random poetry march 2nd, 2000 gretchen (inspired by Counting Crows, Faust, and sleep deprivation) she wraps the baby in her arms it's been a long day she doesn't like to think of how these kaliedoscopic interludes seem to slip through her fingers before the dawning of a new day her hair falls down in tresses beneath the knife and she's escaping can you see her wings she's braided beneath the sky like stars there are only so many fingers before you loose control the wheel will only turn so far a seventeenth birthday, she puts on her shoes and wanders outside in the midway she only wants to watch the leaves fall down she only wants to watch her heart pour out and she's waiting for heinrich she is never waiting for me the sky's a trumpet, it says nothing, it breathes throughout the thoroughfare in soft heartbeats and she throws her life into a plastic bag all these memories washed ashore amid the broken glass but are those tears? is this time? the ages wear and are undermined by the smoke and all the flames of life too swiftly passing the evening by "i don't want to think about this," she says, "i don't want to think about this anymore. it's been four long years on the horizon from you, but you stand in my kitchen, you stand in my kitchen, you stand in my kitchen and your saphirre eyes sing to me every single memory i need..." it's too dark, the angels have come and stolen away the sun it's evening on the shoreline, and she slips out of the seams her hair she throws into the ocean, like roses, and swallows herself whole through the mind, the circle, the arrow, the heart her hands are open, stigmata, and then the tears... "i don't want to think about this," she says, "i don't want to think about this anymore. it's been six long years on the horizon from you, but you stand in my kitchen, you stand in my kitchen, you stand in my kitchen and your almond eyes whisper every single memory i need..." the trapeze broken at the throat the dizziness of winter she sheds her hestitation like a cloak and opens herself to the sky to break out from a shell, to touch, to drink the shadow of this moment with wings, relent, they fall onto the floor (i don't think we'll hear from her anymore) these days, these dreams unfold and paper envelopes enclose her another moment's suffocation and the wind will be swallowing her whole it's only the sea, the salt, the scent of ocean how lost can one small girl truly be and she wraps the baby in her arms - she wraps the baby in her arms - she wraps her little baby all up in her arms and whispers, "set me free..." reative binge march 2nd, 2000 the words have been flowing like blood since last night. my mind is full of phrases and adjectives being reconfigured and wordsmithed in the arteries of my mind, pulsating like little lost gems, and they won't let me rest. i'm not complaining, not at all...i miss my words when they are not here, and when they return, i delight in decorating the totality of my subconciousness with them like christmas lights, like silver bells, even though it will be spring soon, and could be spring now, what with the weather and all. it's all about words, confusion of words, something safe to get drunk on, but something i can't shake myself out of. they keep composing themselves, interweaving in some cosmic dance, as if the very steps of cell division are happening on the pages in front of me...anaphase, metaphase, telephase...bam. creation. it makes sense, when you think about it, that ideas would be formed in the same manner as any other entity in this universe, but to stop and think - i usually don't. and it's night in my head, though the sun is shining bright (you can thank my nocturnal child for that, these silly things called biological clocks - will mine ever run out?) and i was checking my email, and flipping through my pages, and the scarecrow signed my dreambook (not this one, but the other one) and there is absolutely nothing better i could ever ask for... the scarecrow, following his porpoise. my carnival. i miss my carnival. and i will see them again, this weekend. i will see the world in these next seven days, i'll be recreating genesis, there will be light, and dark, and water, and land, and man, and woman...and it will all be good. i'll be meeting with old friends, and new friends, and people i haven't spoken to in ages, and people i miss incredibly, and people i've needed to meet longer than i can possibly imagine. it will be an adventure - i'm looking forward to it. my written drawl wears thin (is the southern accent apparent through the words?) (silly devon, you don't have a southern accent...) i know only that bits of my soul have been leaking out for the past 12 hours, and i've scampered to catch as much as possible on paper before the typhoon leaves me. i've missed this. i'm not sure what catalyst caused the spark within me. perhaps sometimes one doesn't need a muse at all, one just has to have the right atmosphere. i could have always been crazy, i suppose. i probably am, but at moments like this i simply don't care anymore, because i can create. the starfish is waving now, ever so tentatively. she's becoming a mimic, and it won't be long. sometimes when she's holding on to me with her feet planted firmly on the ground i'll let go of her, and she holds her balance for a second or too before she topples over. she's not supposed to be doing that, yet. but god, i love her. she is by far the most beautiful thing i have ever created. i will never, ever, write anything that lovely. i conquered my tests today, even with my scant amount of studying, and i fumbled through wordsworth without reading the text beforehand. i am an intellectual nemesis today. and i'm writing poems based on goethe's characters. the english major i am. it is a good day. my mind is sleepy, but it doesn't matter. an insane stranger named eric once said that sleep deprivation was the mother of all creativity. he would go weeks without sleep. he arrived spontaneously at the poetry readings in jefferson city, and just as mysteriously he left. but the impact those readings had on my life i still carry with my spirit. him and carl, those mad hippies. i wonder whatever happened to them. my life touches so many, it seems, and they always slip away into the horizon. i wonder whatever happened to caryn smirl? or the boy who used to paint insane markings all over his face? or johnny...where is johnny these days? sometimes paths diverge, sometimes they cross again. gone but not forgotten, though that sounds like a gravestone marker. so spanish calls, i must go back to class. and i will be on the road again, soon. with my starfish in the backseat. and the dean moriarty that is always and forever embedded in my soul.