Ain't it funny how the brain works.

How we build our own little universes. I look around the room and see a mess of wires and noise-making devices. How did I get here?

I don't even look at myself when I shave, really. I just look close enough to not cut myself. I looked at myself closely a couple of weeks ago. That should last me about a year.

My physical appearance does not match up to my mental appearance. Is it just me, or is this going around?

I suppose I just have to accept it. Accept myself.

However, there are some things that I am eventually gonna have to NOT accept:

24 hour days
7 day weeks
8 hour work days
40 hour work weeks
Chicken.

OK, the chicken thing is a ruse.

My dog reminds me on a daily basis that life isn't supposed to be organized, scheduled, rigid. I don't like it, but I need the cash.

Insomnia. Can't fucking sleep, in case you don't know what that's about.

The brain works in mysterious ways. Sometimes, I wish that the brain would just shut the hell up.

Of course, the brain just laughs. It says, "Tastes like chicken."

Fucking brain.

I'd throw some beer on it, but it would just fan the flames.

I will say that it is quiet at this hour. I like it.

My dog likes it.

Screw the rest of you, things are OK here.

November

November wind
A vision of breath
Even the sun is chilled.

Green fading to brown
Crisp, but clean
Thoughts expose lack of will.

Like broken mirror
Fragments streaming
Reckless ending.

Words tearing
Wounded flesh
Sitting in empty room.

Rearranging chairs
Changing seats
Curtains veiling gray.

No fires
No wines
Nothing to say.

Angels
Against the wall
Sing and pray.

No loss
No lies
No more to lose.

Make my way
Up the aisle
Standing before the box.

Stained glass shadows
Benches await
Coughs breaking silence.

Celebrating
Fifty years
Walking out of deserts.

Laughing children
Crying mothers
Restless souls.

Waves beating sand
Soft footsteps
Moving away.

Extended hand
No solace
For the lost.

Howling wind
Blowing dust
From aging bones.

Forgotten
Forgiven
Finally.

A Waking Wind

Awakened from a strange and beautiful dream. By wind.

Pale woman. Red hair. Knew all of my moves. She had been abroad, but was gracing me with her warm presence. I'm pretty sure that she understands the impact of minor chords.

Blowing wind suddenly silent. No rain. There are clouds, though. 3-D clouds. I guess clouds prefer to present themselves in 3-D.

"Old man," he said to his master, "that was a narrow escape! The dogs would have made short work of you, and blame would have fallen on me. As though the gods hadn't done enough already to pester and torment me!"

The past is past, then why does it rear it's beautiful and ugly head again and again?

In the firelight, I brush her hair. It is difficult to determine which is most red. Her hair, or the fire.

What is that noise? The fire, or the wind under the door?

Her hair, spread out like flames, drew me in. I was lost. I wanted to be lost.

I sometimes wonder if my wings will fail me. Will I no longer be able to fly? Or are my wings only good for beating the fire. Red-haired woman, in a white gown. Did I forget to mention the white gown? I am forgotten. And as forgotten, so I would forget.

Woman of silence.
Woman sitting still.
Why can't she sit still?

She tries, but she cannot sit still.

She hovers above me with the knowingest of eyes.

"Put more wood on the fire. I'm not finished yet."

The wind compels me. It drives me. I become driven.

When wrestling with a pale redhead in darkness, and in the daytime, the right time and the right place ain't here.

And I have known her arms. Arms white, pale, and bare. In the slender light of morning, they frighten me. Her smell. Her barely covered breasts. On my pillow. I need a plan. With caressing hands, she pretends to wake me.

She continues to give.

Still the wind moves about my shaky bones. Still, the wind.

I part the curtains, and inhale the darkness.

Bill O'Reilly is a Shit-Eating Maggot

I'm hoping to make his "enemies list."

It's good to have goals.

Later,

AJ Nag