opening doors

The man
Paces birskly back and forth
Between the coffee shop and the pharmacy
Anxiously anticipating the exiting patrons
He takes three steps
From the left to the right
Looking through the window panes
Waiting on anyone to hold the door for
Politely asking all of them for change.

30

This was not the anticipated feeling. That a distance could separate me from myself, this is not something I expected. Still, I see what I am. I look from the many angles, digital and analog, the practical, the technical. I see what I am. There is a mirror which daily acknowledges and ignores my most important strengths and weakest shortcomings.
I cannot ignore the clock of my own reflection. Such a reflection will not lie to you. That image is the only real token of time. A second, in the minute, counting a week, which will comprise the years... and then we ask, "Oh, where has the time gone."

This was not the anticipated feeling. That I could be aware of all the shortcomings. The theoreticals that are bantered amongst the most diligent academics. I know only what I know. But I hear the other tid bits. I hear some words from my far gone potential. An echo of a time that screamed an unmistakable logic to me, that is what pierces the sides of my skull this time. But they are distinct and I do hear them... yes, they sound like they are making sense.

This was not the anticipated feeling, that I would lecture anyone. I do not have that right. I do not have the experience. Yet, amidst logistical loopholes, mired in the everyday - in places where waking and sleeping are the only two alarms on both sides of the day - I do question. A constant curiosity. In contrast my friends ask me, "What did you figure out?"... or, "What did you learn?"...ultimately, "What is your point?"...

This was not the anticipated feeling. But I cannot repeat that. I cannot reiterate such precision in good conscience. To plagerize on perfection implicates pretention. Such alliteration assumes a certain similarity. But the point... that is the point... what is the point... if there is one... and on and on. A clever cycle of neverending perplexion... ending with... some... elipse...

This was not the anticipated feeling. But the feeling stays anyway. There was a time when a certain sensation might attune itself personal biorythyms or ecstasies. So this time no longer exists. This was not the anticipated feeling. That a distance could separate me from myself, this is not something I expected. The unexpected continues to be the call of the day.

This was not the anticipated feeling, me longing for a specific remedy. A prescription, an attestation, any reaction. But there is none. Maybe some conclusion makes sense, but ultimately a conclusion, only acknowledges a settlement. A settlement supposes an understanding. This is something I cannot suppose.

Seasons

That sour chorus. She stinks again in the wind. That sour chorus - she stinks again.
Taking so long to get to this point?!
Why a forced effort?
Why so long?... To this point.
That's what I said, or said, or repeated. Again. Like I said.
Making sense of your ambiguity, my distressed sensefulness - repeated in the keys. That they sing, again, or again. Still, they sing a melody.
Arising just like my waiting for it. A crescendo: another emotional symphony.

Whereby this used to happen constantly, the feeling comes in bursts know. Artificial insemination of the arbitrary words.
Could I say?
Would I say?
As if I said.
And yet, the keys dance up and down... then the words end, and begin again...u underused
Or overused
Still, an acknowledged syntax,
Punctuating the seemingly easiest feelings.
Sad little tugs at the meaning of little interaction.
Perpetual advances
Genisis at the tips of your opening explanation
A testament amidst a rotten festering dearth
Bleakness so negative it reflects the colors from a personal testamanet
Of nothingness.
Classic ignorance, detachment from usual boundaries - bearing, holding, tightening, to the seams of a contradictory intuition - waves of big word after big word after word after word after big word.
That makes me feel better.

Cuz I had words that I had at the end of the words where they would make less sense but a little
MEANING
MEANING
MEANING MEANING MEAINNG MEANING MEANING MEANING MEANING MEANING MEANNIG MEANING
I could type it over and over again
So please stop with the constant badgering.
In peaceful futures of equilibriums and halos - angelic figures of mathematical and practical approach -
Then...
When is there meaning?
Like I don't make any sense.
Where is there Meaning?
A look through some meaning?
A rhetorical device, some thing that sounded good once.
How many times can I say it, and it still
Well it still will
The meaning in that
Like a still meaning
Something.
That is usually the case

And yet, vague posturing amongst a scarecrow.
That a corn row, a delicate line of tightly woven synthesis
Picking something, a raisin off the vine,
Cheesy dream deffered, some frustrating tale
Then a darkened plot of moral terpitude and saddened hopes
The rock rolling down hill
A man chased down after.
To me to you to me and the meaning:
Little to him.
Pushing it up
Again and
and.


II.
Angry chatter against the wind. Like something I said. Or that she might have discussed at some point
But we've come along way these days.
Optical emissions react so quickly in fiberoptic spectrums.
A fear of the unexplainable
Yeah. Fearfulness... of... something... I felt...once...
Like it hurt so much... relax.
A militarized half-ling, a miserable little pissant.
I looked for silence. And it came.
Such a tasty treat, she sat down beside me in a quiet spectrum of washing emptiness.
And you listen to the same song again
You listen to the same song again
You just listend
Again and again

An iPod bubble

Oh you West Village girls - that luscious wave of you that pours through a cafe door.

A silent waft of grandeur. August beauty drifting forth. A paragon of splendor cascading in between those ears.

Those delicate little ears peer so deftly from winter hats or wind-strewm tufts of hair, fortressing all the scary exterior. So cute: nymphs of sound, bouncing lightly from step to step - spritely dances across platforms.

Where are you going? Where do I find you? How can I tell?

Bars, restaurants and subway exits - always falling through some crack, the sinking suspicion of indiscretion. There is no propped up unawareness then. No music between those silly little radars that make a lady's face so adorably red. Pink cheeked and clenching to strong armed crutches - strong jawed and well dressed, they make for good dressing.

Nothing but the best for you, in those bland hours in between the maddening responsibility. A tossed gladrag, a stained cheek, a strewn thong - those tasteless morsels of nurture. But on the street these modern antiques are unheard.

There is so often, in the day, a time to pause, and reflect, and consider all that is possible. So frequently the day is a screaming silence between the ears of a girl where she pauses and reflects and considers the only thing that matters to her.

Cemetary

A crystallized headstone
massive force shattering a serenity
diminished in passing time

a stream of seconds drips
from the corners of the cross
a crawling plunge to the frozen grass

blades spinning a rotarian web
cyclically twisting a certain stasis
body and soul like earth and snow.