08.16.11 [written in sketchbook]
there is no end to my
and the wind does blow
I see in the sun
and the green is never
my soul weeps with so much
unnameable stuff
the names just bring shame
tarnish my dream-stained

03.19.11 [written in sketchbook]
What would it take to do the things I think. to be in reality what I am in thought. to glide as the ether that floats in my head, to always do a thing I’d wish I’d done if I were dead. To remember that I don’t know, but birds do fly.

01.10.11 [stream of consciousness prose]
Then he said that it didn’t make any peanuts at all but that didn’t mean that the ceiling was falling. it could just mean that the way had changed and no one knew it yet. the way changes a lot, maybe always. change is the way. but that’s when she walked in and said that the fire had reached into the undue region, and we all knew what that meant. i hadn’t remembered to pick up the licensed sign, it was going to be a problem. she stood there looking at me, knowing what it was time to do but it didn’t seem ready to her, when she looked at me. her frowning had seen inside that the ready room was empty in me, the red for the chamber didn’t come, and there was faltering. she said that we needed the light for the path, and she walked away.

I let that unicorn inside. I didn’t know if she saw it. We had danced in the brilliant, and now there was little left.

Without the light how can we do this? she saw him. I saw that her thought had touched me and felt the coolness of my skin, and she knew I had no cause for the red. it doesn’t make any peanuts, I told her. she touched the unicorn.

Purple pinpricks along the spine, the red began to wonder about that strange little gland. why was it there? what was it for? trickling in for pursuit of fact, it was found to be a home. the red laid down in drapery fashion and hummed to a dull mellow lull.




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