January

January Two Thousand and Twelve was born out of Hexaemer; I wrote in the aftermath of the longest night. I wrote on benches in marble halls, on the hood of a car, on an old bar stool, and as music danced around me. I wrote Blindly. I wrote well.

I remember cats and musketeers and films that should have meant more. I read of the Holocaust, of flying ships. Of spindlebugs. I experienced deadness in live music, and life in dead music. Fats Waller sang with me in an empty car.

I found peace by a green and stagnant pool. I hit a ball with a mallet. I watched some old friends leave the library. I went book-catching at every chance I had. I hid in a car park.
I was decent, and indecent. I watched The Muppets in a half-empty theatre.

I nurtured silence between the bookshelves. I read on high walls and in hospital halls. I ate an apple for lunch.
I found a much, much better place to sit.
I gave a terrible apology, and am glad I still have a chance to give a better one. I chopped fake wood for the hell of it.

I screamed at myself to stop and went ahead with something important, for the heaven in it, and because I am stronger than that voice.










I read someone torn and bleeding openly. I read someone pulling at their mask. I toyed with physics, I faced insomnia. I fell asleep, and felt ill at ease upon waking. I danced to rhythms of rap and realism. I lost my taste for taste. I made Alex smile. I learnt an omnibus about vocabulary.

I tore off a good deal of skin, and wrapped it around something that needed it more. I failed to explain differences. I had Ideas, and they fell prey to entropy. I'm watching Tin Man and anime on another long night.

I'm grasping at lost things, and finding others.