Dear rain-soaked old man,
A bizarre trajectory it is, your timing.
I was sitting with my head in my hands
looking at these dirty toes, the bare ground
underneath, the sun doing no harm and
having not done any good and out
of the blue in the lightest shade comes you.
The delight and silent slithering of your
words crawled up my feet. They did.
But I restored my act of painting those
three twigs-yellow, they shall be wind
chimes I told myself an hour ago. And
half painted, half begun, half way done-
I broke them twigs. I threw the smoked butt
and lungs half in heart laughed at us both.
I guess we have all been lost somewhere
in these dull,commercial smells and sighs.
So kathmandu's recent rain and days have
caught you in their midst? Oslo still pounds
beneath me.You spoke of rain, the cold, the
white beneath the blue while I have tales of
maybe sixteen tears I shed today thinking
about home, the one that the world induced.
Home where the heart was, home where the
wifi don't work, home where the dogs lay, home
where garbage man comes with a whistling
finesse; yet when I am there I lay trapped in
the dust, the sound of horns, the lack of
light, the lack of trams and lack of sci-fi sights.
Khai, I am in a strange turn right now. To
know what to do, where to be, how to be
and why it has to be is there- knowledge
is in abundance, but I just can't manage my
way around my own self. It is so very, very
strange - to be your own enemy and not fight.
So today when I hate myself oh so very
much, in so many ways I read your words
and think- yes, darkness can be shared.
Remember, you mustn't breeze through
these clinical lines and smite. I did not intend
to rhyme but I happen sometimes.
Bombastic Soda Freak