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

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.

I am a cookie dealer.

My youth and to now does not seem far apart
I once dealt cookies under the banner of helping girl guides
push cookies door to door, taking outrageous prices for meagre
boxes of cookies, mint, vanilla, and chocolate.
the three main staple flavors.

Now I deal cookies for similar purpose to help some poets
some sugar cookie monsters that need
simply that dark dark sweet cookie
that makes the user say
om nom nom nom
om nom nom nom some more please?

really I need some more cookies
please help I need my cookies sam.

Sure I can help but at a cost.
your cookie fix is funding my
charitable projects, groups, and poets.

You know the sugar and the cookie itself is not of my creation
its a product of culture, sweetness, and habit.

My habit is to sell these cookies,
it matters not to whom but
when the cookies may appear to be in excess.

Cookies here, there, and everywhere.

Tollhouse cookies, sugar, gingerbread,
molasses, snickerdoodle, raisin oatmeal,
white chocolate macadamia, chocolate chip!
Cookies of my desire. A gut craving for sweets.

Cookie cookie on the tray, oh!

Tell me if you can me mine?
Tell me if you taste sweet and divine?
Tell me if you can stay soft?
Tell me you won’t melt my resolve.

Tell me, Tell me cookie.

Exams you are done!

The moment when the brain turns off and says “uncle” is when the exams are over

and I don’t need to think much no more.

I can sit and sip chocolate, and nibble on rice with spice.

All in good company I suppose, but not all the time will

my mind understand what is exactly going on.

Brain now that you have shut off and decided to hibernate on me

what will you do? I know I have mathematical issues to deal and solve for I

do have a house full of things to do for it needs to be finished with all the care and delicacy

that my hands can exactly manipulate to obey me and turn a beautiful project out.
I will cut, measure, and nail you to where you need to go. Before I can manipulate,

I will need the very tool to enable this desired action, and result.
Be gentle as I am with you. Dearest power tool.

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 asunderĀ 

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.