Stone

Sunspots rest on your eyelids
Directing like sign posts
A way, the way to a place
No satellite could ever quite reach.
The coarse stone sticks to your palm
And is the only reminder of mortality right now.
Cold and soaked in a millennia of different realities
You take it everywhere, as a reminder that
You exist on more planes than just this,
Here.

Nothing is always something. Always. I have tried to explain this some times to some people. Some got it and some didn’t. In some ways, I wish that I didn’t dwell on such a stupid statement some of the time. Always.

Bullet points that I cannot find on this high tech blog software. I cannot find the bold button either. How can these pixels, arranged in such a way, irritate me and make me feel awkward and lost? Because I cannot make things darker and more striking; more poignant, expressive, reflexive, it. Means. Something. When. It. Is Bold. Its absence reminds me of what I cannot make myself do.

Today is the last day of the past of my life.

What am I saying?

Word at last, I love, I heart, interviews spill the BEANS and is a guide to a life, a book about Travellers in fields of plenty with bonus material. Let us play the scene up, Hawks, Duty, Lays and ways that knew Too Much.

These are words I can see with my eyes where I am sat right now. Tell me what words you see.

It Is

The very realness of it,
as though clocks did not tock-tick
their way at all forward, not even moving
Backwards slowly behind in that
Anti-wise manner we never see.
No, neither forwards nor backwards
Now, it just is.
It is
Just then, back then, now then do you
Feel it?
The nausea, and you grasp at your face.
Despair at those words
These words are only words lost to
Five, Six or Ten summers
Past but they are clear
And definitely too loud now.
Hardened, they pelt, brutally
And no number will help forget
How your fingernails drew blood
Beneath your eyes and how it stings
Still, if you press that place accidently,
It remembers still and that clock means
Nothing anymore.