to happiness and lightheartedness. We may or may not be wasting our time.