Gravity Files By J.L. Wolf A collection of selected Prose and Poetry Copyright 2012 J.L. Wolf Published by J.L. Wolf on Smashwords Formatted by eBooksMade4You * * * All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. First Edition License Notes This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to wherever you bought it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work. * * * CONTENTS Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 * * * Prologue I call my writing Splatter. Some of the writing is about me while some pieces are observational but in the first person. The words, phrases, paragraphs, and poems come to me in bursts. And are usually created in under 15 minutes. I make no claim of quality. I write what I think and do not sensor nor edit. Like Jackson Pollack, and his paintings, my work goes places that are not always obvious, even to me. They are rough and at times profane, but words though haphazard are chosen carefully. There are purposely no titles to any of the pieces. A title suggests a mood or an explanation. I offer neither. Each piece was arbitrarily placed in the collection. No attempt was made to group the pieces by mood or feeling. The chapters are broken only into prose and poems Gravity Files Jeff Wolf Copyright 2011 by Jeff Wolf ISBN 978-1-4660-2942-2 Smashwords Edition * * * Chapter 1 ONE So…here I am. Writing, or not writing…. what am I doing? Ideas swirl in my head but does every idea deserve the attention of the written word? Cathartic? Stress relieving? Self indulgent? Maybe all of the above, maybe none, they are just words, words are not the real thoughts; they are filtered and painted thoughts. Painted red, or white or black, who’s feelings are these, mine or are they feelings I want to get from the reader. If they are mine they are painted in the color I think would please the reader if they were thoughts I want from the reader, they are thoughts I will never know about. Who will read this? Me…no. Others? Maybe, if I chose to share. But of course I will share, my ego demands that I share, it demands that I am told it is good. If it is not, then it’s what I expect. If it is good, then of course I expect it to be good or I would not dare it. Writers write, painters paint, talkers talk, I do them all but am none of these, or am I? I want the label but am embarrassed to label myself. I work hard but pretend I don’t. I try hard but pretend I don’t, I care desperately but pretend I don’t. I tell myself I don’t care, I tell others I don’t care. If I share this piece I must care, or maybe I don’t. They are just words that are meaningless to me, to others, to history, and to the future. They are the words of now; of right now of the instant I hit the keyboard. I call what I write splatter writing, I think of the page they way Pollack thought of the canvas. Wait no I don’t. He had a plan, his paintings tell a story, and they go places. They take the viewer on a trip. These words take the reader nowhere in particular. I can look at a Pollack all day long, and have. I can barely read the words I write. What does that say about the amount of time I spend writing words I say I don’t care about? The words I don’t edit and don’t read. I’ll tell you, the reader, it means very little. Not nothing, but very little. I have no plan, I am not Pollack I am not Rothko with his squares and lines. No I am nothing worth a comparison. Do I spin a phrase or choose a word or construct a metaphor better than you, the reader? Maybe, maybe not, who cares, does it bother you if I write better than you? It does not make me feel better if I know I write better than you. Maybe I don’t, it’s arrogant of me to think I write better than anyone, of course I don’t think that. I think of the reader, always the reader, but a writer who thinks of the reader but has no readers is like a dog than can’t bark. Sniffing around but never really communicating. I want readers but they embarrass me. What if they don’t like what I write, or worse what if they do? What if I am so good they love it and ask the terrible question of what do I do? What do you mean what do I do? If my writing is that good, can’t you tell that I am a writer? If I don’t make my living as a writer, why don’t I? Oh readers and writers, what a horrible rivalry. Readers always say they wish they could write. Writers know that writing is a curse. Like a sneeze, it has to come out. It sure is inconvenient to toil away writing words no one cares about. And in my case even I don’t care about. I’m done with this piece of writing now and I didn’t write a thing. If you read this then you’ve wasted time and now you know it. But at least you wasted less time reading it than I wasted writing it. * * * TWO The still water lake is my face. Reflecting life, but hiding reality, the depth is undetermined, but the surface is smooth and welcoming. Ripples cross the surface like wrinkles around