this place in washougal
a 2 story collection of uncreative shapes
90 degree angles and straight lines
a setting so arbitrary
convoluted with contradictions.
an ever fluctuating current
where seasons wash past
in a hail of near identical days
flooded with hours spent
trying to spot the differences.
some days are better/worse
than the vibrance and nirvana of
a former version of
the very same summer from which
this (sullen and
exhausted attempt to
collect enough relevant words
and stack them)
i thought i had fixed my car
but my mechanic can’t explain how
a cold engine running on fumes
can overheat and burn out.
long past are such days
full of auspicious musing of
the state of expositions.
far buried are such nights
lost in romantic recallings of
the stories lived and living through me.
extensive is the distance
between me and myself,
and the energy demanded to
bridge such a chasm.
my faith in the
significance of setting
i will miss these streets which
not so many poems ago
i didn't know.
the neighbors stay inside, the cars stay parked
these uniformed trees vibrate so bleakly
they know of me and that i know of them
caged animals which sing to each other
keep me company, feel my grief
at the edge of the pavement they wait to die
and dream slow wooden dreams
count the rings when they chop me down
are there many or few, were they muted or bold
or will they be composed of
90 degree angles and four equal lines?
may my flesh be too gnarled to cut into planks.
of death i am unafraid, it’s a life without creating that keeps me awake.
cruel and thorny is the maker who decided
that the vast burden of inaction would be
less crushing than the weight of unrealized art.
far above lustfulness & pride, alcohol & dopamine,
my most destructive habit is words left unwritten.
forever waiting for creative sanctuary where words flow like water.
when will someone come to take me far away from routine and writers block
from dresser drawers, posters, windows panes & shelves?
in the place i now sleep i try to count the right angles (a total of 79,920 degrees)
is it this box full of squares which keeps me imprisoned or
is it a self-centered romanticization of my flawed mind,
my obsession with inefficiency, distractions, and non-orientable shapes?
homesick for a setting not yet complete but
somewhere aside from chronic patterns of change
that may never be developed into 90 degree angles
this earth is full, but space is expansive
find me a star made from broken physics
find me a seam in the fabric of everything
or take away my telescope so
i can fall asleep on time, i have work in the morning