I am a spring soaked tentacle.
Dried up and on shore.
The sun, it's fatalistic giant warmth
provides rays
normally enjoyable do nothing but
provide a coat over, one that
brings warmth, but
can provide
actuality in residence.
I sit on the sand,
with ocean metaphors
and that unrecognizable tune stuck in
my head, you know, the one I sing when there's nothing else
in the
front
of my brain.
and even though I sit with hope
for someone to swing by
to take me out for a drive.
I don't pick up the phone.
Even open the mail.
My laundry's in hereditist's clumps
nestled in baskets on my floor of my room
and dishes aren't clean in the (w)rack.
Just piled up in their respective stacks.
My mind swims a lazy backstroke.
It doesn't know either.
Just loves to spend time thinking of 12-21-12 or
of September 2nd, two thousand and twelve.
A hundred days. 2400 hours. Eight million, six hundred and forty seconds.
But the quiet of each moment between?
This has to be taken care of;
in chunks. In tiny bite sized pieces.
So we can feel the warmth, and make it worthwhile.
Before I, before we (the worldly we)
Slip away.
I know you wouldn't want me to sit by and
dessicate this way.
I'm gonna try to, not to.