my eyes. Erupting from short to long but with a sense of knowing. It's cold underneath. Cold and dark, does anything live here, love here. When I was a child I longed for the assurances of adulthood. The opinions, the knowledge that all adults possess, in adulthood I am lost. Opinions are facts that others refuse to acknowledge. Where is the wisdom, where is the Me? * * * THREE Growing up at dusk lets you hide in the shadows. Shards of morning light never slice this life. I live in the in between. Between the light and the dark, above the evil and beneath the holy. A price would be paid to wear my clothes and stand in my shoes. Pieces may be left behind; you’ll see the colors I see but not the filter through which I view them. It lives under your collar, it sleeps in your hat, it hibernates in your boot, but if it comes for you there is no escape. It washes over you like the feeling of new love; warm and complete. It’s comfortable and all knowing. You lose your freedom but welcome the old friend. It commands attention and begs for solitude. Blinded by fog, surrounded by fire stepping outside can break the spell. To break the spell is to lose concentration, there is clarity in the fog, a tunnel vision with a way to go that only you can see. You’ll see this from inside my clothes and from the comfort of my boots. Inside the cave, my lies are truth. I hide behind it; I use it to fool and to deceive. It is no longer it, it is I, my lies are my truth and I can no longer distinguish between the light and the dark. It is all dusk. * * * FOUR I got to play in the yard yesterday. Warm and glorious, filtered light through everlasting trees and an infinite glow of lost memories and left behind lifetimes. It felt good to be away from home. On a straight line with no curve in sight, the curve was there I can see it now but for a moment in time it was straight. Straight to forever not curved back to for never. But for never is where the line ends. A circle if the truth is told and the truth is where we really play. Not in a yard, not in the sun, not in a glow, but in a circle rounding a familiar but un-manageable place. I’m coming home now, not in a glow but into a familiar and quiet place. I don’t want to be here but it feels right, it feels like where I belong. It will be a short stay but I will never play in the yard again. * * * FIVE I woke up early on the day that I died; they were looking for me in the forest and on a boat. I was there but they couldn’t see me. Nothing has really changed, I’m hiding in plain sight it is a theme of this life. It was strange being up so high. I've been there before but for a different reason. To go up was always the goal, down was always less than success but not always failure. This trip will be a ride. One-way ticket, soaring before the stillness.... and the peace, everyone tells me I’m wrong. Like a child who's yelled at too much, I don’t hear anymore. I have always been wrong, remember the times...I heard it until I didn’t, like a child. I did not expect the wind up here. I hate the wind. It’s a bug that annoys with no purpose. But wait, there is no wind, it’s calm, and I stand quiet and confidant, no fear, no pain. It will take one small movement and I will be flying. A sensation everyone says they want but few attempt. It’s soft at the bottom, blue, welcoming and soft. What shoes am I wearing? Are they comfortable? Should I have changed them? Looking down, I see only the toes but yes, they are the wrong choice, but they are comfortable. I should have worn the cheaper ones. I knew I would make a mistake, I always do. What is that? A stick? To far away to see, it must be bigger than a stick. Don’t hit it; wait, it will keep moving. Is it moving out or in? I want to move out, to the other side of the world. Unchallenged flotsam. My heel slips, I grab hold. Why did I grab? It makes no sense, so I let go and I float, it’s not noisy, it’s quiet. It’s thoughtful. It’s over. Dream or destiny that is the hard question, if dreams come true then nothing else ever will. Today it was a dream, but is it THE dream, MY dream. I will live another day…but die in my sleep. * * * SIX I’ve flown too high and tunneled to deep. The seasons arrive slowly but the expectations have been defined long in advance. Matching and managing, reaping and sowing, living and breathing without one the others are diminished, without the other the one cannot exist. Moving towards the sun it’s cold before you burn. The dark before the light, the night before the day, the blindness of dark, before the white light of death, My season’s snap like lightening rather than roll like thunder. Either or, cut and dried, black and white, failure is diminished success, and success is averted failure. I need to make a world of my own. Stay inside the changing seasons. Live outside the storms. Today it’s raining and I’m getting wet. I hate being wet. I want to go to the