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 A nothing from nowhere cast his words to a world wide wind, hindered by periphery. |
| Blathering The Utterances What will restore, without an atom to spare? From where I come from I don’t talk like nobody in those parts where I swummed in a language-soup-murk in fields of lingual-ignorance, or steel-smelt contractions through aluminum sided, girder-ed stalls’ walled partitions, above machinations’ divisions and run past band-saws and spray-wood dust, badges of smear-faces, during perspired break, toothpick straw-suck-consider after that log tongue-rolled, bicusp’ settled a shard, aft’ forefinger-thumb clasp where I’m reverie frozen, see oil-dense, atmospheric offerings of syllable-dropping utterances, oft featured in paused, causitory, sentences fragmented, careful early never get meshed in bilingual fences ending in their exclamations, punctuated as clenched fists trembling, in those tones, where I eddied out, post-autumnal, and spun-rolled from an identifying mirror to pitch black sky canopy claiming a knowing, luminous one where my grievances aired, drifted like particles that couldn’t accelerate, but softly laid into a dry, brittle green, sun cream stained scene, a flesh meld of mornings yesteryear (I’m that old now?) where only the language of sea gulls remained and less populated. No eyes squint, no arms raised amid plaid and solid colors with a belt cinch in reunions not-to-be. I look to woods that seem unchanged Same questions echo in the dense, shadowed amphitheaters, with its hushed exhilaration but alone, with not a doe spied. No wood ticks since known further crawl a denim blue leg. No loose mongrels wander neighborhoods, yard to yard, looking for this friend. I’m disturbed by unsettling quiet, when I see a familiar face trapped in sun-glaze under glass, framed on a dim wall, amid overly ornate furnishings clashing with itself, with me, and beyond that spring strain mute-scream complaint that sent with two boots’ hello, two dull-thud notes, since removed dogged feet on that tile threshold restraint. Hello? She doesn’t live there anymore, but did a ghost of a boy roving about. Sweaty is determined, blond cowlick curl clamping a clueless, over-worked forehead, that two blue eyes did bug out. Hello. Which are you in her room, coax her out with slow, mono-syllable titherings? off the former curt tongue, or cry, hope some hair-sprayed, lemon-drop-breath whispered comfort remains In a dirt lot now, without a ball to throw about, sluice invisible moisture and photons sucking out every last stupid thought up musing for no one about. The grass is thick and green again. Maybe, I should take one more look around. I thought I heard something stir that didn’t come from tasked memory. Do dead people see me? 6.10.25 How many lines wuz…*collapse*…that? *arm raises from the dust, drops pencil* ~ 69 ~ Edit later, yup. Collection of what little auditory or visual memory with the embellished to accelerate recollection(s), heave away false…hewn to unite with what’s true, if I ever existed at all… physics people, existentialism… Save your linen of implying emojis with design for your own funerals. No other death left for me to attend. Really, they would have been accepted before a ghost. |
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