Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

does it count if one is reflecting on one's own mortality if one was nearly run over by the old man behind the wheel and only very slightly behind and creeping right beyond with meaning and gusto the obviously there stop sign alongside the road upon one was driving this morning? does it count if one is reflecting on one's own mortality if one collapsed in an unexplained coma in the middle of a sunny sunday afternoon among the spiders and birds? does it count if the leaves of a book fall burning on the floor while nobody's watching? what sound does flooding make?

i'm running on eight events this day wherein i am reminded not ungently of a dream i had last night but cant remember. it's not quite deja vu but it's close and it's making me feel funny not unlike the funny feeling one might get wheeling down a steep new england hill on an out of control and poorly nailed together boxy little go cart bulit for shits and giggles and now making one think of one's own mortality, very aware of the neighbors watching with some interest, the trainwreck kind of interest, the volcano kind of interest, that kind, where everything has a certain disasterous end and nothing can cause the movement of resistance attempt.

somethings catching up with me but i'm too sure of myself to look over my shoulder to find out what it is. i'd rather run till empty and let the newspapers sort it out. heaven is neverending rejuvinating orgasm, hell is sleep paralysis forever. i cant shake her green eyes and i'm not interested in trying. seeing everything twice isnt always necessarily a good thing. i have to drive with the windows down and the clash playing as loud as possible without speaker rattle or i'll drive into the river. if you're a writer without politics you can go fuck yourself. if you slip on the stairs, it's too late to pray. bare shoulders on a woman make me want to live forever. all nurses should have bare shoulders. all sunshine should penetrate walls. the sun isnt hot enough. the water's not cold enough. freezing is for pussies. the heights we know are lumps the one who can truly see. the real emergency will not have sirens.

so far.

so far nothing counts
except the counting
of nothing but gusto
driven by the mortality
of a collapsed afternoon.

i cannot explain reasons
for birds or spiders or leaves
of a book or a the sounds or
amounts of tonal errors escaped
from a floodgate.

eight is infinity sideways –
eight events, eight rememberances,
eight deja vus, eight dead relatives
nailed shut into a box; the clocks
reel mortal dreams. the clocks
deal trainwrecks in my neck
of the words, absurdity rejuvinated
by windows peered out of,
two green eyes which attempt
to resolve a sideways world.

so far away the echo
of a locomotive whistle,
so far past the vast crippled
outlook, so far amassed like
ideas never relayed, so far,
so far the delay of a frozen
philosophy, so close the emergency
brakes, so far the attempts
to awaken numbed limbs
from a nightmare wet dream.

so far
so far.

does it count if you live your life in the eye of the storm alone while swirling twirling life goes on around you. does it count if you say nothing when inside you rage with words uncountable. does it count when you look back at the ages past and feel nothing but sad. does it count when your heart speaks so softly that no one hears. does it count when tears stream unseen. does it count.

and when you discover that the awful mask will not peel off does it matter that you even tried.

does it count...

does it count...

a silent countdown to oblivion
in the eye of the storm
if you listen
the sound of silent wind
the sound of the void
the ten billion names for god
in the void where nothing everhappens
and everything is happening
does it count
when your heart speaks so softly
the momment can slip away
if not love then compassion
my arm stayed paralized at my sides, even if I did not want to fuk her, she still could have used a back rub
oh yeah dirty old men look backwards in sadnessat women who got away.
Keeps us on our toes
geezers thrive on broken hearts

to awaken numbed limbs
from a nightmare wet dream.

i'd rather run till empty and let the newspapers sort it out.

dam timely GO for me firsty, so far I have rode my motor cycle about thirty miles, I can just about let the clutch out without stalling and I can shift to fourth. I was hauling ass, I mean I must have been doing 90. Then I looked down at saw I was doing 40. Yeah as I flew by people in their yards I was thinking about how they would describe the accident to the eye witness news.

heaven is neverending rejuvinating orgasm, hell is sleep paralysis forever.

I reached escape velocity, flung out of the storm, to an uncloudy day. I love my motorcycle. I know what love is.