sun and be warm and dry, but there is darkness before the light. Breath, feel, be patient. * * * SEVEN It’s a beautiful day. Large billowing clouds surround the sun like handsome jurors in a cosmic court. We walk for the activity of walking. No destination, no direction, no expectations. My baseball cap kept the lasers streams of light from piercing my eyes directly. Instead the heat is filtered through the bill of my cap inside the shadows it’s created. There are others moving, some traveling. Traveling is hard, quick paced, heel to toe connection to the earth, a violent act and done with purpose. Walking is smooth, arms swinging slightly, feet set to earth as if balancing on something alive. We walk by myself. Unseen by others, there are always more than just me. I am a group, a multitude of me. The delighted me walks carelessly with arms swinging on soft steps. The dutiful me doesn’t walk but moves directed and with purpose. The physical me is lighter than air, but forced on earth by gravity. The mental me is dense, heavy and floating above the real. Ignoring the real is acknowledging the power of the unreal. Fighting the desire to give power to the unseen, and unintentional. I am learning to live with myself. The darkness cannot have me. The company I keep on solitary walks may not dominate the conversation. Dialogue becomes monologue and monologue becomes prophecy. A prophecy of desire that becomes hope that leads to reality. I am walking today, and will for a long time. * * * EIGHT It’s so dark. Heavy and thick darkness, the kind you feel when you are in the forest with no moon. You recognize that there is infinite space around you but the darkness has you cornered in a closet. You can’t move, you can’t breath and you won’t talk. The darkness is around me it is in me it IS me. The dawn is cold; shards of light slice through the darkness, but can’t illuminate all the corners. There are many corners deep and sharp and black. Going around the corners is easy. Going into the dark is easy. Not comfortable but easy. It’s easy to know where safety lies. Safety lies in darkness and the thoughts that come from dark places. The safety lies in the surety and absolution that I am in control of my destiny. It feels powerless and lonely to be in the dark but retains a feeling of pride of ownership. I can’t give it away nor would I want others to have it. Rays of light are beginning to feather out through the dark. It feels warm and life giving but not always comfortable. The light feels foreign, like another language like another land. It is a light of distant familiarity like remembering a warm summer day in the middle of a snowstorm. I’m feeling the light now. I can’t always see it, but I know it is there. I see white inside the black; I see life where I thought nothing lives. I am waking up from a long restless sleep and am ready to take on what comes my way but I will see it coming I will fight the comfort of the dark and the assurance of the corner. * * * NINE Mountains are special. Their peaks are the top of the dream. Their base is the possibility. The space between base and peak is where the truth lies. It lies in the physical pain, the emotional uncertainty and the mental strength or lack there of. The top is where eagles soar and heroes live. I live there too, but in a dream. I dream of the top; soaring, and living untouched by what use to be. I have seen the top, through thick glasses, clear from a distance but invisible from where I stand. I stand in the valley, physically capable, mentally strong and emotionally disabled. The Valley is long and narrow and flat. I walk a long time before hitting another wall, but they surround me. Like a fish in a barrel, I can reach the top with the help of others but alone I will live in a circle. It’s comfortable on the valley floor, these seasons change and the moods are fluid like the river that carves my trail. Walking side to side I will hit walls quickly, Walking in length they come more slowly, but they come and the longer I walk the harder the rock is at he end of the valley. Change is not with the seasons; it’s with the ages. In this place, a season is a glance, a blink. I have walked along time on this valley floor venturing right and left moving forward and falling back, but the floor is where unrest and comfort are allies. The world is uncertain, the walls promise hope and achievement but the valley, oh the valley, it is stable and solid. You can’t fall from the valley. Falling is a risk, not a certainty and I want to risk it all. The slippery edge of happiness, the valley is where things fight to survive; so far I have not lost a fight but am always moments from a punch. I have help this time; I am not the lone Pawn in the center of the board. I have Knights and a Queen that is pushing yet protecting every border I cross. I know nothing of the future but I am learning that length and width of the