In Uncategorized on 100524 at 2235

I awake from the past week, the filmfest.  I feel lost.  I am a poem.  Coffee frantic running, watching, talking, four days straight, and now, numb, driven back to my apartment in the desert, waking from the careful slumber, heavy with gravity and my ignorance of it o’er the last few days, I’m sweat, a stilled layer over emotion.  I am a poem.  I have nothing to say which I have never said.  I have nothing in mind but ex-turgor, a flaccid and sad “is it so?”  The mailman is stolid, the apartment is silent.  In screen-shows, this silence suggests I am living, not when the sound score is bleating.  One can think, he is bleeding, one can sigh, he is safe, needs no loving.  I am and I stand and my broken shoes linger by the door, somehow suggesting “where”.  I do not myself know, not suggest anything in Seattle has eclipsed.  I am the same, just now know a new way to see how I’m poem, know a new way to dream while awake, know that the slow, the still, will wake and will trap my fluid heart and flapping tongue.  In a film the friend is still.  In a film the wake is the poem.  Never my poem, that is heavy fallacy.  I want fruit, and more sleep.  I do not want love.  I do not want more film.  I have broke, and am wet, will not slosh, will be still, or slow, for though I’m a poem, though I’m stilll the same grip and am shadow, I think I should follow.  The filmfest neighborly causes me to cry.  It is not life, it is a style.  I’ll net and I’ll trap, I’ll sort through the aisles, but I’m numb, I’m older, I ache and am still.  Where are my worries?  I palpitate usually, over nothingness and its opposite, I palpitate usually.  I opine with a twinkle, in and out, lit and then quiet, I bramble and nettle the surroundings, but now I am still.  It is superlative, I am a Buddhist poem.  Am and am still, supposing has stopped.  It is the chillpill, it is palpitations that made me afraid on the ride.  It is the shade.  I am alone in my home now.  I have a new anthology and letter from Jenmarie.  I am still, a poem, blocks lain.  I will change so I can be this way, no longer palpitate, Zen maybe I am, I would not know, I am but I’ve ran, I’ve tapped idly, I’ve searched (so I palpitate), I’ve whistled.  I idle, I love it (but I’m still), I’m still cold though I ditched those wet socks long ago.  This is not still.  I wake.  I’m not wet.  In a desert apartment I’m dry.  I must bike-alight, leave this momentary cocoon, I am still, always been, but I’d searched.  Now I will Woolf, will slake my stilled insides, lay the dry feathers and label, will still palpitations, wake.  Sleep and wake.  Will wake.  I pray.  Numb, I’m not ready today.  I will wake.


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