I am Jane Goodall's Tanzanian monkeys typing about bananas. My fingers are Santa's little helpers. My hope is a sporadic rainfall - yet a torrential downpour in all creative environments. I am Theseus, unspooling golden yarn. Sisyphus, sweating uphill. Bukowski, scribbling away in rooming houses. A river always flowing. I am the nightmare of stagnancy and a God of Imagination.
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Fields And Streams Of Unconsciousness…
Regardless of how much one whines and complains about the lack of things that make you happy – sometimes absence does make the heart grow fonder. Sometimes one grows fonder of having one less responsibility. Sometimes one is glad to not throw out withered word-petals at a funeral procession that’s already passed you by.
Your grief hangs over my head like Louisiana humidity.
My concern for you swaddles my heart.
Me?
I wade through the fields and streams of unconsciousness
Not knowing if I should turn back
or continue to plod forward
Me?
My concern for you
replaces my usual unspoken words
with the ones
I say out loud to you
everyday
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"Your grief hangs over my head like Louisiana humidity." Nicely said, good sir.
ReplyDeleteit sounds like all is going well...because these words are good, and there are sperm.
ReplyDeleteHappy birthday. We are 31. Which is somewhat cooler and also so much less cool than being 30.
Absence always makes my heart grow fonder of my children...it is their presence that irks me. hee...
Im at an Apple store in the mall...and I'm scared...
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