valley are not the ends. It’s where the adventure begins. * * * TEN Moving into the winter of my life the biting chill of the future does not concern me. The summer was warn and full of hope. Youthful ignorance and emerging maturity were enveloped in a foggy clarity of knowing exactly the moment with no thought to the outcome. With glasses over my eyes and decades under my feet the clarity is no less foggy but the thought is in the outcome not the immediate. Knowledge is gained through success not failure but experience comes from pain and loss. Perspective and understanding come from passing seasons. The past offers comfort in the experiences and people we met along the way. In the past there is no bad, there in only, ‘was’. And ‘was’ always puts a smile on my face. We can never get the past back, we can never get is from was. I smile and the chilly winter of my life is warmer because of what once was. * * * ELEVEN Realization hits hard but creeps up. Floating along in foggy bliss we know it's there. But we pretend, always pretending. Preachers and personal trainers have the same message. Listen to us and reach inside and all will be right. 40 is the new 30. 50 is the new 40, I have been all those ages and nothing is the new nothing. Shame oozes in, the second cousin of realization; shame comes in long after realization takes hold but reaches long into the past. Other see through the fog that we cannot navigate, so easy to see in others, so hard to see in ourselves, Realization is solitary, and lonely, shame is slicing public pain. Misunderstood by all who are not the shamed. * * * TWELVE They tell me I have a condition. A condition, like a car before it's sold: Excellent, Good, or Needs Repair. I never thought of myself as old, but in car terms I am an antique. Not a classic but a true antique.50 and moving forward, there is no retreat. The things I knew about this old body have been like evolution. Small and incremental changes until a complete transformation into an old person has emerged. Hinges and joints that squeak and creak, Wheels and shocks that are warn to the margin. An antique in need of repair, Bipolar is what they said. Two poles, but don't we all have two poles, a north and south, a top and bottom. Looking down to the creatures below and up to the ones above. Everything is in twos, eyes, hands, feet and legs why not poles. But they say mine collide, not just coexist but intertwine. But opposite poles attract does than mean I'm exactly the way I should be? No is the answer from them and from inside my head. But if the two are separate but connected and there are two of me, does that make each of me 25 with the sum being 50? Now that is something I can live with. The feeling of 25 and the wisdom of 50, But I fear both sides are 50 and the sum is 100 and that's how I feel some days. * * * THIRTEEN I can’t control it. I want to, but the words can’t come out right. I have never felt better but my words are poison. I want to sit alone in a room, but I want to share the feeling. My secret feeling, my feeling not of my own, Manufactured feelings are fleeting, the second you feel, the wave of panic sets in that the feeling will end. When will it fade? How do I keep it alive? If I let it go I will be back in control, the control that I so desperately avoid. Control is not mine it belongs to feelings. The feelings I love are never mine. I never get up feeling good. I get up and have to think about what feeling I am having. When I can alter, I do, when I can’t I think about how I can. I care about others more than I care about myself. I grieve the loss of friends and family, of good time and good people that are no more. I relish the thought of my own end. To be free of thought, of feeling, of a past, present or future, Pretending is a skill. Pretending to live with passion, pretending to live with desire, and with purpose. To listen to pain is to heal. But healing is unknown and without a past. I live with past pain and future disappointment. There is no escape until my future is my present and the disappointment in me is the feeling of others * * * FOURTEEN Reaching for a new day can cause stretch marks. Let it come like an orgasm, slowly and unexpected. The bright yellow of the sun turns black if you stare at it too long. But, the blinding black hole offers hope and omnipresent light to all who see in the dark. Dark is power; light is knowledge, whoever said the evils of the night, has not witnessed the sins of the sun. No one ever died of darkness. Light is not knowledge but illumination of suffering. Darkness is not power it is the clothing of the naked light. Willingness to pursue a dream is the desire to fly without wings. Dreams are magic and pure. Pursuit is tainted and without community. Unnaturally selfish acts of a naturally given life, Dreams are conceived in the dark and attained in shadows behind the light. Power is an organic