Midnight ramblings

This is a collection of a stream of consciousness...nothing too special..just ramblings and whatever came to mind.

I tug on my sweater, she says, she starts with a story that never ends. Stagnant. Discontiuned. No they don’t have that item on the shelf anymore..they’re sold out..or we never carried it. They say..she said..you are dealt cards it’s your choice how you play them. You thought you made that up yourself..you thought you were so clever..yeah well I know the real you. But I tug on my sweater and purse my lips and hold in whatever because I am polite.

Snow falls around her..she says..she tries to start again..but this time isn’t any better. It’s last year’s magazine..outdated..thoughts turned to mold in the dampness of that cavern. Where crystalline dreams used to be swarming the walls..the rocky ledges of the cliff. We decided to take the path that no one had ventured to take..with overgrown thistles and the big black beetles. But then past the blueberries and further beyond that pile of broken stones..broken..so many things broken. No glue..no crazy glue..she asked I said I didn’t know.

“now it’s like rolling in a field of daisies” she tried to explain..to start once more. Here..it’s like this..you think they’re lovely and they have such welcoming shining bright yellow faces but then once you lay your body upon their leaves and the weight of it hits the earthen floor you might land on a stone with a sharp edge and before you know it you are backstabbed…such misleading and tempting and lovely. And then you expose your spine and it drills its thorns into the depths of it all..and you are paralyzed.

Remember that man we saw in the snowy streets of boston. Remember your apartment. Remember your neglect. Remember it was actually fall now that I think of it. Oh..that explains it.

And you wonder what time..zone it is. What if it was too many years back that I can’t remember anymore. What if the tape got too far rewound that it broke itself. But maybe this was protection. It fucks with you. I really does. That’s the job of it all and the fun of it all and the ridiculously unexplainable. But not like time travel like that one time that we time travelled in your attic. Like memories time travel..like 20 thousand leagues under the depths of the unconscious. Like blanketed fleece, buried in a macramé built to last.

And then another..reminded me of the science of sleep. When the felt ships sailed upon paper waters and the pony broke its leg. And how could I forget the tree where we found that silver can and we laughed. I captured you as a ghost.

Poetry and ramblings..

I was digging through a lot of writing files and found some things I had written in the past year..some thoughts..some rambles..some bullshit poetry:

Last night,
Staring out the car window,
Suddenly my shoes were gone and I was sitting in my thick wool socks on the sofa.
Reminds me of when we were time travelers
Painting your attic.

The rain falls like rockets to the moon but in reverse because they are traveling towards the earth. But they imprint in the puddles like a finger pressed in fresh clay…but instead the puddle absorbs them and they are no longer visible. Just as you left tiny imprints, tiny dents on my heart and being, but this new me, this new healing has absorbed them and they are no more.

This next one is words from you to me. That’s why I can’t relate to it as much as the others. I understand now. But I wish it were really you saying those words. Instead in my mind there is just a dust bunny where your words should be. Where you should be saying these things to me. How do I collect these cobwebs and dispose of the rotten fruit? It reeks of things past and memories I shouldn’t dwell on. If I clean up the mess that encompasses that space, then will there be room for your apology?

And you just squeeze your temples and then release and breathe like giving birth to thoughts you want to get rid of and release..or perhaps thoughts that are now positive and you want to birth them out so you can be born anew. Or squeezing your eyes shut like wringing out a sponge of it’s filth.

I love mining up memories and digging my shovel in places forgotten where the dust hasn’t yet been brushed off.

A Silly Babbling Journey

I wrote these words...kind of at random at they spewed out of my mind..flowing from my stream of consciousness..some of them kind of make sense..some of it isn't very pretty..most are based off emotion:

Fingers plucking on tiny strings made of silver..wrapped in gold..long sharp knife-like fingernails..dancing amongst the strings like spiders..tiny spiders moving in circles..producing sounds like raindrops falling into puddles.

Stone cold I lie..like a princess on her tombstone..fresh pearl skin kissed by the dew.

Footsteps amongst the soft green moss and the breeze of an early autumn wind. Would you stay?

Trumpets don’t look like trumpets to me..they sound like knives jabbing at the air.

You’re so very sad..and we were so very sad..we were time travelers and stone skippers amongst the fuzz of everything.

I’m sorry you couldn’t see it. I feel like I failed you and you still remain in a hole of darkness..with no nails strong enough to scrape yourself out or climb..instead..your nails are dull and they only push the dirt down the sides of the hole..covering and burying you. Perhaps once you’re buried..you will sprout like a seed once the rains come..and you will be born anew..a second chance..you will find hope.