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Found in an old notebook, 2020
(I may have shared a version of this before that I'd edited and typed out but I'm not sure if it was here):
Tonight I am about three steps from schizophrenic dreams & razor breath. All time all too often collapses in on itself within my head and sometimes -- too often -- it's too much. But tonight, it's just enough. Tonight I am hesitant and fragile tired mania, and I see everything from here. Wooded backyards & cotton candy skies & "mira, blanca" & big brown eyes. 70's cars & anxious sweat, picnic tables & baited breath. My dreams remember each other and I remember them. White bellied hawks come to tell me what's next in a waiting language I can't understand, and it is all happening over and over and over again
Another:
Days wrapped around mealtimes
and miraculous doves
The sounds of grasping, wishing
for the stalling of the changing of seasons
Brilliant blue skies &
the desperate ache of potential
kinetic and raw, a glass unfilled
What could it be, the canvas, the body?
What could you be in this world?
It sounds like Mexico & Los Angeles & the great, wide West.
This last one is my favorite, and is the only thing in the book written in green ink for some reason, and I have no recollection of why I wrote it down:
Substance-addled dickhead found a loophole in reality
and called to call you crazy
"it turns out, we're all insane"
@siin What a thing to find!