result of a primeval urge for domination of the dark and control of the light. * * * FIFTEEN I love this song; I'm going to listen to it again as soon as it's over. Today is great; I can't believe I feel so good. I'm a lucky man. How did I get to have so much? There are things that aren't that great, but I still feel great. But there are things that are wrong...I hate my job and can't keep going there, but what am I supposed to do. This god damed song, I like it sometimes and sometimes it's so stupid. Where is that other one? Here it is, the one about reality? The one that brings me to reality, Life is ok, I should be grateful, but If only things would have been different, I could have really been grateful. Grateful and proud, that is the ultimate, no wait, grateful, proud and noticed. How come I am not noticed? I have done some amazing things, jumped from planes, climbed mountains, made a film, published a piece of writing. I am proud, I endured when others quit, and I chased the dream and never gave up, left others to wonder what if while I was out doing. But I never made it, I am where they are, what a complete waste of time to chase things that were never going to happen anyway. How embarrassing to think I could do something, that in some way I was better than them. That I was smarter than that, how could they see it when I could not? They knew I was like all the rest. * * * SIXTEEN I want to live, to love, to experience the life that others tell me that I lead. I want their perception: witty, clever and adventurous. I don't see myself though that lens. Do others view themselves as I view myself? Can they see the virtues and the faults? Do they wonder of the world both past and long long past, Sitting alone as the waves come in and the stream trickles. These chairs are strange, not horrible, but certainly uncomfortable. That one over there looks better. (Gets up and walks over) Yes, that is better. Old magazines and ultra modern glass tables are a faux attempt at comfort. Add the sounds of water and the aesthetic void is complete. They want discomfort, we expect discomfort, and we’re not here to tell them great things are. This modesty of furnishings, this attempt at physical comfort is disconcerting. The plants that sit on middle shelves of tower lamps. The nearly good corporate art works that are impossible to understand there by increasing our anxiety and self doubt. Living things mixing with lifeless art all viewed from a semi comfortable chair in an overly warm room with an uncomfortable silence that is washed by sounds of salt and fresh water rolling under my feet, There is a water cooler with one cup left. Do I use it and throw it away, or put it back and pretend it was never used and have a secret joke on the next life questioning soul. Time is up; another soul comes riding out on an artificial wave. Do they weep, smile with a new revelation or ponder the meaning of it all. I never feel the same coming out as I do going in. There is the best chance I will feel the opposite. I have been called. Now the long walk to the comfy couch and the most difficult question in this human's history, "How are you?" I love and hate that question. It is the perfect question, it is impossible to answer, but I try, and I will try each week until that question is easy to answer. I think I will be coming hear a long long time. * * * SEVENTEEN The clarity with which a child sees in both the physical and philosophical fades only with the optimistic pessimism of age. The clear waters of the stream that flow south are the adventure of youth, and the quickly passing time of those with graying temples. As the breeze blows gently through what is left of this life, it fills a void of stillness that is sought but disappointing. The warmth of the past is not only the victories, but for experience and candor. Honesty comes easier when the talk is of yesterday. Get up, and dust off your knees, a broken spirit is harder to heal. Step by step heel to toe your shadow is long though your impact light. Walk amongst us with will and vigor, confidence without fear. Rewards come to the eager and the revered. Becoming revered is to be asking for demolition, heroes are hated; the weak win the prizes the strong invent. I live in a moment, a most terrible one. One that is told to me as a terrible thing, but freedom comes with knowledge. As I take off my glasses and search for the vision of a child, I see only faded and soft images. Images if experience of honesty and of yesterday. Tomorrow will not bring the clarity of sight but will leave behind the wisdom of remarkable events. * * * Chapter 2 ONE Dirty windows show a filtered world Living earth keeps a dead flower Moving train holds a stand still life Stopped clocks are right twice Innocent bystander Willing participant Primary suspect Convicted Perp The middle of the night and the company I keep Sally and Sue are the current