sentimental as she

Aha! The day is an ambulant capture, a walking paradise and not a failure as Katy might say. She? Aha, the rolling rolling randomness sleeps during another class, Geography, summer school. Hills. Climates. What a collection of cheap (yet positive) reinforcement. A building of plumes for the material projects. Smokestacks, me? I'm plumage over and over again, the cold side of the moon... over and above the belt buckle that twists in a reversible gold. I'm not so sure of what metals to make, those that sing and whittle away at time or the waves of a harbour in a distant unvisited land. A country? "I've been there," Katy might say. Oh-la-la... Okay, I have lost the life-raft and the anchor, and anything that preserves the galloping hand. Would you prefer to dream about the steamship and the crane that unloads its' hermitage-like cargo... Would you like another person's story modified by starch and shelves of cold jam? Here goes something quizzical, Katy might say...

Reached what i thought was home finally
threw my logic into the bedding of one's self,
my head doing the rest of the resting,
finally an ally? A dream resembling the pillar
and door-sign push. after that, home is not quite
home and i find a roof upon my head,
a future so... someplace in the present
i find myself wanting to contain this tenderness,
this, oh what is it called -- a feeling maybe
but if nobody ever thinks like you do
does that mean you will never fit in?
alone again
my mind lives alone...


Okay so that is what Matty (not Katy) would call dreadful. Awful. Barfatious. Spitting it out I return to reality... and the day is less glittery now: the hokus pokus of passwords and profiles seems to gild the clouds that bless this aerodromatic setting. This droning cognizance. I'm awake, aha, and Katy is a caption forgotten, a time being that never returns...