Through my fingers

Every so often
I drive a few miles over the speed limit
because I'm in a hurry to get home

and write.

Phrases that taste just right
are spooling through my mind
faster than the tires can spin.

They throb
or sing
or chime
or whisper

in the perfect key
and
in the perfect time

to say what I mean.

I'll catch them today
with a net woven of words
before they twist away in the wind
blowing through my hair and
tossing dust in my eyes
so I can't see them clearly enough
to write them down.

forget about it

he sprints up the corridor

down

up

down again

until

he finds he can no longer

breathe

which sensation is
what he was trying
to escape
in the first place.

unfortunately
as distractions go
she's much too persistent
for running to shake off.

so he sprints again up the corridor
down
up
down again

with bitter smile
carrying a name
on his failing breath.

considering entitlement

i waited in a line today.

i could have cut to my mom and sister. (they wanted me to.)

i waited instead.

i didn't cut to my mom and sister. (i sort of wanted to.)

i waited for the five other customers ahead of me.

it was a surprising sort of satisfying. 

MJN

Silly boy with the brilliant games
and a very
small
brain.


Grumpy marm with the tight purse strings
and a very
old
plane.


Funny man with the smarmy grin
and the very
lively
chat.


Little man with the tiny wings
and the very
big
hat.

paradigm shift

Hollow.

To seek the quietness within and be met with muzzy, dampened, roaring silence.

When did her own company cease to be satisfactory?

Making the attempt to speak, at least

One doesn't need a reason to write, but one does need something to write about, does one not? And I have spent weeks on nothing, so what is there to say? I could create a world; I could live in one created by another, and by so doing either, I could ignore this one. Which would be lovely, as far as I am concerned.

I'd rather be more impressive than that, though. I'd like to impress at least myself. It isn't even hard to do, so I think it's doable, maybe. Maybe.

Where's a muse when you need one?

I do enjoy a good ramble through my own thoughts. I apologize, internet.

If anything was happening, I'd say more on the subject of anything at all.

My brain is starting to atrophy. I don't much care for the feeling.

It's uncomfortable, to say the least. Sorta sludgy.

Blech.