Part One

     I know why the addict burns for anything but  stagnancy. Boredom. A hole left deep in the pit of your stomach, or temporal lobe. I crawl in anticipation of nothing. I wait for no one, no answer, limited connectivity. I have dulled the harness that binds my awareness, keeping it safe, but nonetheless tethered, held, helped to stay. My chest burns to leap forward, but I lack something to jump into, leap and fall into. Minds need those true rock anchors, dragging the pond, knocking mirky secrets. Maybe boredom reflects the empty hole, the unanchored swaying, standing still. I grow weary of spoken and written word strings, so same, so the same, meaningless and endless. When will spring new thoughts. What will burst the thought open, exposed. I feel my body yearn to travel where my mind knows not, to that no place everyplace. I cannot leave it, this the truth, I am it, so what do these limbs and organs impulse in my full brain, tingling with questions? Not questions. Nerve endings movement. Chemical foot torso arm length reaction to choking atmosphere stagnant, still, stomped flat, dynamic and chewy. Please, fire away.

    I dreamed of a bullet through this sad skull. The metal cleared cleanly through the opposite side of entry, but I could no longer dream, only remember. And they looked the same, dreams and memories, imaginings. I swam through them, swim still. This simple sample mind floats through dreams as past, past dreams remembered, memories the shape of fickle, imagined reality, sleep memories. Life sleeps now, stagnant, so these actions appear as thin dreams, unveiled in morning light. Why morning? Why pattern everything good, new, up, onward? End, the worst word. Final, end's friend. Final, down, old, used, past, passed, traded. Our mortal fears permeate even these, the simple words. Fight that end, fight it, don't  stop this what? awareness. 

       Dog gods promise temporal survival, future life through progeny, so pro, up light. Cats, cattle, same. But, this, my uniqueness cannot cease, left to the frivolity of a just-began childhood, in the hands of a dented plinko board. Each peg bares a differing shape, not unique, in one style, similar. They spread over this land, pocking their places on ground, sky, and most important past. Why this emphasis on a future that may never happen? Protect and project me why? Do I want this me to keep happening? More than others, truly. They would yield less change, chained by inability. The in-supreme power of "not I" taints any odd future. A weird sort of "I", one base, hiding behind unimportance to reach all-importance. Someday, forever-importance will consume them, profoundly shape them, or cease its marked accent on society.

     What would happen; why do I pretend to guess a future so foreign? This fake world...It...it does not exist. Any future imagining for myself, the world, this me mind, anything does not yet exist. Yet, meaning still. So, back to now stillness, resting on the laurels of tomorrow. Tomorrow may not happen, and yesterday no longer happens yet. Still, in this middle action, am I. I am yet in the only now, alone in it, with it, utterly blank in it. I am not a slate to bear writing, I have no purpose. I am not an unfilled book, I am the middle, unwritten. Society begs nothing, propagate and multiply. So, what drive have I? Me my mind, untitled, unclaimed, un-understood. Alone, separate, different, bad. No. Alone, powerful omnipresence and uniqueness. Nothing has worth unless lent and leaned on, accented. Nothing stagnates, competition propagates movement, albeit slowly. [We] (We, what, mind? Where did that thought go, does prominence=importance?) 

       Tomorrow, (which I know may not exist until it happens and likelihood points to maybe not a meteor or ebola, although the coin flips alone.) I can, if loud enough, burst from bed and make a completely different environment by moving into it. I can bike or walk or run there, I don't have to know where my feet point. I don't need to take anything, or I can. But, this, new-not-necessarily-good morning would shake this brain or leave it silently longing for one month from now, even with dread holing court in this belly. Man, man, men, women, lady folk. Nothing with worth, only pain, hurt, blurry even then. Blur-ry like rhymed flurry. What a mix to shake stagnant forward motion. Time, gravity, cell split motion. Moving or sitting, heart beating through space. This open area true, forward nothing, movement always without choice. Which corner will light, if any?

    Hard Consonants. Biting through, stopping air tongue motion. Hard bad. Hard strong, deep good. Taste words, taste mouth motion, express sultry mouth desire. Do you taste it? Only in loud-thought moments. Now, feel cold wind on toes, now feel nails scraping flesh then chalkboard. No, don't float above that picture, it holds no pattern for you yet. Just flit on my quick thoughts. Take the new light good loud thought. Scream into open wind. Spread wide. Stretch, shout. Scream. Now talk with same meaning and loud good feeling. INTENSIFY motion-non-motion. Beat. Flail. Beat.

Slow now, languid and long, but still shouting stillness.