vanilla & chill…

Another night spent in the quest to determine how much is too much of a good thing. The night moved as easily as socks on a varnished floor, and it’s always fun to be able to take those socks off and on at will. Something about the motion carries the whole evening forward, somewhere past the phone ringing or the music playing somehow underneath the whole tableau. Another two dollar word cheapened by overuse. Every time I look toward a clock, another hour has passed and still the quiet neighborhood turns light switches on and off in a weird synchronicity, more evidence for a shared conscience perhaps, or some shit like that. It takes time to dissemble the various threads into a more coherent situation, and a lot of time is spent trying to learn how to react after the fact. There are actually few times where the reaction moves in concert with the event in question, but usually slithers after the realization has struck one of us dumb. Look up, see that everything that was where you thought you’d left it was now someplace else. In the confusion I must have acquiesced to an agreement without formal acknowledgment. What else could possibly explain everything being somewhere other than where it should be?

Of course this didactic exercise can and will go on all night long. Longer, even. In the intervening moments between deeply biased thoughts comes a feeling of calm acceptance, as if every trouble swamping my boat would sooner or later pass me by. I question the validity of the scene, but only out of habit. There isn’t really much of an answer to the question, just a feeling like swallowing spit. The best that could be said about it is that its yours. Until and unless the spit hits the ground, it’s just another wad waiting to hit the wind. The whole world outside may never considered the issue, but it certainly arose out of the evening. With a break to solidify the mental compact, the machinery moves on, and without seeming to notice my raspy exhortations.

Despite the positive vibrations so far, something still seems out of sorts and untied. Without a barometer to get a handle on the pressure, we require other means of counting or diagramming, and all I got is poetry. I wanted to pay someone to come over and write the definition of poetry on the wall, but we’re all out of paint. That kind of thing. Elusive in the same manner as a word that we all can recognize when we see it but never define beforehand. Confusion again; is it just my circuits missing a beat? I have poetry coming out of my ears, it’s all I see and feel, everything I touch and say. Nobody can understand a word of it, like this;

blessed material amongst indifferent glances,
watchfully roaming amidst murmuring voices that seem to agree
that the answer to the question
is 4.

It all comes together except it doesn’t feel that way. It doesn’t feel like anything except that nominal disquiet that comes with speaking a dead language. On other nights, it would be a frustration, but tonight I think it might be a blessing in disguise. Wherever you wish you were, whatever you wish you’d done (or not done), whatever you might have said if the circumstances had been more in your favor, none of it matters except on the wavelength of poetry. I’m eating all of the M & M’s out of the trail mix, and people are starting to look. I can’t even imagine what the fuck they might be saying. In addition to speaking a dead language, I hear it too.

And still we’re falling through the layers of the evening and sitting back the whole time, sucking on cigarettes and envisioning what it feels like to be rooted to solid ground. I can’t even imagine it, not really. I’ve never felt at home, never known what roots really are. I know what they look like, and I’m pretty sure the rough bark would feel like the soft bark of a Sycamore on a sunny summer day. What their value might be remains a mystery, and even being aware of their existence isn’t the same thing, not by a long shot. Another way of speaking…again. Another sentence spoken, given out like candy on Halloween or presents on Jesus’ birthday. By all rights, the words should trail off like…

And it’s all said in poetry and it all means so little except for the importance of standing up for the few things in life that are worth actually standing up for. Even handicapped by a child like ignorance of the future is no excuse for letting an impostor speak in your place. At some point in every snake hole we come to that same question repeated over and over again, and always the same answer. There isn’t any other thing to do than admit that just like everyone else, I do what I can, and all that entails. In poetic terms, I worry that equivalency is being mistaken for adequacy. The word itself could shrivel up and die before I’d spend much time living up to it. On a good night, it doesn’t even exist. On a good night it’s the same whether it’s poetry or just a few words thrown together to speak to a common cause.

forever finding that whole contraction
is a token appearance of faith
masquerading as a subway token
without which bar won’t drop
and we won’t move.

More evidence of the dead language speaking to me rather than from me. I find the distinction amusing, which is about all I require from a night lost to clocks somewhere between seven and two. It ends with sleep, or so I’m told.

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