the novel unfolds

the novel
my lover
my friend
my one true
inside my
mind, moving,
relaying, without
motion of vocal
chords - just
thoughts.
corduroys -
my favorite
brown ones
that make me
think of a tramp
or an 'on the road'
bum. bharma dumbs.

less than five hundred words,
but a clear outline and de-
lineation of the thoughts
i want to try to get a-
cross. word puz-
zle. dull. overt
and over
worked.

i stopped and
am more than
a little afraid to
get back to it and
have all my feelings
released into it. so many
other things to do at the
moment. thrashing a-
bout. pouting and
porting dreams
to reality it so
seems the
seams of
what is &
was &
will be
are
breaking down.

pieces. slowly
coming together
and maybe the novel,
like love according to my
uncle, comes when you
least expect it and there's
nothing you can do. oh,
for sure there are those
who can formulate and
fill in the blanks with a
plot and a semblance
of characters, but i speak
of novels the like of which
there are very few as a
writer wrangles his soul,
a little piece of the actual
him or her, to the page in
words for other readers for
the rest of time to read - this
order of sounds and vowels
and add colors and smells and
the cacaphony of ideas billow up
and cloud my mind - getting lost,
my thoughts getting so loud. heh.

pilfering lines,
memories,
emotions
and pushing
them to the page
as if peppering the
spice of (my) life to
the screen to be re-
produced for others
in various forms a-
cross the planet -
four squares -
intersecting
thoughts ...