Collective

sunday morning

it's always coffee, neutralizing my worries and comforts. its subtlety that stays and stays. it isn't a flash of euphoria or a defeated after effect.
sunday mornings are worth picking apart, gently. the date, the weather, the company, the setting, the garments, the calmness, the mentality, the words.

love the agony, write it out till its creation sounds more beautiful than to attain.

what is

this morning, god is the sunlight seeping through a cracked window pane, playing patterns on top of already patterned walls.

he's the empty bottle of shiraz, lying naked and abused at my feet

a culprit

a victim

a life snuffed out in a single night

but with a destiny fulfilled.

he's the hearty voiced butcher singing out his sales in the market street below

clicking heels on cobblestone streets are his accompaniment,

a woman hestitantly brushing her eyes along his fares, glazing them with scrutiny,

his only audience.

he is my weathered fingers typing with careless ease

he is my neat eyebrows furrowed in perpetual unease

he's [the clock ticking away] saying hurry, don't be late

but then he's the cushion on the armchair, folding me within 

conforming to me

resting on me as i rest on him 

or so he states in his laws

making me wait till the last second melts away

releasing me from his own enchantment of time

cheating just so i can see what's beyond

this morning, god is whatever i want him to be.

so selfish

i am a completely muddled being, so engrossed by the texture of my fingers that i never stop to feel what they have been touching. 

i ignore the patterns all around me 

it's sickening to know that there is a limitation in existence that i have planted and cultivated myself, with my own two unfeeling hands. 

how to see

how to condition oneself into sensitivity

what is the point if we aren't caring

how is that we can care in a past and forget in a future

is remembering caring?

or is it renewing your disattachment, a seal to the cold shoulder

i am delving, here i am falling

please let me land in a sea of revelations

or if not that then at least a clean break from the self induced drugs; the blindness.

i wrote this in a place i didn't mean to

somehow it seems fitting.

confused this morning.
waking up to a picture text of a makeupless friend.
why does she keep sending me these pictures and why is she taking them?
i was about to send her a picture back but i fell too quickly back asleep.
then i woke up again. my shelving next to me was glowing. i turned around saw another sunrise on the 7 building through the missing blind in the window.
i wanted to take a picture of this too. share it with someone. but who. back asleep.
wake up again. i'm late.

my knees and feet always feel as weak as the floor boards when i get out of bed and they press against each other like old piano chords as i wobbly walk to the bathroom.
hi again.
you again.
here again.

i hear other people in the walls as they get ready for work. a husband and a wife borderline fighting. a piano. shuffling.
i like this relationship with them, i'm sure they hear me too. i'm sure they hear my silence, my occasional typewriting, my hangers against the bar.
it is simple. we're not asking anything of each other. we don't see each other. we can't judge each other. we don't count on what we see. we're simply functioning in some sense in our private spaces.

piano ultimately being the most romantic instrument to hear in secret. i feel calm enough to start over again

this hour

There never was much to begin with, just sorry eyes and an expectant cheek turned up toward the sky.

Eventually the sinking recognition that imploring gestures would never be satisfied overcame all expectations, and I succumbed to heavy lids and walked down a dusty back road back to my dusty apartment.

That's how I came to be where I started, and that's where my boots will always lead.
Or so it seems.

And yet here I am, unemployed, coffeeless, an unwashed face against the window pane, and I know I feel the morning dew on the other side. Though when I brush the skin it remains surprisingly dry.
I take off my boots and carress the leather, wonder how they had the good fortune to attract the moisture when my cheeks were conveniently skipped over.

It doesn't seem fair.
That objects can experience more sensations than the hair on your arms.

But that's why I wake up to the sounds of two and three alarms every morning and turn the blankets aside, securely attach a knitted yellow hat to my head and wrap myself in sleeves.

Now the rain can pour and not feel a hindrance to my comfort.
And I can turn my questioning cheek up to the sky and embrace its sorry answers.

Depleted?

Or dehydrated?
I woke up at 5:30, too dark outside.
went to sleep.
I woke up at 6:00, too dark outside.
went to sleep.
I woke up at 6:30, I washed my face, got my stuff, walked outside.
Weather is perfect, the leaves are perfect, another seemingly gray day.
Two blocks down, left. Posture straight, expressionless.
Train just boarding.
Got on train, sat. watched.
Thought of Europe. Trains will always remind me of Europe.
Especially when in a disorienting situation.
disorienting disorienting.
Fell asleep.
Woke up.
Got coffee at Union Station and felt it as a mistake.
Watching people neither as robots, objects, humans, distractions.
Existing.
Can't stomach a small coffee sometimes.
can't digest my eyes projecting my current state
camera around my shoulder
second eyes
too sorry for what it is
too bewildered and dependent