I don't go to pieces without my puzzle:)

(effortless expression, stressless impressions)

Don't feel like incriminating myself
got nothing to write for another two weeks or so.
Besides I can't type when exhausted.

No more censors in this special patch of grass, it is shrinking, too many eyes, who else watching us as we light up in that drug nosed high. I need an artificial barrier, how else can I mix my batter? If you see me in a trance, do your best to flatter, it's better for the blog if we lie to each other. Be discreet with all these secrets which are uninteresting when passed around.

I've been working on my posture, practised deep breathing. I've worked on preparation, explanation, delegation, and no more self denial or flagellation. (btw eco-guilt is the new catholicism)

I've sharpened that sense of humour, yet I'm mostly gormless (great word); I've donated spare change to the homeless. I've never been a borrower. I've lived alone without a loan or begging for a bone but certainly never chose this loneness over any other. I've learned from Bruce Springsteen - the boss himself. "You do some sad sad things, when it's you you're trying to lose." So I've finally arrived, paid my dues. Just watch now, what I will do.

It spills over me

I'm whirlwinded, wallowing in highs. She sang swirlies, talks me over telescopic lines, I'm doing twirlies, this soundtrack never ceases, joy just abstract enough, satisfaction in that sensory vacuum, where everything heightens, this virtual stuff. It is tough. Yet it's the easiest thing, or so it's been, and still, it's hard, but "I don't mind hard work" and you'll agree. (I'm looking forward to our conversation, so we can end our purgatory.)

I've written lyrics for songs; didn't know my music though, and every note was wrong. Didn't know my strength, I'm sorry, I never lifted a finger. I let doubt fester; I let madness run rumour; I let simpletons shriek and drown out reason… and I let sadness linger.

I don't have time to gather arguments, rather be happy than right. I'm short on preamble, but I always fall back on the rhyming ramble. Amiability is a crutch; if you don't dare you don't win, and so I threw away my education because my mind was hollowing.

I didn't set out to break records for complexity - vexing with my book of photos, subversive against storytelling itself - though underlying everything, besides unlikelihood and improbability, is simple appreciation for the possibility of possibilities.

What is anticipation?

"From this distance, I think I might love you.

I am beginning to hate this distance."

Have no doubt

(I want this to be talked about.)

Truly, I’m tizzied. Has it affected me? Certainly, since last week I’ve dreamt, not slept, swept and checked my countenance for cracks, carefully counted my steps and spent sweat, pain, laughter all spun together in this mind-churning infatuation with your brain.

And your name! I am ashamed; I have not yet said your name to you. All of the above has numbed my voicebox, a blow from which I can’t recover, and beyond my lyrics and drums, I do confess: I fear my rubber tongue.

And “Oh but reality,” the fingers wag, citing polysyllabic nonsensicalities, eventualities, uncertainties, contingencies, superstitions and fragilities:

For instance, it is true, we have not met. And do we both clean our apartments? Do we disdain four-legged pets? Do we like the mornings? And do we both eat meat??

I do, I love meat. I do. I’ll get my fill at our first meeting, with eyes that taste every inch of you. And I’ll call the banquet hall tomorrow, if you like what you see too.

But do not doubt the serene certainty in my insanity, surety in my naivete, Samsonlike strength in my devotion to this realism. Full of bull? Oh no. Ole!

Backflips

(folks, we have arrived)

The written word is a funny thing.
I get the feeling you're
less sentimental than I
so you won't think twice
about me waxing
about how
important it is that
since I discovered your
existence I have resolved
to meet you
as soon as possible.

Oh I've been plotting suddenly
-and this is nothing like me-
and scheming,
every song selected
for maximum meaning
and melting of
your shivering hard diamond heart.

Call me a wacko
but a sliver of me
suspects
for the longest time
I've been writing
about you
-wacko, yes-
bet you didn't
know that
but here just now
I catch myself staring
at you
and reading you
in disbelief and
afraid to tell anyone
lest
they pinch me
and
I can't deny
this egocentric eccentricity
-so indulge me, please-
that if you were conjured
from poems
I've been writing for years
'Measuring the best of me,
awaiting her, clandestinely'
then it's nothing at all for me
to wait a bit longer.

I'll do what I have to.

Wait, yes.
When it's
blind love, Tom waits
But today I got my wish
and
will
see you soon enough
thanks to two unlikely cupids
and boy yeah now I'm being mushy and stupid and
be warned that
in person I tell shockingly horrendous puns!

Actual thoughts

(hardest to write down)

Dreaming of six things at once, occasionally erotic, ruing expression as the new running water. "Everybody wants the same thing." When I'm overcaffeinated and drunk I get strange results. Wake up in a thought clot, last night my eyes bloodshot, tearshot swearing and crying. Like a kid with a brand new toy; but I know I'll need a newer toy. I collect notions so I can liberate them.The other day I overheard myself thinking "How smart are we? Slightly less than he who can fully comprehend how smart we are, which means we have a lot to learn." I've been striving for sentences that enforce calmness. I could attach notes to people and places in my life, but thoughts in a vacuum have an obscene grace that make me shiver. Whom do I read these days? Oh no the discrepancy between where our minds want to go and the crude instruments around us. We all want to melt hearts. It's a test: how much can I bear embarrassing myself. If so many words could make you weak in the knees, I'm satisfied, tapping my baton behind curtains when the crowd's gone home, saying 'still got it'. 'Still got it' - but that proves what? An extra gear I've reached, what is it all tied back to neurotransmitters, all this hustle and bluster competing desires in a crowded cafe, flashes of potential for exceptional harmony, and I hear the miracle of the gregorian chant, submission to one note, take all these different people tell them 'sing this note and sing it well' yeah that's tougher than it looks. I don't sell myself well at all. If I did sell you on me I still wouldn't be sure that you're sold. So why bother with disappointment. Pioneers don't have time for applause or to dodge tomatoes. Mad Max in the desert trying to keep one or two loyal friends. Remember in Owen Meany, they practise the jump for the entire book? And the meaning came crashing down? But John Irving cheats because he knows how it will end. Not really a writer but a problem solver working on his next contingency, making lemonade from lemons. If I told you mixing drinks is what this blog is about, that it's based on fermentation and yeast, or whatever. Do you know what beer is? It's yeast shit. It's not something I would ever choose for myself ie expression as an addiction but there we have it.

20 four-word sentences

(excellent practice for writing headlines)

1) Cuddle peacocks every Tuesday.
2) Waffles bludgeon my soul.
3) Seek cobra venom antidotes.
4) Tarred, feathered, I moan.
5) I crave tofu biscuits.
6) Be smart, eat fish.
7) Revel in word zest.
8) Mormons haunt my thoughts.
9) Who has osmosis exhaustion?
10) Spanish eyes shine mightily.
11) Equal rights never arrive.
12) Club chicks gyrate hypnotically.
13) Polish grandma's copper dentures.
14) Spontaneously combust, then extinguish.
15) Analyze your squeegee budget.
16) Feast upon barbecued rhinoceros.
17) Swedes are prettier, bouncier.
18) Skydiving is aborted suicide.
19) Chickens cluck Swahili sonnets.
20) Ottawa Senators choke, again.