A spider appears next to me in the morning. Poetry flows. It always feels more robust when I’m talking to someone else.
I don’t like this habit of masturbsting to get through the night. It’s a trap. I wake up, longing for women and song. Yet I am distant from such things. There is no space. Fantasy is not nutritious.
I just finished reading something Paradox sent me. Graphic novel about Scott free, a.k.a., “Mr. Miracle”. One of the New Gods.
… He is the God of Escaping. The son of the Highfather of new Genesis, given to Darkseid, The Lord of Apokolips, when he was a child.
… I wish to escape. From the edicts of my Edda.
…. Or maybe the ethos of my epic. I’m not sure. Words are funny. They spell things, you know.
Splash across the ripples of reality in an alphabet reign
David speaks to me across the ethers.
“It’s true. They’re formulas, made out of Letters, the highest gods in all of the lands.
Letters are the High Sovereigns.”
“A spider wove a web next to me while I was sleeping”
He dances back. “Spiders are miraculous.”
She won’t survive the back of my car. Webs are delicate things.
Yet they always come back.
I wonder at the shape of my world
I say a lot of things to the water.
To the webs.
I want to say something else, yet I am at a loss for words.
I feel I am made of Stories telling themselves.
Who is speaking?
David replies. We may or may not be talking about the same thing.
“The breadcrumbs are fun …” he says, and I respond.
… but the cake is quite delightful.
I am walking down to earth.
From up here, it looks like shape in the waves and in the sand.
The World stretches out before me.
Objects in mirrors are closer than they appear.
There are stairs leading from Heaven to earth. They’re made out of Trees. Trees of life.
There’s webs in the trees.
Things are deeper than they appear
There’s are no signposts in the sand.
Yet there is a rainbow beneath the road
The silhouette of my shape is so dark against the colors
It seems to have no colors. But I know that’s a trick of the Light.
There are no Words in the sand. Only the webs on the stairs.
I make my own.
Scrawling the letters of new stories.
I stop at the Community Resource Center to get food on my way to the library. There is $27 in my bank account, and I am on line with the disenfranchised and the deranged.
I need a new story.
This ones full of lies. Pretending that I’m happy with what I’m living.
I feel like a failure. Either that, or I have been fabulously, fabulously successful. Spelling out a story of isolation and resolving incoherence.
I don’t really want to avoid life any more.
I’m tired of masturbating away my pain. Of not doing the magic.
Skeleton keys can open any lock.
There’s a trick to it. It’s simple. You have to make them out of your own skeleton. Which means, of course, you have to die. So that you can be reborn.
So you can be free.
Or at least in another skeleton.