went to the baseball field today — listened to a Wayne Dyer discussion, walked through the grass, took in a view of the mountains — felt close to perfection. close to my higher self, if that makes any sense.
fan swivel
a life
passionate about
brothers
and sisters
bunk beds
a dog
chasing you
you throw
a stick
for him
the notion
that you do
something
a physical
exertion
it really just
manifests
from you heart
do you
really care about
a description
of a writer’s
keyboard patterings
when it’s
said and done?
the physical
begins
to mean less
you are
after all
soul
not
soil
not
slain
tonight reading Transmetropolitan after having finished the entire series of The Invisibles. I must say, parts of it were over my head. Grant Morrison is a trip.
poem for the
wrist pain
little kitten slashes
pain of the past memory
of depression
that can not be
bottled and
put on shelves in GNC
but imagined
images
quick bullets
on a reflective
surface
with glee
she skipped
I was
at the fountain
listening
to the man talk
say wise
anecdotes
watch me
repeat them
one day
everything is
energy
but perhaps
my vocab.
is insufficient
or my
structuring
of a sentence
focus
intention
a reality
becoming
like a
sledgehammer
a hedgehog
a needle
drawing blood
for a doctor’s
jar
looks like
young man
you have
terminal cancer
and won’t
be around
for Autumn
sir, ahem
Dr., I’ve seen
plenty enough
and will
see
plenty more
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