sitting: mostly behaved

mostly silent, in a corner


watching: everything

the movement all over


wispers trickle through

twining twisted wickedness


voices about voices

words about words


caught up in our meta

we: beta: creating data


obsessed with: making

meaning from dry bones


our blood: running both

hot and cold; no warmth


too many passions to be

passionately free – simply


yet, here is the “somehow”

we have the real magick


sure we’re still playing, but

at least we know: we’re playing!


we know enough to “cheat”

we know how to challenge


and challenge, oh, we do

we challenge ourselves


ever tearing open, just to bleed

falling to feel the air beneath us


taking risk after risk, forever

daring fortune to favor us –

I love writing
mostly because I hate it
it drives me crazy
in that way – underneath
the skin and bones
poking at my spirit and soul
it makes a ruckus
it’s trying to escape
I want it to
I need it too
I feel I’ll suffocate
or perhaps implode
melt into a nothingness
suddenly be gone
I don’t know
even after I’ve written
it’s never done, never over
torrential downpour
the river flows on
it kills people too
it kills me
I’m always drowning
sometimes in bliss
otherwise
otherness –
I just don’t know