My head’s composing manic poetry. Lines of verse scrawled on the ceiling — merging into a Dali landscape, always dripping away, dribbling over the margins of finality. Compulsive enjambment of my narrative syntax in one raucous unending poem. Each line spilling over the edge of certainty, taking me with it, of what should be the last word, never recognizing where or when a thing should end. Blurred resolutions are my solution when I can’t just walk away, be done with an idea, a love, a moment. Am I addicted to ambiguity? My answer looms in the doorway, ghost of an absent father now dead — who only said I love you when drunk. Who held your hand till it hurt, who didn’t feel the fragility of your bones — or did, and squeezed hard, anyway.
So so freakin awesome! The whole manic poetry thing...and it keeping from sleep...I so get it. Sometimes its like the off swich is just goddamned broken. Fantastic piece!