Apologies in Advance
Enshrinement of words from the heart cast out over decades long journeys
Accidents will happen, but then they grow up and someone is blamed for them. In fact yes, mom did drop me on my head in a roundabout way, but that is not what is wrong with me. I am deeply embarrassed by my own success, by my own privilege, by my own whiteness, by my own unmetered rage, and by my own hands — the awful results they've wrought. I am an impostor... was I made this way? Accidents will happen. In fact yes, some grow up to have accidents of their own and accidentally fall off into coldest voids due to accidents of the unknown. Searching with those broken hands and feverish brains for something to call their own. they fight frothing currents deep into the unknown. until an accident delivers them home. Until an accident delivers them home. Waves fiercely crash upon faces unknown and bodies unknown and laughter unknown and waves fiercely push upon heartstrings and bone — until accidents happen. Torn asvnder, cast across, rewinding summers — suddenly born alone. Until an accident rides in the waves, crashes and delivers them Home.
Every once in a fly's lifespan, he steps back out on that ledge again and makes a damned mess in a fragment of the space-time continuum. He flattens smiles like fresh asphalt, and smoothes away the happiness— Why can't he just be positive? All the time! Every time! Never Negative! Always full of SUNSHINE... Gets stuck on one progression, that one break in a song that loops over and over... and over... pushing everything over. Haunting the bones with Dorian modes and restless diatonic dreams bring buckets of sweat brimming with regret and over and over (so over). He snuck a climb back up there again, indeed a pretty view can be had and the sun's fingers feel not so bad. Until the break recedes and the last drum beat pierces the warming rays. Snared! On that ledge not scared, oh why can't he be happiness and ponies and rainbows and stop the smothering... SNARED! Pressed into her void there, as though anyone might ever dare to get back on that ledge again.
Tell me what I am supposed to do after putting all of my eggs into a basket shaped like you. My yellow heart now scrambled into bits — sadness with fits, square jawed death knells and rust blunted wits. This is my brain on drugs. Yes, I have numerous questions — regarding high temperatures and melting points. I am burnt toast; there will be no butter, no jam — except between rocks and hard places. I have lost most my teeth and I reek of burned grease. BREAKFAST it's what's for dinner. Welcomed when it came with any type of smile, though we both know that breakfast can only last for a while.
For Anjuli Cold but not alone for hours on the telephone and these are some things she might have said to me: You look around sometimes You are not at the end of Anyone's rope. You are not wrapped around Anyone's finger. You are not embedded in Anyone's heart. Your selectable hopping campfires Are casting them all in shadow and You sometimes turn around to catch Yourself in the shadow too. You exist to amuse them? Are you yourself amused? You told me one time about the little you. You tried the Kava yet? [a long and wondrous pause] Are you still with me? You seem to be with everyone. Are you still on the line? You told me it was cold tonight. You made me say something tonight. You somehow made me say that thing. and you know it wasn't my habit— Yet, I said it to you. Anyway— A message from the future: You will not ever hear me say it again. Are you with me? You are probably tired and cold. You have become one with the circuits. You lost focus. You lost me. Anyway— My Amsterdam boots, remember those? A message from the future: You foolishly affixed yourself to the bottom of their soles. You make me laugh so much and that is why I said it. You make me want to be with you. Are you still with me? Yeah — oh yeah, that's right... You're almost with me and yet not.
I want to put this stuff away this awful junk surrounds the day. I want to put this stuff away to find myself less far away. I want to put this stuff away this awful junk heaped onto me; to take a breath that sets me free and lights the moon a path to be — closer, I need you and me and come what may, I need to put this stuff away.
I sit alone looking numbly into nature, vaguely only do I know greeting card days like these. Out here, there's a golden hour that lasts a year, where light enters her ethereal evening gown, but the sun never seems to be going down. Perfect smell and flawless sound.
yes — my worst ran ragged it leapt and swept sadness over seawalls yes — my worst tore shit up and reached your shores all too much no good part of my soul no good sound from my mouth no good touch from my fingers found your coast to be clear nor a beach to hold near or heart to beat same or warmth in whispers of your name no good time alone no good starry skies no good journeys of mind landed upon your sunny mountainside like welcome raindrops or lovingly lodged in your heart metaphor right through the concrete blast door yes — we thought we'd found the tide, the moon, the stars when wind plus water blended into waves yes — the break rode like a roller coaster mad undertow and riptides that stole away everything we used to know yes. i am no. good for you
I have worked for years to be gray to walk the middle way to have far less duality to see no black and white or limits of right and wrong and one extreme to another but with you— I am ready for all or nothing.
After ASCII doodling using TheDraw was creating & consuming Autodesk originated FLI based animations of the highest order. BSD Unix and VMS and Linux all loomed on the horizon but cost extra to discover. Careful leveraging of toll free numbers provided gateways to many long nights across multiple time zones. Even love was cultivated this way — by voice. With young and foolhardy use of dual tone multi frequencies not found on the standard keypad. Then came common gateways interfacing through Perls cast at our naive feet via repeated primitive HTTP requests thanks to a man named Doug. It was chatting. Someone called Victoria or just Vick... an Australian, babbled streams of nonsense with an American. Babbled again and again with this boy for the sole sake of soulful linguistics. Then, September arrived. It proved to be eternal.