Tall window into the world. My Fishbowl.

Tall clear window,

Gives me a view, with a seat in-front of it

that supports the writer and the words that swell out of a

mangled mess of jello like brains.

Mixed amongst the words sweet sugar cookies and cream invading black

night liquid.

Jitters, shaking arms, a shot of energy and consciousness

Words of unfiltered sorts tumble out as the people on the pavement

walk by, cycle by, drive by in metal boxes with strange wheels that move

moving somewhere, going somewhere.

I am supported by a hard wooden chair that absorbs nothing.

Sitting waiting for the words to tumble out, in the right order?

Never really since words have a mind of its own and a strange new order to bring order to the disorderly.

Later perhaps tomorrow the sense of the words make sense or none at all.

Maybe if I look outside the words will make sense?

Two hours later…

I wonder where time went.

The coffee is gone, as did the sugar.

Hello words what can I do with you today?

 

 

 

Postaday

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After the warmth is gone.

Shiver shiver oh the coldness of the bamboo mat
isn’t doing its duty when the night air is cold, and I need some warmth to
lull me asleep. Where is that snuggling bird to regulate the heat?
Take away my excesses of energy, adjust my mood , and keep me sane.
Can it not be that I’m drinking too much. Coffee? Caffeinated drinks, to spike my consciousness into overdrive, limbs are trembling out of my control. I am sensitive. Too much. I cannot bear anymore. Sweetness begone! I cannot have you. I have other things to do and you are not among it in my to do list.

A Cat’s wishes…

A cat, round furry cat, sits in a cafe sipping green tea.

She writes a wish on to a page with round misshapen paw prints.

Meow, for a cat friend.

Meow, for the cat’s favorite cat nip presents.

Meow, for some time to snooze and snuggle in peace.

Meow, please can I have these simple wishes?

The cat would purr… contentedly if she could have these simple pleasures.

Meow.

 

Postaday

 

 

Moving day.

Even though its the start of a new month.
Vans, trucks are out on the street
Carrying the belongings of the people
from A to B
There is not the blue flower cheer and merrymaking
the caravans of moving to new places
rush to make the move quick
for the people want to resettle into a new abode.
The cat is at home,
not moving for I am already home.
At a place where I can be found.

Red String

There’s a red red cord that only you and I can see.
It winds around you in circles tightly but not enough to bind you. Only one line extends from you to me a link between you to me. No one can see this. Its our connection that we know exists. I can call to you by tugging on my end of the cord, sending silent messages in hope that they reach you.

That line between you and I is as long as it needs to be. Sometimes its a meter, other times no space at all, and at times on the other side of what I know exists. Over that horizon and a few more is you. Living, working, knowing of this faintly present bond. A round circle on a wall marks the hour, counts down the time till that line shortens elastically to zero.

Deaf Man Passes Cards and Pens

Deaf man passes cards and pens

To each table with occupants

Asking for money

A bit of money

To fuel his life

With change that was not his own

What change can become of this?

Not much at all but more walking

Passing cards and asking with

A small card for change.

Change that is not given

For the skeptic

Does not know fully

What shoes he wears.

Cat Manga essay project, inspired by 4-koma…

Cat returns to retch3

The cat returns gags

Cat returns to retch2

Cat returns to retch5

Cat returns to retch6

I was doodling this past semester cat manga for a class at university, and I can assure that this is serious work. Serious work to laugh, which is a laughing matter indeed.
let me know if you like this or need some explanation to what I’ve drawn 🙂 thanks!

Contemplating weather or not to write that essay still

Still I am thinking about that essay.

I should write it and get things going so I can enjoy those other fun things in life.

Snuggling, sleep, snacking be swept silently asunder 

from me I get a frightful freeze, that solidifies my ability to move

to think of words that lead on, and tumble forth like waterfalls in my mind

words join that cesspool and go back to the river, recycle into a new use, a new function. Continue reading

When I’d rather…

I’d rather write prose than write the essay.
I’d rather skip about and play than write the essay.

I’d rather read manga than write the essay on manga.
I’d rather play sleeping beauty than write that manga essay.
I’d rather stop writing other things to write that essay.

I wonder if it could write itself but alas. No.