too sleepy for thinking too tired
to sleep. i left my parents' house
along the slash of my father's
handwriting. the basket
of my mother's worry. i set off
to the world beholden
to my imminent disaster.

and only made it Here.

now cold in the hole of this
cliffsitting cabin.
the trailworn edge of the world.
being Here is like being anywhere:
too many feet and too little blanket.
more bullshit erected
at the side of the road.

simply put:
fuck fuck fuck
fuck fuck.
when morning

breaks i will step against
the sun. write my own
selfsame letters.
foot on stone my stone.
in the message i mail
to the present i'll tell them,
don't wait.
the future is certain.
all the songbirds
eloped.

Proverbs 8:1

 1 Does not wisdom call out?
       Does not understanding raise her voice?

 2 On the heights along the way,
       where the paths meet, she takes her stand;

 3 beside the gates leading into the city,
       at the entrances, she cries aloud:

 4 "To you, O men, I call out;
       I raise my voice to all mankind.

transition

Arrayed and dismayed. The lip of your metal cup. The edges of your memory. The smell of gasoline where 'Jasmine' would have been prettier. It could have all been prettier. Bent over the counter top while the unforgiving give of the vaseline. I am not saying I want it different. Would want it wearing heels. Sufficiently stilettoed through butterflies and bees. All ripped in the hitch. Then from beside the balustrade you find the smaller vital you. The you that might send you a message. With a half-perceptible pulsing it unfolds like the odor of grass. The comb at the throat. The small boat embarked upon the great waves. A mouse and a cat at the tiller. A raspy brace of sea salt. An azure dream of a deep and sighing jewel. When I snap my fingers you will awaken. When awakened inside your fingers you may snap. The last long call of a gull. That's it. You can open them. We've arrived.