Because I’ve only just become able to understand. Surrounded on all sides by everything. My anxiety can be let to eat me alive. If it is so allowed. Otherwise, who knows. There are too many options sometimes. There are too many ways things can turn out. Though. Even the way my hands repose is just as much a signifier of these and times and times and times. Sometimes things don’t make any sense. And the senselessness wills the snowballing of dents. I become a bird above an airlock trying to fly against a vacuum’s pull. I have no clue why or to whose order I owe the things. There are processes I still can’t understand. Even as the madness takes hold, there is a part that can stop it all. It is a man convincing himself he is crazy, just as capable of being sane. Imagine, though, that the one thing that makes one crazy is believing they are crazy. Isn’t that a trip. The seed of the idea is the problem itself. Were it this way or that, who knows. Then when you find yourself above or below the pinnacle, will you know? There are journeys we’re on that comfort us for forgetting. Where we’ve come from what we’re doing what’s been going on all along. Who can tell if it’s this way or that that we’re meant to go. Who can tell how a meaning is meant. Why am I as much enraptured by the shapes of the letters on the page as I am by the words and their meanings they create? Is it because it’s all relative, inside me, anyway? Is something really wrong with me? Who is to say? Against what measure or what art. Who knows. “There are sometimes too many things” across the spine of a book. My eyes twitdh and throb and my body jerks sometimes in my sleep. Backwards. Like I’m being pulled. To or from where I have no clue. I would like to learn though, at some point. ¶ Then what brick by brick step must I be arranged to climb. If I live in a town of gloom and who I’ve become is not the same. If my grammar abandons its rules, so long as it helps my point, who’s to say? There are ad infinitum streams to say there are ad infinitum things. The theoretical library full of every type of book imaginable, including the ones which include the library. Similar to Borges’ intimations. And then there are other rooms with other people at other times. If there is really a good or bad way. Again on the multiphasic emblems the time decides. If one part is wrong, the rest all get thrown out. That is the way it typically goes with these things. Maybe the very best way to start it out is to imagine a frame getting drawn. I don’t know. But I like how a friend said about why humans like to watch fire so much being supposedly because there is no distinct pattern to the flames, and this stimulating the brain. I’m not sure how but I’d like to be able to do that with my writing. Or maybe I think that’s what I’m already doing. With all this nonsensicalness or whatever. I want to open a door of light and fall to sleep inside. With no distractions from the tired blank array. To take on the weight of a slight ray and warm myself. Become all one. I feel like a stranger unable to understand. Why anyone is kind to me. Through a lens turned destructive against myself. To not understand. Why I can’t understand. A billion light years out from one moment to the next. Not a single clue only blue-blue blue. Noble noble hey, hey. Runs from hell-bent angels ensue. Why would I want to understand when I just have to get away. Then what more could I have to say apart from the same old thing? Blue while old the cold veins disarray. Nothing but a Saturn setting itself on rings. Nothing while us on our way. Told from the perspective of the light. I’m become my own the end of things. End of bureaucratic problems, with them all, all the time. Maybe some time. No one stays. Only a little later. We all find out ways. Maybe a little later. Who knows. ¶ Then there are days. So some of us say. There are days. We make a part of ourselves open. They become the we we were wanting all along. All for ourselves. They become nothing we become one. How can I parse this bit for you? What do you think it says? The engine leads the manuscript along a supply line. The Readers take a look or two, as it passes along their conveyor belts. Not one part is recognized; not one bit is known. The publisher prophesies what is his own. I do not know. It is satisfying, though. Read each word. Let it fall through your head. That God can recognize what is wrong with you. There are problems. All the time. Everywhere. You don’t need to be apart to get away from. But which you feel so keenly you’re in distress. Not the only thing to be read aloud. The man at the mouth of the mirror watching himself get closer as he leans in. Watches his eye. I dis-apart come clean with the coke up my nostrils. Breathe steadily not known just yet. My face is a runaway paradise gone strange. Not this once I like to listen to dissociative songs. With underlays of off piano over which the ambience of a room plays in which some date is talking to you. Not me not my voice on the stereo. Not my voice on the record. The staunch despondent the road that says “die” the nomad who must walk it down. Twisting away the camera lens which records me looking into it confused. Become anguished long darks set apart by song. Become the one strong thing still in the guitar and synth wisping away. Lapsing over the rock glow of my pills in their containers. S.O.S. distressing setter down of light things. Whale’s slow heartbeat. Ringin’ out. Baby’s laughter. That was yours. When you were a child. Tomorrow’s anvils coming down hard. Yesterday’s forgotten gray fading slowly just recently bolder than it is now. The tablets on the wall mirroring your face wanting you to suffer in silence. Having wants, being inanimate. Rough exposure “But it was only a fantasy. The wall was too high as you can see.” ¶ Now can you please lift me up, God? Again? Show me when you’re being so honest. I cannot tell the sky from sea. There are reasons I should not see. I know now I was not alone—all this time I’ve been on my own. Come back the siren quire forever in deep. Come back the truth you’re forgetting now, don’t forget, remember. Remember. Remember.