two Jackson Browne argues no difference white and lean reflected beauty Front of the car Back of the bar It’s three AM Gonna be a star One more beer and just one more one more for the road where to next Fuck Fuck Fuck The sun is up * * * TWO Grab tight Pull close Face to face make me want you Don't let me go If you hold me You'll be safe Pull me I'll be pulled I'll push back But Only to breath I'll come back If you don't let me go You had your chance I can feel your breath I know you want to One last chance I hit you hard Left hand to mouth Your eyes glaze over Like a lover in love Your hands drop down Like A leaf in the fall I hit you again now You thought I would not You made a mistake You're bleeding and broke Large talk and a body Won't help you this time You mistook this guy For a person who cared * * * THREE I wear a mask that covers no face. Ever changing ever present To reveal my secrets is to die a slow death. People see me Mine is invisible Mine is the me behind the mask A weapon of the weak A defense against a soul Man on a corner Woman on a train People at a party I am alone Pull me from the corner Put me on a train Take me to a party I am all alone Masks are for children Hiding what isn't there Defenders of the lonely Keeping safe the unforgiving self * * * FOUR In alley’s rules change No thought, no shame occasional regret Back against the wall Head back What’s on your face Pain? Ecstasy? Water slides down the wall Slipping into your shirt Bricks grow moss on the north side Downspouts grow the mice Light slashes across your eye Is it a glint or a new tear It pushes in you Hard and fast Glistening upon retreat The sting is sharp Penetration complete Regret upon receipt It slices through a vital part Slurping as it does Moaning comes naturally Screams are over done You should have kept your mouth shut You should have seen the signs Some live without respect for a life-force The blade has killed you now * * * FIVE Living is not simply breathing or alert days broken up by inert nights. Living unnoticed is a choice but not a desire. Living unmotivated is not living nor is living with excess motivation Living because you are alive is not living Living in balance is a trick with an unrevealed secret Is there more? Is there more to living? Is this the living that all experience? Is this the normal? Why is there happiness in others with the same experience that is my unhappiness? Why are expectations unattainable? Why with expectations so low can I not attain? Why does motivation force unreasonable expectations and unreasonable expectations kill motivation? Can I do what I say? Can I say why I do what I do? Can I be heard and then listened to? Can I be understood when the words don’t come out right? Can and action answer a question? I have a plan I will make a choice to be forgotten I will take action I will demonstrate motivation I will use action to answer the question It has come together It feels so right It brings comfort It brings closure * * * SIX Looking hard now There is no truth in the mirror Seeing only what I want to see Like water I am everywhere but going nowhere Water is it’s own metaphor Soft Cool Gentle RAGING Black ribbons offer hope Rivers of destiny in their infinity Navigation is easy Destination impossible They are only roads Seeing the waves now So ambitious So Majestic So Optimistic Only to dissipate naively in the sand Looking harder now The mirror has truth Unwelcome Real RAGING * * * SEVEN Man on a barstool Woman at a booth Drinking away their future Thinking about their youth Whispering to his hand Talking to her drink Wondering where it all ends No one cares what they think * * * EIGHT My vision is clear The image is numb Feelings are sharp I wander emotional deserts Walking barefoot miles to go Standing tall quaking in pain Seeing ahead not looking but seeing How the world spins backwards in the pouring rain Souls stack up In a tenement house living to inhabit The Bodies The bodies in the holes He picks up a hammer Or A knife Deadly both In the hands From the holes Crushed and cut Sliced and pulped To those Who've lost love Seeds will not grow * * * NINE Pulling the rain from the sky Holding my feet to the ground Fighting always fighting Up is down in another land The fight is real there too So strong but forgiving Like the rain it pulls on my mind Down Down Out and Down Punches are wasted Air has no mass Causing pain without blame It pulls more than the rain than my feet than the light into the dark Can it be real Can gravity cause depression * * * TEN Time Time Way too much and never enough Stop for a smell Hurry up Early Late Never right on Polite or rude Is there an in between I want to go home but a house is all I have Planes fly fast but move to slow Trains speed but never arrive Cars never reach an end Signs from the ground move to fast to read towns from the air never arrive Sticks and stones Knives and guns