binary ink

I’m being forced to sleep. It’s like being locked in a tower of
bone. I feel I must write, but am being flooded with so many subjects,
personal mythology, that I cannot choose. Dying, I am locked in my own
ivory cage. Transcendence into the fire.

Out there and in daylight, there is a girl at home.
She can write.

I was talking with Bill today and at one point I told him that
everyone has been giving me different pieces to fix my life with.
(Though what it needs fixing from is beyond me to know). I said, “To
everything, Ian says I need a tazer, Dominique says I need sex, and
Sophie says I need to go over and make her Sangria.”

This binary ink is not helping. These words are dripping wrong from my fingers.

inspire me to poetry so that i may rest

my spirit guide captures image

In spite of changing clothing, the scent of the frenchman has caught. Tonight I sleep alone.
Fur catching in my hair, unexpected. Trees of darkness spreading thier
branches over the nightrid bed. My wings have caught the air and I fly.

I love the Dance, the steps, the thoughts.
How is it possible to convey body language over the phone? An
ordinary conversation, an easy-going patter of nothing in particular. I
hang up knowing I’ve been asked over ‘for the night’ without a word or
inflection to say so.

I may be a happy person, but it’s because I’m laughing at you.

Puppy, patter, patterns on tile.
I write this down to remember you by. The backporch looks over an
orchard. Cherry trees I want to climb, the thought of pie tins
I’m too tired to think, to type, to write.
It will be a lovely day tomorrow.

prepare, my dearest, for I fall from grace