(These are a series of notes from random notebook pages found in my accordion binder of random shit. The dates are listed, boldfaced, before each section / notebook page. I assume I was bored in class. I’ve added a few words in a few places that I felt really sucked, but most of these thoughts are untouched.)
11/9/98
As the contrasting hues collide at the end of summer – the birth of fall – I lay down in writing slumber.
One half a century
not a long time
Just enough to almost let
the smoke, the smell
dissipate
as did skin from bones of charred innocence
A touch of one’s finger
at times can be beauty
leading flowers to the canvas;
at times can be death at the push of a button
a little larger than the tip
of one’s finger.
Who love the men and women who died?
Who loved them as they lived?
It’s hard to say after they lay in dust
All love the dead.
They must, or they aren’t human.
Shut up your face
Opinionated fool
There are more sides than one to this puzzle.
However, you are so right.
10/12/98
Dwelling on “The Snow Man”.
Unlocated listeners learn
Imaginative perceptions.
Misery into the wind.
Do not associate spontaneous creativity
with imaginative activity.
Let us move on.
See if you can give us more
We’re never satisfied
Enough to drench our parched tongues
Enough to wet the earth
Enough Enough
Enough or nothing at all
Just see if you can give us more
To save a breath again.
9/9/98
Little narratives
Everyday life
Makes good for those who know better
(Those who know nothing at all)
Little narratives
Inform and dismay
Make blank day to day
The spaces already filled in
I live not in physical confinement
At least no more than the soul allows
Against a rock
A steamed cloth hangs
Only to be wrinkled again
Then back to the start
To fold
Mixed signals.
Does she want me or not?
Do I want her?
Yes.
Can I tell her that?
No.
Mixed signals.
Spontaneity rules.
Speak up, Mr. Gimpel, sir.
Your wife is in my head.
If you don’t set the record straight
she’ll visit me in bed.
Don’t you see what’s happening,
The way she gets around?
Or do you blind yourself instead
and let her play you down?
Oh no, Mr. Gimpel, man.
How confusing life must be.
A wife at home
while bastards roam.
Oh when shall you be free?
(Draft 1)
They wait in – ah! – They
wait alone. Together and…
ah!
They wait…
(Draft 2)
They wait in…
ah!
They wait alone,
Together.
They both hear…
er!
They may not both
interpet
what is trying to be said.
It’s sad – they think –
to be together.
It’s sad to be alone.
But if you make
your fucking mind
It’s good to be
your own.
Mind Stroll 
How the mind wonders in an organized mess is captivating.
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It’s fun to reminisce on how my mind was working at the time these chunks were written. Thanks for taking the time to read.
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