Talk is cheap but action has a price Time slows in the face of forever Decades speed by Days drag on Does it move quick Or Stand still I can’t wait to see you I take the long way home When I get there it’s only a house * * * ELEVEN Too much to look at Much too much to see Noise excitement color People machines Looking for someone Anyone There's one And another There goes one Watch where you're going Smiles are huge Time stands still Joy Laughter Stimulation of every sense * * * TWELVE Walking down the hallway Long long hallway Looking like a million But Only from a distance He use to be someone But wait He probably still is He looks like a TV star Just ask and He'll tell you so He turns his head to hide A shamefully arrogant move He isn’t a star in my sky I feel bad that he’s fallen so far As he passes by And hides his face with his hand I can’t help but hate the man So I think I should tell him so. Hey TV guy that no one knows I might be he only one I know who you were and are But I don’t care * * * THIRTEEN Good day Bad day Good hour Bad hour Good minute Bad minute Now It makes sense Never before did The light and dark fully merge But inside my head There is gray and dusk And shadows where truth cannot be trusted Where life is fragile And fought for Fought for yes Desired Not really Help me Help me I want to live Help me to see I am blind to reason * * * FOURTEEN Clarity of vision and thought Many converging but all crisp Too many things to do But plenty of time to do them NEVER felt better They will try to take it away Why I am now who everyone wants me to be. Energy in motion And thought Not racing Controlled chaos I can feel the chaos deep deep down inside It wants to be fed Living on my terms Conceited Arrogant Selfish Necessary I love life Other peoples Not my own talent is not wasted Where There was none to start Endings are New beginnings New chapters Resurrection of spirit For The ones left behind * * * FIFTEEN I'm here. No reason But I am I guess it's good We’ll see how it goes Anger Rage Energy Sleepy Why? Seemed like a good idea Not so sure anymore Judgments Observations Thoughts Feelings So what Change For the better Or None at all It doesn't matter I am what Who I am Never good enough Never Never Never What a waste of time * * * SIXTEEN Don't touch me My body Or My mind Your touch is not welcome I didn't ask I gave no hint Why Do you take such liberty Do you care what I think Do you presume to know Does it matter To you Or To me Not really I care Less And Less All the time * * * SEVENTEEN Living in a birdcage Transparent but confining Speaking the same language But Nobody understands Living is not living if only just alive People to talk about but no one to talk too Alone but not lonely upon the crowded stage Scrambled mess this prose It's the refrain in my mind Nothing makes sense until I make it so. Micro this Macro that Quantum way down It's full sized and on top where I struggle Weird Crazy Eccentric Individual Adjectives of confinement In A mind without a control * * * EIGHTEEN Pushing through the fear I feel the power. The power of breath and light, Trains and trucks. Thunder and lightning. The thunder slap of violence, the lightening strike of love equally able to bring you to your knees. I'm at the bottom I'm at the top With bipolar They are both the same No rest for the wicked I want I want I want Felling really good No rest for the wicked I want I want I want Never felt worse Change But Change what? Chemicals Location Celestial being Wait five minutes It will change itself It is not me It is it It is the thing I hate it I never want to lose it Help me Help me * * * NINETEEN Where Did it come from Where Will it go When Will it leave me When Will it come back It feels good When it hits When it leaves When it rises When it falls I miss The ups The way ups The downs The way downs The desire for both * * * TWENTY Does it hurt That nail in your skin Pushed in deep Not to the death Circle around And round Holding the weight The pressure Without feeling So We think The breath Comes in Out is poison Death How Can I hold It In Stabbed In the body The soul Pain is painless Life may slip away Resurrection Is real Only moments away Flat tires are no big deal. * * * TWENTY ONE Too much to look at Much too much to see Noise excitement color People machines Looking for someone Anyone There's one And another There goes one Watch where you're going Smiles are huge Time stands still Joy Laughter Stimulation of every sense * * * TWENTY TWO The white beach lines the black rivers Of a crowded downtown Fancy ladies Looking for dates Men with muscles make sure they’re safe and paid * * * TWENTY THREE Too much to look at Much too much to see Noise excitement color People machines Looking for someone Anyone There's one And another There goes one Watch where you're going Smiles are huge Time stands still Joy Laughter Stimulation of every sense # # #