untitled six

"Want takes many forms. Loneliness causes it to turn sharp and slash about with an air of premeditation frightening even to him who needs so to be wanted."

it is curious that when I said i was writing you said oh what and i said this stream a great stream of freely flowing drivel and you said why no one will ever read that better to create a story you can do that but i am a story and dont wish to create another when whoever wrote sat down just to feed another better to feed myself and the others can grab whatever suits their moods i write for me not them and if they wish to join me fine and not, well i never asked em anyway...so why bother writing huh why bother to make sense? dont know perhaps simply to do yes thats it to do for no one but myself thats it the all that matters not children wives the mothers fathers brothers dogs or flowers simply me the matter no one else cause thats all there was in the beginning before we started to cling and create the fabric clung to now so fiercely, yes, this
is must be...certainly not for you a director it appears of traffic. this house is emptying now and time propels me to a shadow land with nothing known a time of north of isolation, lean, will be no more the comfort of the past always surrounded by what was dragged by me from place to place the dishes silver books and wood the past the mother father and that time when a wife was part nope, nope, that will not be in north just me and long ago when no ruts were cut to trap my wheels...am fearful of this time cause age and bruises have weakened me not like long ago but still, still am looking forward cause the past was good consistent not spattered like the now yes, the north is new that isolation beckons it will be good it must no can not say that bad luck nothing must be but what will be for sure...and so i write this now for me no one will ever know or care much less understand the why of this so yes, i dont care to write for others never cared to walk their talk or read their right...if nothing else i move along singly draped only in the father who in my dreams stands crying softly in a dying light.

seven   five   four   three   two   one