Had to concentrate on nothing
|
So that the somethings are left with no food
|
Yet my mood turns the truth into prominent enemies
|
Armies of sketch diaries and scrap papers
|
Taper down and puzzle it together
|
In present time I live by the clock
|
Angrily staring at a locked wall socket I sit undertall
|
Three prongs and all
|
I am the source of this hunger
|
I long for these things
|
The mediums to create myself through
|
Without the proper means to obtain such materials
|
I must remain suspended in particles
|
And refrain from creative thought
|
Has no place but to be forgotten
|
|
I crawl through machines with anger
|
Into ears with ease
|
And refrain from ideas which might be forgotten
|
|
Capable yet unable
|
To express what has backed up inside
|
And formed a pulsating mound of rough draft material
|
This is a mound of speech sound and sight
|
And the written word
|
And it¡¯s full while I scurry trying to find places to spit it out
|
So I can be empty
|
And have something to show for my thought
|
and refrain from forgetting ideas
|
|
Looking back my timeline is a circle
|
And faded in nature a turtle
|
With a shell to mask the past
|
Which memory came first and which last?
|
I recall Texas swimming in the backyard
|
in grassy agua when it rained hard
|
And chasing snakes in two leotards:
|
one for pants the other for head garb
|
Flash forward and I¡¯m hunting Moorlocks in Utah
|
More like gremlins in description not seen
|
by me but by my friend Clinton safari through the
|
jungleweeds in the outskirts of faculty housing all
|
that resulted from the outing was a dousing in delousing powder
|
Leap years back and I¡¯m on the trail of snappers
|
Mom did the laundry while I watched from the windowsill,
|
a mother left her eggs buried by the picnic table
|
I met evolution and when she left I smashed all the eggs
|
I was Abel
|
|
I am hungry
|
Words and pictures don¡¯t form on command
|
When you are ready
|
You will take full control of me again
|
These times when I¡¯m empty
|
Who is getting blessed?
|
Who is starving like me?
|
Wondering about it
|
And fearing that it won¡¯t return
|
|
-----------------
|
Yes, It Hurts...
|
Gruvis Malt |