the desire to lock myself in my own room spin a yarn for a time or two as the outer light does fade spinning round the barrier a protector, a soft wall but yet a border just the same so I might pause and rest ahhhh, respite no, waking sleep ability, to transform and emerge in time -to fly (forward).
;fault bucket- I wonder what brigade might save as I pass hand to hand so I might learn to trust again for at the end may empty my burdens;
notes…. form in a way here, flow, like water rhythm wise, and also I meant this to look like a tipped bucket if you can see my visual clues (punctuation and it leans to one side if weighed on a scale perhaps)… sometimes I do things such as this… the funny thing is that the genesis of this thought, this poem ? researching an error in windows… seriously what more of a dork could I be… but always the muse she is guiding me, on a shoulder, in a vein… who knows? maybe I am insane… all the same, we all are to some degree, depends on the influences we listen to I suppose, I will stick by the mystery of the muse, I will… especially if it really is Selma Hayek...
the way to calm the mind, we all have our buttons, as much as I try, as much as I know myself, I still slide down that path to frustration and anger, mostly with the way other people deal with world, anathema is the word, and regardless of my self control, of my trying to accept and understand, slide, but how far is the goal I’ve found, this is not a fight you can actually win, you are the culprit within, but there is a tool for your reprisal, realization, to float back and observe the situation, focus on something bright, something other, something light, pause, the proverbial deep breath to brave the storm (as it shall pass). slide… so I step outside, literally and figuratively, find something else to focus on, to center on, to bring back myself to center being, and yes, even in this smothering cold winterness of near silence, providence shall provide, if you just look, and not nearly long did I spy, my own private glacier does flow, in front of my eyes, or at least a sculpture made in the random ways of the world, for four billion years this took, and here it is, presented, just for me, to remark inside at the wonder, I know the chemistry, but the random miracal-ity is what overflows within me, joy rising, now my trance, tracing down the droplets as they travel methodically down the form, around the horns, the strange angles, the sound of the drips that make their way to the ground off ends, tapping on the backs of others of their kind they have now found, and those that froze, to become those delicate tips, mocking gravity herself – for now, and all the little rays of light, bouncing in and around, suddenly my slide, the slide… is no where to be found.