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#5amwritersclub
I woke up with an intense craving for hot oatmeal and maple syrup. Breakfast of champions.
You were yesterday
before you were today
and thinking about
this moment like
it would last forever.
I’m sorry for entropy
and enthalpy and any
influence that wasn’t
advocating forever.
Things have to go
somewhere. Still,
still can be good
if we just sit for
awhile, and pretend
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It’s dire. I are wondering,
should we bring back
hands? Hands-on, also
bring back one eye deer?
Ample entreaties, supple
can see some phoneme
evolution, and a handful
of corn, fed to dear words,
as they timid to you amidst
other wild lives, and scenes,
and beats, and nibble from
hands, less important they
exist again, happy that
they do.
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Laying on my side,
listless,
looking out the
window,
sideways.
I don’t need to warn
the trees of my change
of view. They have roots
and hold on.
Neither the birds,
traversing sideways
skies.
It’s the people. Without
roots, without wings, they
tumble sideways.
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The sum of my experiences?
It’s the constant new math,
reverting to counting on
chewed fingers, my
beadless abacus,
knuckles clicking in
rapid calculation, or
knotting my hair to
the thousandth place.
Consciousness before
neurons and a
new geist heist.
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I picked up the stick
and dragged it along
the gravelly road in
boredom. The goal
wasn’t noise, but there
it was. The purpose
wasn’t art, yet
scratched in the
coarse grain, evidence
I had passed that way.
Years from now, experts
would speculate the
purpose
of those etchings…
religions formed…
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The day we discovered
that future and past
were the same, that
rods were cones and
versa fame.
The moment turvy
topped out, quitters
tapped in, and the
healthiest morning
drink was gin.
We knew. Turning
pages don’t make
a story. In the moment
all the glory.
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Righteous doesn’t
reach us. Treat us
to the treatise, why
don’t you. Trickle the
treacle at a tortuous
tempo. We won’t
notice the obvious.
We’re all oblivious, but
in lively orbs of vitality.
Life, lived by someone
else’s damn opinion.
Hold your tongue.
Molasses on the table.
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Climbing the wooden
steps, once smooth poly,
now just rough hewn,
wearing my pins to the nub.
I should have just grown
a tree in that spot.
Stairs overrated.
Climb upwards, ten
and fearless.
Indoor leave raking is
a chore, but oxygen
and protection
from kites pluses.
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Here for #5amwritersclub this morning. Today’s task: ordered flow of ideas
(It’s sort of the “storming” phase of article revisions. You introduce new characters/ideas and *everything* has to adjust!)
how would Santa
feel, if he had no
presents. I guess he
would hold office hours
for everyone, and
they’d shuffle in
the good and bad.
Some
would reminisce,
some just curious. He’d
discover that most
were just looking
for a wastebasket ,
or the washroom.
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Seeking complexity in
the rearrange of words.
Three wise persons feeling
each other exclaim “oh yes
the writing is very much
baking. So here we are with
the lessons. You stick in a
toothpick . If any adverbs
come out, you lick them.”
Less ons, then more ons.
More or less, a book.
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They all watched me.
They came to see me
in my habitat.
I was placated with all
manner of moving images
as they studied my reposing.
The gave me a small interface.
The youngins would marvel “did
you see it pressing those buttons?”
As they walked on by,
cotton candy tentacles.
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Bite the fingernail and
you can taste unwashed
clay, unintentional geophagy.
Sure I could bathe, but the
gritty creaminess would
be lost. Consume conflict
and civilizations and
excavation, and they
metabolize to bone and
skin. Your integrity
becomes eons,
free ones.
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At the depot of home,
material to build me.
I start awkwardly at the
head, without plan nor
reason, sense and logic
a bit of treason, and
immediately it was
thinking for itself,
calling the shots, so
I had to return it.
Everyone knows
it’s heart ahead
for proper tread.
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You are stuck at my
crossroads, covering
your nut with a wagon
of wares, shilling your
sham to strangers that
smile to your cookie
dough visage, but
titter and guffaw
behind your back.
Yours is a singular
mission: if 99 matter,
you play to the latter.
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I lined up against
the tortoise, and
upon crack of gun
ran backwards. Also
did some vertical.
Holes are underrated,
frankly. “Fuck you,
turtle!” I exclaim with
glee as I discover
diagonal. I’m tired
of his arrogance.
I’m setting my own
pace. In a bowl,
mockingly.
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Sitting in the middle of
wadded-up things
I guess about
me.
(crumple, toss)
Bathtub might
be better.
They will eventually
cover me like
packing peanuts.
And I can pretend
I’m going places.
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I have sovereign right
to my own insanity.
Not sane, in tea? Makes
sense to me. Someone
dunking me up and
down repeatedly.
Dirty bathwater? One
lump or two? Milk it
for all its mirth.
Later, crumpets.
Actual crumbs, made
to fetch. Repurposing
everything here,
me droogs.
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