surreal situations of my sleep

everytime i blink i get forty lashes and momentarily black out.  sometimes it helps focus my eyes or clear my head.  Most often i am having a stream of memories that i don't remember.   I think they are called dreams.  Except that people always say that dreams are really goals.  I don't think my accomplishments are synonymous with the surreal situations of my sleep.  translated into conscious sound, this is what bad dreams are made of. 

note. measure. tone. (paper trail.)

secretly, i write a lot of letters.  whole addresses to people with no address.  even with no replies, its still nice to think of them receiving the letters and possibly penning a return line of words.  if i fold them into cranes, these unsent soliloquies, its sort of as though that was the intended idea in the first.  it also gives speculation to a plethora of horrible metaphors about thoughts soaring, having my head in the clouds, and other such nonsense. 
i'm a bit distracted.

our lives are shoots and ladders?

mob mentalities and superficialities
moving along to societies musicalities
main conductor,  streamlined,
leads us with a certain kind of grandeur
like ants in a farm,
                   birds on a wire.
paper doll silhouettes
on ivory tusk dusk:    daisy chain frames
lace
trace erased.
pen inked blinks, weary
lurking leary
photograph shots: blirred
botched.
memory box, hostage thoughts.
sunset.
            lost.

oh look, a song.

digression (Salinger and Sylvia Plath)

slightly edited. a sort of mash-up of Holden Caulfield and Esther Greenwood. strange? probably, if you haven't read The Catcher in the Rye or The Bell Jar.  what i guess i'm saying is you should read them. my writing is mostly just average, but those books are stellar. 

~digression~
thoughts formed in my mind
like a weight on my back bending and bowing
my spine rolling my shoulder blades,
roller skates, vision black.
moving away, clearing my mind
racing, erasing,
empty, i see the bottom of my glass
not full, not even half.
i tilt it up, how many circular windows had i seen?
distorted faces. records broken, it was important
to feel pure, fill up on clear cold liquid
lucid. lurid. coughing up ash,
everything begins to sink away
fade, into a dull gray frame
though with none of the memory,
the novelty, of a photograph silver lining.
you follow me?
its like everything is flat
and falls away, blows away with a slight breeze
like ripped up pages of a magazine.

and anyway all i know is that I am
i mean, maybe its like swimming until you're too tired,
just repeat and repeat like the slap
of ocean waves.
then i suppose you breathe a breath, you drown.
i think life is like that.
except when i try and stop, to sink
i can never disappear
because each time i slip under
my sigh of sleep is a sear of salt.
the problem is, I float.

i suppose my life is more like a frozen winter fish pond
no one really gives a thought on me,
suspended above the sea floor,
and those who do have no answers as to how i'm still
alive.
and i hate them in that moment,
i really do.
all fake, shams, pretty to look at
with no brains.
every thought like smoke, insubstantial,
exhaled.

i once heard that some people fall
and never even know they've hit the bottom.

Does it ever seem the only thing thats golden is whatever,
whoever you're holding
and if you could just reach that something better
that coloured light from a prism
you'd be perfectly free?
only trouble is its night and you can't see
because all it really is
is reflection.
and nothings tangible, except maybe
in that moment, when it is.
when its caught in a jar, or your eye
maybe.

photo(graphic) content

people, places, things: nouns
sound. click of shutter.
time.
wound around like a stop watch.

one second life stop
memory drop on a paper page
colours stain, sepia tone change
tinted notes of extracted days
collected sights,
                       flashes of light
expressions inked on,
                                sincerely staged
framed. displayed.
lifelessly peering from close up glass panes.
listlessly fading
from dust or sun rays.
     This, my camera captured picture gaze.

looking down on luck.  head in the clouds.  my mind wanders. here, have an eclectic post.

being a little (more or less)

memories of being a little kid are my favorite things to recall.  everything is blurred, i'm no longer sure of reality.  its mixed with the quality of my six year old mind.  tinted with the thought process of third grade.

black and white reel of film
pencil sketch grey
it was a dream: better than any memory
stray colours blur,
sunset clouds on the horizon of the sky.
we followed music that sounded like chimes
or wind
that song we used to hum when we were five.

treble notes flew like blackbirds,
feathers in the glint of noon:  they were golden.
sung slow, floated breezy
tasted like honey on my tongue.
you held my hand across the grass
eyes the colour of shadow.
nighttime, a breath of ash
light fades to the raindrop bright of stars
one falls.
i catch it in my mouth,
swallow my water wish
everything i know, mere reflection
transparent.
thoughts upon the sea.
ageless days of other worlds inside me,
full of the taste of cold fire, naive as ever
i'll always be.

jaybird. (my sister)

 i like to write things to my sister.  Sometimes i pen them on paper and give them to her.  sometimes when i think about her i write other things for her.  this one is old. 
 ~jaybird~
floating on feathers as leaves that flutter by
in reds and oranges,
delicate as a butterfly, living in a thing glass jar,
or a bird in an eggshell room
looking through a keyhole door
in a bed of sticks and stones,
falls from such heights break fragile bones
then
grounded and smudged
head out of the clouds
forward she trudged
with caution. poise
never leaps and bounds.
the joys that surround
turn to white noise sound

a small broken bird
on the shores of brine
drinks in the silence
solitude and time.

sun rays shine down
warming fallen hatchling on the ground
feathers she  preens
spreads forth her wings
then
opens her beak and sings.

here's a song to listen to,   i think its fitting.