i'll let you know when i get there

hard to hear you like this choose those apples one can spoil one will spoil drained and draining. Everyone loves to mingle with ancient shapes- translucent and hovering- transparent voices echoing up and forward from old presents that you classify and categorize (though who can remember what a day was like? what a waking up and a single thought was like?) like you can know, somehow, how it changed or shaped you. like you can really know what you miss what you do not regret like you can know how or why it mattered to you then why you think about or have forgotten it now. like you are a product, finished.

A Desolation by Allen Ginsberg Now mind is clear as a cloudless sky. Time then to make a home in wilderness. What have I done but wander with my eyes in the trees? So I will build: wife, family, and seek for neighbors. Or I perish of lonesomeness or want of food or lightning or the bear (must tame the hart and wear the bear). And maybe make an image of my wandering, a little image—shrine by the roadside to signify to traveler that I live here in the wilderness awake and at home.

furniture's worn. it conforms to you. you can move it around, but it won't be new. the walls and ennui and me and you- you know how it goes in familiar rooms. this feels a little familiar. the same old story, somewhere in the middle. familiar rooms and i'm looking around. familiar rooms and i'm looking out.

the quiet space before words are said sometimes I look away because "I'm scared" is hard to say.

but you don't. how many pictures of other people's children can I take? what am I supposed to do with these things? suppose we are all stardust. suppose we let that perspective dry our starry eyes? there is nothing to concern ourselves with here. all reruns and minute patterns. there is nothing to do but hold on, really. catch what can be caught of a view. because though this may be cyclical, it certainly has a direction. it certainly is headed somewhere. gets closer every day.