displacement

just like old times then? the same... hazy uncertainty. dislocation, an inclination to believe something's off. only minimally. incrementally. like losing the orgasm right at the final___ you know. (god i hate being repetitive).

it's always funny to me how you forget your own states of being. the way LA was only 15 months ago away, but that was a different person. or Haifa. or any adventure that you can point to pictures and say yes, well, see there, it was me but, then you halt. it arises for me when i stare at a word for too long, i start to question if i've spelled it correctly.
___a few weeks ago, at the end of a five week stint without my little magic chemical beans, the way... it rushed. i forgot how scared i felt of everything. and always rushing and feeling late. and always too many fragments of malformed thoughts. i'd forgotten how unpleasant that feeling, that state, was. ___and now, i remember the alternative. it's, uhm, phantasmagoric. you see words hang in the air, like crystalline forms. condensation, but more certain than that. things slow, and time seeps into objects. there's this cactus in our front yard with a single white flower. most gorgeous thing. i'm certain i only see it in the evening. something i see, and i'm certain it's 3am i turn my car headlights on, and my coffee-table could be morning or Tuesday and the remote control for my stereo is actually somebody's voice and it's all...

a suspicion i suppose is how you can phrase it. an unquenchable suspicion. but of what? and that's the problem, a ridiculous search for ether. ___(be that as it may, there are too many dimensions to a day, to a person, to objects).

meanwhile i'm certain i smell. i don't seem to. no one seems to avoid my company. but i'm certain of it. when i drive home, a car follows me. it has only one functioning headlight, the other's dim. a droopy eye on a tired old man maybe. the car has an eye to where it's going and another staring out the window like a fascinated child or a bored just-about-teen, both silent and still and off in some other place(dimension(state, where pelicans grieve for dying figs and where emotions are stronger, more forceful, ___so that we frequently used to sit and regard them, in our laps, and probe them for what they actually were and how they functioned with our eyes glued to the blue passing by out the window of a car. listening to our ipods. or otherwise.
___and i shower twice, sometimes three times a day.

one day i expect to encounter an old man somewhere who will remind me to read more poetry. and a young woman who will lovingly shake her head at me and reach an arm out and ruffle my hair and say what will we do with you? in a tone that makes me know it's fine as it is. without needing something to be done. (always, alwaysalways, this pressure of the 'things to do'). (and i open my eyes just at the last minute before my car rolls into the stationary car in front - oh crap! i exclaim slamming the breaks, she opens her eyes, lips still pursed into an unfinished kissentence, lingering in the air like a silent moment after prayer. how did that even happen? she asks, i took my foot off the break, got distracted i say, and finish the kissentence with smile that leads like a rainbow to its close an overlapping of lips and purrs (with one squinty eye looking to the traffic light for green) (with one foot depressed firmly on a brake pedal). ___the old man will remind me to read more poetry, or at least be more myself. and i'll ask why? and he'll respond because perfect words to explain, or answer, or ask, you only encounter in the rarest moments of pristine sincerity. with my jaw open he'll leave me to go chase wilder dreamscapes and when i remember him it'll be as a cactus flower that i'll interpret as being a fresh water spring having opened in my front yard, and misinterpret later as 3am and feel a nocturnal delight (when i get there my friends ask me why i have my headlights on in the afternoon)

i wonder if sometimes, in its own time, in its own neuronic-twitching-electrical-impulse language, my brain sits and laments what i'm doing to it... ___perhaps just the way, in my own discursive, mutated poetical rambling nonsense, i sit on my couch and complain to the coffee table, to 8pm, to all those things that listen, about what my brain's done to me.

______( freedom from speech, and all our unclaimed rights. )

silence is no more the language of the sad as it is the property of the happy.
and this last line, like most of those that preceded it,

make no sense to me.
one day i should be held accountable for writing things i don't understand the meanings of.