Serious Questions About Nothing

Am I a Red King? Am I a Thing, or the Creator of All Things, or a Thing and The Creator of all things? What am I when I wake up? One can't be a chicken, and the egg, or the chicken and the egg... what are signs until signified? And what is signified with signifiers? Signifiers floating on red and green and purple smoke. whO aRe yoU? s-m-o-ke-- and words are whatever we like them to be. Adjectives are easy. Nouns are representations of some chicken's egg, some dreamers dream, and rows are rows and a bark is a bark. Some killers of words. Speak only when spoken to-- but then... nobody would say anything at all! Poesy claimeth nothing. And still I am sick. sick with no thing to cure it's reflection. Through the looking glass, and into a dream. I must be a Red King, because you are nothing without a me, so I must be both the creator, and a thing.

I have been thinking about it a lot lately, but today, after I hand full of shoulder shrugs and surgical steel prods and cotton pokes, today I am pretty sure that I am going to die... and I don't like that.

On the bright side, I can't tell what Paul Weller is saying, but I am pretty sure it's beautiful.

actors

They are actors. They wash lips and eyes up and down pantone shorelines and silk sheets and across regal bed frames and couches softly in and out but always slowly contracting and expanding lenses finding focus near then far. They leave beaches bare and then covered and then bare but for the skeletons of lives once lived, lives of stars and soft jelly satellites and carnival seahorses with cotton candy imprints and giggling reflections. They are comedians... telling themselves jokes about themselves to make them smile and to make cameras melt and me to spite the causality of sensuality... the price of partial intimacy. They are innocent, as god made them, bare and careless picking fruit in the garden, picking the forbidden but never feeling the fall. And I am the snake that watches, that laughs and revels in their charade of pleasure, and makes evil out of art.

of nature and guilt

Guilty. Guilty of plebian pleasures and gilded whispers. Guilty of limping through shadowed circles and exposing my soft belly for the taking. Guilty of liking it.

She was the lark, and I the loon.

but the curtains opened...

now she sings sharkly, and I am chum producing chum producing chum until the water is more salty with blood and mis-directed vascular excretion than crystal salt and diamond nature

Guilty of still liking it. Guilty of turning sharp things into soft things, and as the teeth sink in, guilty of laughing over and over again, thrashing flesh, busy fingers

I should have known to stick to cool colors. Purple. Aqua-marine. Forest greens and chocolate browns. Nature gave me a sign, a warning, a warning that I ignored. Guilty. Guilty of indulging in radiant feathers.. red, yellow, gold, Amber.

So.. birds.. bees.. stranger strangers.. stranger bird.. new friend.. old friend.. friend of all.. lay blame as you like. I am guilty. But not wrong.

maybe a meteor is coming.

I had a dream that we fell in love. You didn't seem to notice at first, but eventually you caught on.