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
otherness –
I just don’t know