some messed up shiiiz.

I have no true touching stories behind my words. no metaphores to my poetry, no alliterations or hyperbolies or adjectives. no synonyms no thesauruses for my phrases. just a hand full of letters and commas, maybe an exclamat!on mark or a sem; colon thrown in the mix. just these bland back bone,, baritone, monotone, monochrome black and white photocopies of ideas and emotions. just these indentations before the paragraphs, the page numbers the blank canvas whites and the pre-dawn blacks, that halt before the steep slide, the drop on a rollercoaster ride. the primer, DNA polymerase, the enzymes, the catalists. the lag time as the heater in the car warms up, the speed-walk of the last 50 yards before you walk into a nice warm house. The I dont know, and the everything. before the everything. the possibility, the potential. the everything-you-need. the everything, but the nothing. because words are just words. theyre lifeless and cold, but with the voice that they're carried on, the flow of energy of breath expelled, like the bright-coloured rags of dead leaves on a harsh november breeze that flows like razor blades. but the breath is like a sun ray and dust moats and lilac winds and warm wafting scent of chocolate. Like ohm, like ohmmm...... like alpha and omega, coming home. like a lullaby that lulls the beast to sleep, calm the razor blades made of freeways that rip the stars from their perches. like a warm bed after a cold day, a cold drink after a hot afternoon, it's eating cookie dough, right off of the spoon! like silver clouds moving and exposing the moon, like that jazzy, mellow, crune, like being, like seeing, believing. like everything. and this energetic sound strung round breath with word-beads, in a perfect balance, perfect fit, meets the ears like champagne to a glass, like a lover responding to a kiss...like subtle bliss....maybe. or maybe not. each spin is different, never a story the same, no two thoughts spinning in tandem, no. no, to each their own and onwards. to infitiy and beyond. or maybe just a walk around the block and down the street, a quick run to the corner store. or maybe, nothing at all. maybe a stationary trip, statue of the mind, thoughts carved in marble and gold, silver and cold. but any how, any way, if these cold frame phrases these bland and blank faced words, strung together on breath and on ideas anda common passion or curiosity, if these fragments of raw feeling have turned any keys or opened any doors, counjured even a faint breeze shuffling papers and thoughts...then my words have served their purpose.and the transition is complete, the circle re spun, restrung, but only just begun....maybe....