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When we’re not sure we’re not alone

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Why is there no breeze
No currency of leaves
No current through the water wire
No feelings I can see
I trust no emotion
I believe in locomotion
But I’ve turned to rust as we’ve discussed
Though I must have let you down
too many times
In the dirt and the dust

I have no idea how this happens
All of my maps have been overthrown
Happenstance has changed my plans
So many times my heart has been outgrown
Now everybody’s feeling all alone
Can’t tell you who I am
When everybody’s feeling all alone
Can’t tell you who I am

Good, Bad, Better, Good

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Still seeking equilibrium
Day after second thoughts after
Day after tomorrow, filing through
Misconceptions, sorry-I-met-ya’s
Sorry’s never through,
Sorry wasn’t due.
Then on to page two,
And the invisible fondness,
And the language she speaks,
He speaks, they’re weak uneven
Twenty years plus one, twenty-five years times
Two, no two alike, no two who knew.
So square, who dare
Wear smiles, watch while I
Met ya, I met ya, and
Good is bad, and better is good
The weak speak mountains out of words
And crumble, those squares, they tear.
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THESE PAST FEW DAYS HAVE BEEN very straining. I don’t have a care to speak of — my bills are paid, possessions plentiful and growing, heart is in the right place; and still, I hurt all over. My thinking’s not been straight for nights, I feel directionless and drifting, unharmed yet hurt. And once the negativity sets in—when thoughts layer, and decay, and stick to one another until they are too much to scrape away—it is really hard to look ahead.

Believe me, I’m trying.

A Song to Sing

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I don’t care what anyone says:


These guys are, in my mind, some of the most dead talented musicians out there. Sure, they’ve had their moments of ‘Mmmbop’, pre-pubescent teeny-bopping, and gender confusion but REALLY. They’re still going strong and sound/look better than ever — and I’d STILL date them.



The end.

Oatmeal.

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He comes in every morning at a quarter to seven. Scrubs, smile, and something witty to say. He marches over to the display of warm breakfast food, and every morning he chooses the same thing: Oatmeal. A hearty glass dish full of the bland mush, topped generously with brown sugar and cinnamon.

And every morning at ten to seven I give him a terrible time for it, and tease him, and he looks at his feet, and back up at me, and smiles, and defends his breakfast.
“Here he comes with his thrilling breakfast,” I’ll say as he approaches. “What are you going to eat when you get older?”
“Oatmeal.”
“When you lose your teeth?”
“Oatmeal!”
Oatmeal has no speculation that I do, actually, adore him in a great, mushy way. The food really isn’t that bad, either.