alone again, naturally

sitting amoung the things i have owned i feel much like a relic myself. i run from inspiration like a lover. i am only concerned now with the surface of objects. i am tracing the outlines, expecting that once i connect all of the disjointed lines, a form will push itself outward and shine brilliantly. dull objects mock me. words are so painfully artificial. i am seeking purity and it continues to sidestep me - it is like chasing firelies whose fickle bodies flash sporadically. reality, unreality, reality, unreality... chasing them is futile so i sit in the rooky wood waiting for them to land and anoint my body in a green fire, then go out.

i soak chard in butter, sip mulled wine on a quiet fog soakd night sucking on half a cigarette, patiently, ardently. i am thinking of all of the birds that flock my yard - where do they sleep? have they found a way to dodge the reality of their environment or do they also sleep with one eye open? are they possibly more real even than i imagine them to be? am i spoiled by this overfertile imagination? perhaps all it does is wrap me up like seaweed in a beautiful ocean drowning ritual. picking off the salt of imagination exposes blank strips of blue sky that gape like breath. i am transfixed and floating in a dawn that is empty, save for the birds that cut across, solid, black thoughts so real i can pierce them with a needle and push them against a blank sheet to keep.