i am the wall rush

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i am the poet.
i am the rem-
emberer. i am
the one who has
the history book of
emotions cataloged
and marked, examined
for connections to others
in the collection(s), the
constant dreamer.

walking the aisles of
'books' in my mind,
trying to find, trying
to finish some-
thing, some
and noble
and time-
less thing.

less things and
more feelings. to
show the emotion
and actions of the
characters on the

and not as a poet,
but as i, the unique
id in me, i declare
that my best is here,
thusly. and maybe my
sense of humor, ability
no matter what to at least
attempt to laugh and move
on. a protection and blessing
for others around me. my crazy
passive aggressivity.

"go with that..."

as in my ability
to escape to
realms not
imagines in
most people
living the day
to day life according
to some established
routine or essence of
their being. and mean-
while, in Wales, some
other woman waits for
me - or my words most
likely, more probably. or
like -

          the wind whips up,
          the crust of the earth
                 opens up and tucks
          and closes over and fuck...

complexities not easily
translated or understood.

my mind / time / space
my moon / rhyme / slice
my time / fly / betwixt

minful banter, slow and
very careful laughter. i
don't fully understand,
but i'm trying - as if to
say ...

thoughts re-
arranged, re-
lish in the way
they're laid on the
table top place-
mats and the
able chairs
for some.

i am the wall
rushing up to
the moment,
the place in
space and
time when
willingly and
even some say
wantonly wanting
- closeness.

the twist.

certain moments on the web
frozen in time.

the battle of the artist.

on a cliff. with a giant,
inside the mind, just
a dummy, a puppet
or poet pretending
to do battle with a
disturbed you while
also having one
hand tied behind
my back - me back-
ing up. effing or

true affection.

alone you see
the world truly
through your
own eyes or
with a mind
much like
mine you
can muster
enough up
to catch a
glimpse or
a small peek
at the pleasan-
tries inside of
me. the trees
swaying inside
of me - figureat-
ively. lively and
dancing to my
own tunes, my
tones of inflection,
my voice, the words
i say in reality when
given time to think
it through and give
back to the other
person. i leak my
thoughts, i share
my poem, i show
i shower within a
coward's glance
or grazing of the

skillful tho dull,
they doled out
their dutiful and
stout clubs. the
Trout drinking
Guiness from a
stout glass, astute-

i wanna find someone else who
hates the beatles and draws with
some form of material (daydreams)
and sometimes the surreality of the
moment of made-up words and
laughs - either at or with me -