This morning I’ve too many thoughts to hold in place. No meditation “app” will help. Mozart on the stereo is doing his best. Good old processed Mozart.
Late stage Capitalism is eating my wiring like a wild mouse. Good old processed Kuusisto.
I’ve got the algorithm blues.
I type too much. My neck is a mess.
There’s a single black hair growing on my nose. I’m a warlock.
Because I was beaten as a child I’ve a warlock hair on my nose. Nothing stays hidden.
Of course I’m imprisoned in myself. Of course that self is something else. Of course these words are something else.
There are stones inside my fingers.
I’m trying to not age out of hope.
Blind I cannot track the flight of birds but I know they happen all around me.
The history of the mind is not the history of ideas.
Miniver Cheevy! I bet he had a warlock hair.
I remember a thing or two. Just like my tongue does.
Of course I found a spoon in snow
While missing you,
Gulls above the harbor
Baltic yellow mid day mid winter
A policeman talked softly to his horse
I was proud of my new wristwatch
Cheap but Swiss made
Being of the scholar class
It was a totem thrill on my wrist
You my brother my twin
Gone in infancy who followed
I’m sewing together
A seahorse like the one
We rode in the womb
Where shall I put this shaved magic hair?