MIND IS WASTE
The mind’s sore character brainwashed by love. In a heap inner meant, there was a lady talking about how Jupiter, Saturn, and Uranus were all in a line, and I can’t remember if it was a dream or not that she came from and said that in. But then, I can’t remember a lot of things. And “I think it was a dream,” she said she saw it out of her telescope. Maybe. But to rise inner lines, maybe, in descend. Did you walk off the time with a separate face? Did I know you then? Was it meant to be hard to be lined by a separate way? Ozymandias. ¶ We could become the ambient sounds we were listening to. We could watch as the world caved in. We were the two knights in contrasting suits of armor—yours was silver, mine was black. And the theory put forth by the reader-writer was that we were different. And I didn’t like it; I didn’t look back. But would I be able to get a late addition, I wonder? In the season I was meant to change or not to the school of hard-enough knocks? Was I weak for assuming I didn’t know? There were cables running through my skin from heaven which seemed to move my body for me and by whose whim I did not know. I seemed to stare at the early morning sunny sky and ask, “Have the angels fallen yet?” without a shred of contempt. It was honest; it was earnest; I’d wanted to know. But there were separate films still by which me and my simulacrum would toast: to the dying of the day and being able to drink and eat together. Starshift in blimey lights and watered grave. “Demit to strive” still the long old watered way. Hi-Heime Harold and Crow. Let us barometer the pool those witches came from and not-so-ways emit several pointless streams. Careening past the windows’ homes of our childhoods on besoms being carried off by the wart-nosed apothecaries. Bleeding fine light out our arms as the branches scratched them up and pearl color dripped from the scratches into the disforbading night. Wall of caves wanting reason become the scratches’ frum in batches of froyante. Terrace of the loner willed in weeps where he wrote the signet charm onto his heart’s area over his chest and watched as his soul ballooned out from it and rose above his own body, into the disforbading night. Walls where calls were taken concerning the way a beetle-bug writhes on its back to try to get back to having its legs stout on the ground again. Pointless glows. Great parts of a great person being seen. Acknowledged. Total prepared shock of a noiseless scream out in space where the heart beats quick in the cold—the coldest it’s ever been. Holding fast to stock. ¶ But where camp repeats endless repairs on the engine, said. Great tines of old reasons to be sifting effortlessly out to Oxbenoze. Oxbenoisey. Treft leffer’t clemb. Haggen-Das Spinozas drifting carelessly like ice melt off a glacier into the grand sea of unknowing, reftable embered parts of ships gleant in grommet cloves and dispersed again. Hitherto unawared of righteous ambulances fitting close to the sashay sweetness of a dance partner in vain. Believing not is you once is close. Believing haggard is day zany and wrong over limp edges of notes. Trying to understand for once and all time the break-away and not for once gathering the light in tines of belts to ebb in soft and not break, but hey-heying the soft-soft and light-gathering and grounding out the blunt force trauma of the ground on my face, your heart beating as you watch me fall. Thank God he wore a helmet at least, some might say. Where in tears les diamonds welt and fade. Quarter come-to most. Unknown on behalf of itself, the reaching plays. Games like what it means to be fractured so bluntly by the end of the hand repeating like a puppet’s mouth the words that don’t get said very often by the mind in bray and the mind in bray softened by the harsh cold of outer space and outer space vast in float. Poor ended florettes banked on the smiling way the sun departs over the mountains and I am one. What most never occurs being fastened to the front of the ship the car we swerve we drive in high speed godliness uncomposed. Cantrip frozen fastened spokes of lissome winsome hopes and sharp. The niceness foregone and robbed itself of the way we’re supposed. To do this thing to do that thing to fall forward to be willing. Altogether the same. All the one thing. All my life in a shoebox. All my head forward in the oven waiting. Could this grasp repeat its hold on me could I understand. There were oh so many ways. To smile, to have to wait. By the light of the slow-moving sun the fast-moving sun afade. A race upon a spinning planet’s wade in wireless draught temp. I spy on my emotions from a high place in my heart. I wait for us to land softly again. I wait. I hope that I see it and I pray. I hope and I pray. There are wonderous reasons why who-knows-what goes this way into gray for all time and I locked on the inside of my heart amidships watching the gray tone shift white and black and gray again and gray again. All the fluctuating harps in space ringing noiseless with no air for their soundwaves. And Hague left attendant preps the yearning blessed moss to grow upon the planet’s face. I call from the wall within my Captain about what to do with this. How to let go of life completely, as my Captain did. How to walk upon the coals of death and grit my teeth rightly through the pain. I called to ask also how my Captain was doing. Because life is so short and I don’t want to miss these brief little moments where we’re able to catch up a little and be glad.