innervation

Night

Peopled-out and tired tonight with gladly shell-bound head and heart transforming in chrysalis, post-crawl and pre-flutter. Shell-bound and bundled up but ears and windows open for smelling roses both sweet dead and blooming while pulsing strong and slow inside and not sad, not mad, not at all broken but healing and that’s just it, that’s all—day done and closed for general business and removed, I am, several steps they’d tell me if they could but they can’t because I’m back inside and they’re nowhere near to be found and even farther from finding me when I’m like this, back in the back like this doing end of day daydreaming and easy stock-taking, quietly readying for little more than sleep and waking, dreaming through both and not at present interested in edits and polymorphism, not even capable, not ready to cut thoughts down to speech and send them out for storefront sale to meet and greet whoever you, them, they, whatever, who.

And it’s fine, just like that, it’s fine.

So away I stay and in tonight, thinking, somehow without lament, too tired for that, too away-content and peaceful, just thinking, feet up and thinking: Always some thoughts to cut, aren’t there, always touches to up, senses to trim and prune down to neat boxy hedges lining neat boxy sidewalks for neat boxy people and then crazy full wholeness can’t happen unless it’s under partial spoken guise and face fronts like storefronts and then that’s just completely mashed, isn’t it, a mash-up of incompletes and product-pieces and nomenclature for standing back behind beside fully naughty complex and tricky sticky clear true nature, thinking true full nature showings are maybe not by necessity more honest than the mashes and reductions but by virtue, yes, perhaps, and if nothing else at least fewer and farther between, for sure, and don’t you just love it for being too much, true full nature amply, comfortably too much for rooms full of other hearts and minds doing their heart and mind mingles and singing self-sale jingles.

Please don’t take me rude, you, who, they, whoever, but it’s just the mood I’m not in for their real and outwards, that’s all, and I can’t make myself care to make a roomful of whoevers join me in my mood inwards when all I need is one full one to fill it—me—up with this one full mood, for one, maybe plus one and that’s it, nothing more needed, complex and tricky sticky clear true nature heeded and those, there, in here, are some nighttime thoughts, full-feeling.

Day

That’s a lot of not, I feel, and not’s not what I mean, not what’s felt, so here’s what is, some, just like the night but without the nots and put penned typed out here in summary somehow without reduction: Transition and metamorphosis, a shutting down for opening up, disinclined to overanalyze, overinclined to express, swaddled and hanging upside down and self-contained for a cycle of change and recuperation, wondering what it’s like to regenerate as all-in-one with iridescent, delicate wings of full unfolding while the words come angling in edgewise, angled to the sun, warming, thinking, warming, thinking I know, but caring only to see.

The sky was mostly cotton this morning when I wrote this, cotton seen through dirty windows so I split the shell and crawled out and went outside and looked up and said I missed you in more ways than one and as I was looking up and saying that I saw a white and grey cat perched on a third-storey brick ledge with the window almost closed behind it and thought yes, like that, just like that, on the ledge first, and the wings soon, soon to unfold in freefall.

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