Stretch, some toast and oats and milk, and standing, writing, and WAKE UP. I’m up. What time is it? It’s right now. What’s the score? Huh? How do you feel? My back hurts from so many days sitting down. Alive? Yes, I guess.
Be? Yes. BE.
Please, let me be. What? What will you be? Anything. I’ll be everything.
Going to go back to the time that is now, and it is now; it will always be now. The smells of the end of the summer. The end of the day.The end of this life, and I’ve written way too many words here, and still….
No time, like now. Sure. It’s true. That’s what they say. Who? Just they, just they.
The trees say go, the sun says go, the spirit says go; everything just says come on man and get yourself together, it’s only life, and it’s hard to live sometimes, and boy-man we all know this. Humans are born with the knowledge of how hard it is to live. So?
Write like that old Hemingway, and get off of my ass for a while and look at the walls and the patio that my grandfather built. Such a strange design. Everything is curved and tangled, and it doesn’t look like it should work, but it does work. So?
He’s gone, and he still gets phone calls from the tax collectors and the bill hunters, and I pick up the phone and they say is your grandpa there? I say well I don’t know, I don’t think so. I mean, how are you I ask? That’s not important they say. About your grandfather… they say. Well, he’s been dead for a while. How long they ask. Um, I was one, so that’s, well, dang, not too good at math. How old are you now? Thirty. Nothing. They stop talking. They hang up. I just wanted to talk and say, how are you? Not them. They wanted money, not a friend, and that’s fine, I guess. No, it is. What is? It’s FINE? I guess.
GOOD. What’s good? It’s all good. That’s what Jon Sinclair said. So? Just saying. It’s true. What’s true? That it’s all good. What? EVERYTHING.
What about the day? What about it? It’s almost…
The day is done. Not me. I’m going to write some new words about the sounds of the doors as they close, squeak, metal springs, broken blood vessels drip on footprints decades old on newly painted concrete.
I’ll be up late tonight, real late, drafting writing a couple short stories about people who I might become, and it’s hard moving on, it’s hard growing-up down to death, and i’ts hard doing this. What? This, just this.
You chose to do it. What? You know. What? Write. I was young then. You’re not anymore. So? So write and so do it and talk to yourself , talk for them, talk for the dead grandfathers, talk for the future that will always just come for you; talk for the days and the night and the neighbors who think you’re oh so weird, and you are…
Am what? You are weird. It’s cool though boy-man-hu-man, because monkey- boy-hairless-hu-man, you know. Know what. You know that you are weird, and why did you choose to do this? I don’t know, I have no clue. So?
last night desperation. Last night was a low point and sleep deprivation and artistic decline does that to you, to everyone, and it’s nothing more than the ebbs of flows of life-life-life…
Control your mind. Learn to be your mind. Learn to be learn what you started to learn. Learn and read again and be you again, and don’t bow down to those who you only want love from. Be yourself. Be goofy. Be loving. Be weird. Be funny. Be?
Be the sunset on the lake. Be a new forming star cluster born from your bed head of hair.
Be the sounds of socks on floors and baby ants rolling on the grass with dreams of carrying sticks back to the hill from the inter-plains of your mind. Be?
Be be your dream. Your nightmare. Be?