Comfort Able Words

falling back, then,
to words and what
they offer me, still un-
sure sometimes why i
share them. and the
comment about it
being like jazz, i
hope it doesn't
go to my head,

making me un-
able to continue,
controlling the e-
motions.

waiting for that one poem,
that one mood, in some room,
maybe this room or another room
i've not yet been to and if that's the
case (they gave me) i travel with
it to the moon and beyond, all
layered together hypertextuall-
y. why? indeed. the words, they
somehow comfort me, letting
the world see the simple
sounding, stumbling and
stuttering aloof in social
situations poet fool can
think and dream and
maybe those are
or aren't skills
to boast of
in today's
economy.

Econ. oh my.
He con of mine...
different lines, in-
deed different sounds,
visual as well as aural
experimentation.

is there worth in it, though?
are the hours spent on the
couch dreaming with eyes
open and closed good en-
ough to tough it out for an-
other extended period of
time?

where was i? you can get
lost in here whilst dreaming
of other things, remembering
past moments, past phrases,
and other phases of the moon
and, at the core, what it means
to be human and alive at the end
of the beginning or the beginning
of the end depending on what type
of person you are. and here i am,
then, wondering nonsense, giving
form to the void expanses of the
mind. Tolkien pops in. And that
word, that representation for a
single man, a writer, is tied to
many different memories and
feelings and emotions and
so on and so forth ad infi-
nitum. or so the sum of
all the parts sometimes
seems. reading between
the sheets of papyrus, i am
resting on comfortable words,
merely painting my mind for a
moment or two to the screen
so as to show maybe a single
soul or two what happens when
certain elements are brought to-
gether in a human form, gathering
from the dust the essential elements
but lacking that breath - breathing, and
heaving, gasping, seeing, eyes open
and closed. words come pouring out
but what do they mean? merely some
form of formality? a meager attempt at
merging some sort of disunified theory
of poetry? and thoughts like that take me
back to college days. i couldn't flourish
there, though. and that leading to mis-
takes of the past. taken from the past,
passed up.

and now.
now feebly
attempting to
reconstruct a
life based on
the core of who
i am if that's a
bad or good
thing remains
to be seen, i
reckon. music
fills the apart-
ment and i
like it, content
in the solitude,
seeing in this
poem an aw-
akening, an-
other extend
-ed burst of
energy focus
-ed toward
career.

marching forward,
as if to war...