stream ?

edited for lines

the youth was a strange force upon us in those times, from outside of us and inside of us. they told us we were young but we werent. i never grew up. i knew more then, i was sure and sweet and stupid.

i think i need to be naked. stripped. i think i need to be skin again. i think i never really got to be skin. i never really nailed it. i would go back to seventh grade. i would be back there where i learned i was worthless. i would be back and forth. i would fall apart before i could before i could before they could tear me apart. i know it is important now.

everything is important in the way that every word and detail of a novel is important. not that it is important outside of the novel, but inside of it. in the pages. and that's where i live. in the pages.

a comfort to know that i am being stranger than fictioned. i am mr will ferrell. emma thompson is making me fall in love with maggie gyllenhal. dustin hoffman is asking me if im in a tragedy or a comedy. is that right? am i misremembering the plot? flours. seems silly.

it's meaningful because it's happening to me and that's all. but it's what it is. it's the exactitude. it's precious precision. intimacy with time and place and presence

presence

every body speaks a different language. tongues and vibrations.

cold heartless darkness like joseph conrad in the jungle of jungle when

today my daughter yelled Fred Willard!!!!

it was a good moment

car seat in the back we were talking about Fred McCleod who died who used to be the cavs play by play tv announcer who was really good but he died and i couldnt think of his last name and i said "fred willard" and she repeated after me and it was good.

one of the flawless romps through my brainworld and in the dark of it with the lumps and hills of gummy pink purple i traverse only to discover the actual real true truth of truth of listening to the old things with new ears of finding the only places i have ever scoured to be empty and full simultaenously without warning without heeding without herald and without announcement come to us now oh holy serpent of deep deep longing for belonging oh i

open your jaws wide dear snake or imbibe us as liquid into your gullet dear turkey of death demise and destruction with only the divine with only the sweet sweet ephemeral firmamental undue just and unjust the way of the world is to let be what is because it must and must just and must just must and no i have not watched the show supper nanny

from the top to the bottom of the stars stairs stares steer me away from bull and let me embrace the old form, the old shape in my ghost of who when what where how, the cafeteria of course, the dark booming vibrations through dark endless liminal adolescence, never to be an architect nor builder but to sit in the hallway and sketch out of obligation, to yearn and seek and hope without hope. deep heard hard hearted nature

funny thing about improv vs writing. they are the same thing in different times. writing is just long iterative improvising. but pure evacuation, from the guts out through mouth, unfiltered, unedited, can yield the most interesting and truest results. truth beyond truth. not the meaning of the words as words but another language beyond language. transcending the abstraction. life means what is happening to us living. we are the language. but still i go back and change stuff because i want it to compel. it's all just part of it. that big long word we are all collectively spelling with our limbs and eyes and voices.

worth a shot anyway