Left to the buzzards
waiting
waiting for something
hope
atonement
closure
an explanation
waiting
waiting
feelings of
sadness
longing
wanting to be wanted?
not needing to be needed?
what is wanting
what is needing
whatever happened to
kinship
the simple joy
of existing together
when existence itself is unsure
blank
fuzzy
clouded
everything runs together
there are no lines anymore
just fuzz
and
bland blank existence

This is shit
no metaphors
no literary grandeur
basic principles

powdered prophets
spouting
crystal commandments

tie ribbons 'round pathways
stop traffic with hypodermic intrusions.

pump,
pump the jam.

feel every beat, every breath,
every second lasts longer, faster, shorter, slower.

"Mel(vaton), human. A man barely alive. Gentlemen, we can rebuild him. We have the technology. We have the capability to build the world's first chemical man. Mel(vaton) will be that man. Better than he was before. Better, stronger, faster."

It's back

to routine.

but I don't feel the same way about it.
It bugs me
It queers me out.

I want things to change.
I've definately come to a point where I've learned that the only way to make change IS to make it
I can't wait for it.
First within myself,
thus having this self change eminate into the rest of my life.

Positive output.
Positive input.

These hopeful postings come few and far between.

44 can be Partitioned 63261 ways.
44 can be Partitioned 23 times with each term no larger than 2.
44 can be Partitioned 184 times with each term no larger than 3.
44 can be Partitioned 816 times with each term no larger than 4.
The maximal number of regions into which a plane can be divided by 7 circles=44
The Chemical Element Ruthenium has an atomic number of 44.
Edgar Cayce's "44 Laws of Spiritual Development".
In the year 44 AD St. James of Compostela was murdered.

After 44 days, Mel(vaton) stage dived left, but no one caught them.
However, several people did stop to help them up.

This

should be blank

like that conversation
of weekend plans that are not happening
of fasting
and how I miss you,
but sandwiches are dry without condiments.
(like closeness without compliments.)
silence.

sometime this weekend.
maybe my attitude is changing
maybe I don't know what I want.

I just wish I had the option to choose,
and not have it be chosen for me.

there are more or less 60 cans on my counter,
countless numbers of metal grates on city sidewalks,
and that fucking red sign on the top of that building,
That will never let me be.

and back again.

back to that place.
where there are not enough artists
in the world to blot the white walls out

where bits of this and bits of that
take root and grow in horizontal facades
rising up from the bottom,
to strangle me in my sleep.

where dishes dream of the days
when they were proper and presentable
and the recyclables claim defeated purposes.

where my thoughts are scattered on scraps
of paper floating about till I can't track them down
or decipher their correct chronological order.

where I exist unto myself, without the aid of acknowledgment.

But no one sees this place but me
when they see it, the dishes are usually cleaner
the trash is just creative chaos and aesthetically pleasing.
there's always something interesting to look at or discover.
and there I exist, acknowledged.

the roots

are gone but last night i had found my root there's a strange itch in my chest cavity but I can't scratch it, and it's only getting worse I've retained half the hearing in my left ear. maybe only the things I want to hear. I feel as though I have been left to schedule time with you when it's appropriate. with the economy in such a state, are the investments worth it, when they don't seem to be coming back, maybe i should have settled for a lower interest rate.