Sunday, April 15, 2012

boats born back from a bay

sheesh! my weeks, so prone to stumbling out their calendar! so desperate to enjoy themselves anywhere but at present! corralling such a shifty bunch into a schedule's semblance presents (myriad) difficulties. the circled (X)s accumulate across dates whose resolution should show -something-, but just go. and go. and go. again. and again. and a(gain) - of nada comes nada. what's worst isn't their delinquency, it's their establishment as history, how the endless fosters of time's eye escape into impenetrable ether, fade as one through tear-drop mists conjured by their predecessors. traces vanish, with assured finality, and all one can do is await the next batch, hope that the imparted lessons stick this time, pray for a (slender) ray to pierce next morning's boiling monsoon.

pray for KO's deliverance. (ah[!])-men, say those who fail in sharing my lacking religion, the worst character judges.

those good kids, though, who stick around my head long enough to ferment a rapport, they tell me well. cans clinking together. tins to tins, mugs to chugs. affliction by the cupid-stupids, transmitted through fiery shots, sod spots protruding and incisions not. a hodge-podge of appendages flailing within themselves for moments, until a sudden, sticky liquid leaks all over, and stillness arrives, vanguard to the realization: my parenting skills lack.

television forefront, and the periphery's (blurry). but my (eyes), dare wander? (pa)h! why embrace what needs distraction?

longest nights mar fondest on our unmarked plaques, our undented papers. invisible consequence scratches, time's manifest suppressing its wounds. ordering remains important as ever in our bumblebee-(buzz)ing, (ludicrous)ly rushing lifespans. origination rarely occurs in peace. creation is movement, transition, the translation of actuality's portrait to reality's frame. to look through some frames, though, is to see watercolor bleeding, charcoal smeared, paint diminished as it touches earth-bound sadness. palpable, the liquid regret of spurned fulfillment (visible only to [one]). stick out the tongue, sip it all, lick it from the atmosphere until blank space equals the remainder, until tones, typefaces, and timelines blend into their commonality - (endless) white.

ding ding. bell rings. KO continues. off once more.