whatever I think of the drink

fresh air today and rain. they say I can leave for an hour. I walk up over the hill across the road into a cafe recommended by the nurses. between new movement and colour I sit inside and I am just another patron, free to order coffee, sit and laugh a while. the coffee is too strong or my taste is too weak but this is much more about the play and the props than whatever I think of the drink. soon they'll have me back onstage to do this every day. I wasn't ready to stop when I surrendered. will I be ready to start when they call me back again?

tomorrow et al.

letting go to be where I am. I write to myself on the last day of summer. there are dreams I can't remember and mistakes I drag into every day like shadows. they monitor my vitals and all is well for now. as I'm told I do my best to listen to their voices more so than my own, to see that this is where I need to be, that whatever else can wait and doesn't matter quite as much. I read the news and think about the world beyond the ward and what it means to be where I am and letting go to do so. and so we sleep and dream through bombs birthday cakes massacres mardi gras white cliffs waiting rooms another string another season until tomorrow et al.

red voices

read away red voices

listen to tick of

starlight

tissue for consumer shakes

slipping blankets and

vitals

waiting in purple

think of other sounds and places

colours

outside soon

incidental

I dream of days beyond myself and love and clothes that never fit. cures and curses all return to dust. I am the spear and I am the scar and I am incidental.

seeing myself

someone else takes the reigns to lead me through another puzzle in the bardo. I follow their tracks as best I can: reaching in the dark, trying to hide healthily. they cover my mirrors with paper and tape. I wash my face and think about drawing a smile.

the sunrise and my innocence

when I was where I was

I was who I am without knowing

the not knowing was peaceful and quiet

like the house before I left for school in the last couple of years

sixteen and seventeen

catching the bus before anyone else's alarm

in winter some mornings were dark

I would first see the sun through the bus window

I would listen to music and close my eyes and the sun

would kiss me softly through the glass

my cheek was warm

and I could be where I was

closed in myself beside strangers forever

between here and there

not needing or knowing any better

or wanting more than the bus to keep going

to stay in the sunrise and my innocence for good.

my science fiction

the illusion falters and we find that we were never in control. so many silly choices between desire and laundry - plenty more to fuel my science fiction. the crowds follow tramlines and the clouds roll thick and heavy. I watch my dreams on the horizon fall yet a little further out of reach. maybe they’ll come back tomorrow. maybe I’ll be ready then.