Every Minute More Unprepared

There's no saving anything / Now we're swallowing the shine of the sun... We've got another thing coming undone / And it's taking us over

It was a High Violet kind of night; it's a Boxer kind of morning. Similar angles, symmetry I find in so much of these days: I to rest go with the western sky red, peering out of my burrow at silhouetted water towers and grain mills; I rise with the eastern horizon pink and orange, this line of firs dark sentries against the fiery sky.

Sometimes you stay in bed / Sometimes you go la di da di da di da da / Til your eyes roll back into your head

I've too many words bouncing around the bulk of these miles now. I'll have to stop, jot something anything everything - but I don't. Emails are composed, drafted and redrafted and written again and again, yet not a word of any of these essays (let's call the working title of say, this one, 'sex,' and this one, 'repercussions,' and this one, 'white whine and the wailing wind'...) has found a way - any way! - to a page or screen. Chronicles of these adventures remain in list form, a few phrases standing in for each paragraph I've mentally worked out, but nothing more have I written. Plans into the future remain unaddressed, as do memories of the past. Same for processing the present. I'm idling in a dirty cacophony of clusterfuck.

They put me on the pill / It's in my honey, it's in my milk

We'd these puzzles we slowly the school year worked our way through - a few pieces here and there filling in as quick distraction from students, the stress of troublesome days. I tell you this because it mirrors my head - a scattered feeling as if all those puzzles were dumped out at once. I'm trying to put each of them together now, but with only one table, only this one moment, it feels, to sort them all out, build all those pretty pictures back up from nothing. But there's not enough space for these words, or perhaps even more accurately, not enough time, and so the stories run scrambled into each other, and the line between fiction and non-fiction grows ever blurrier. Perhaps in some strange way you understand?


Turn the light, out say goodnight / No thinking for a little while / Let's not try to figure out everything at once / It's hard to keep track of you falling through the sky

This summer, too. Such a fictionalized quality has it taken on that I no longer have much of any idea how to describe it. "Epic," a friend texts me, and sure, he's right, but beyond that? I've taken to simply calling it 'the best summer ever,' because while calling it an epic junk show and ignoring consequences of doing what I want, forever damning the next day until it comes, while that's equally true - well. What a mouthful. What a downer. So I'll try not thinking for just a little longer, and I'll ride just a little harder, and just maybe, just maybe it'll even work.

Out of my league, I have birds in my sleeves and I wanna rush in with the fools... You're zoning out, zoning out, zoning out, zoning out...This isn't working... my middlebrow fuck-up