Airborne now and climbing, just skimming the white whispy tops all blue above and grounds of browns below and that’s when the thoughts begin to form and separate, moving and still, careful and reckless, me and you, rooted in our creativity, our eyes full of our strange language, keeping.

* * *

Thought one. Learning things of all shapes and sizes and sounds and such these days, these days reshaped and capsized, and the biggest, loudest one’s that love uses pitchforks and dust devils to puncture and obscure—arrows launched from chubby little cherubim for mild pin-pricking are for innocuous folkloristics because they’re too impersonal but make a good safe story of false fatals for appropriation and application, I’m told, while the real true mad deep crazy consuming obsessive devouring adjective adverb adjective thing is up close with nothing to hide behind or block out viscerals of words defied and feels deific. How do I know?

because I’m walking around thrice-pierced, body mind spirit electric skewered by a sun sea drenched trident and insides all stirred and swirling and hurling around words because you told me in close up and right there terms that I didn’t miss my dream, and I knew you knew and knew you were right when you said neither did you

That’s what I just finished scrawling in thick black invisible marker on the smooth plastic beside the airplane window calling it flight art for any lucky fairy tale fortune reader who might have this seat on the next run and all I can think as I look down remembering how I used to hope the air holds up while wishing now maybe it wouldn’t since it’s all that’s between us, and growing, and maybe I could just come falling back to you is yes the dream and come true did you and there goes thought two.

* * *

Seen sky-wise the white arrow and seven-letter name on the shrubby morning-scorched hillside points back to the from whence I just came—thought three—and the serendipity I think says of course that’s what I see right now, of course I happened to look, of course I chose this seat, of course everything’s a sign and stolen—taken—though it’s not cause I’m looking but cause I’m seeing and thinking it’s only ever chem trails and cacti till I reach you, that’s all.

* * *

Thought four says you like the tops of clouds but I’m the one climbing up and away and how dare I see without you but all I have to do is tell and you’ll see with me. I hate to forget even the smallest said, looked, did things cause they did things and for a second I close my eyes to stop seeing outwards and think it’s ok I won’t look since the future’s inside and present, nowhere else, I hear, etched inside and here for transference but then I open my eyes and the world out around is blurred and undone like the painter just stopped and I guess that’s thought six but don’t count on it cause I can’t when I’m trying to remember.

* * *

Thought seven sounds like chimes, harp, and strings and electronic atmosphere like some ondes Martenot thick-layered and arranged and, speaking of trying, I try to think what those thought words sound like but I don’t want to try to say it because that’s trying too much and too much trying is like conveyance when what we need and already are is transfer so I think you just go right on take me, take it all and mix it back up again in your way and that makes me think thought eight:

saying “your way” says it might be the wing suit I’m wearing that they notice in spite of my face’s conveys and I wonder what it is my face conveys when seen that way, swinging back to seven, chimes, harp, and strings and I wonder how many of those of mine you’ve touched because when I remember these things it’s as if I can feel each and every one reverb with what’s ours and it’s your you that makes me happen, makes me fill up and go blank.

* * *

Nine thoughts to get back to the one behind them all and that’s that really I really only write this like this because I like this like this and I happen and come out like this for you and it’s really just my best way of reaching despite this distance like this, grasping oddities and immediacies and tossing them back to you like a knotted heartstring for holding and pulling and finding the way home, these thoughts forming and separating and coming back together again because in a plain few simple everyday words I just left and I already miss you.

2 thoughts on “composed

    1. I’m pleased to know I can provide some distraction, especially from pain, though I’m sorry that’s what you’re enduring. As cliché has that unmagical way of making us all feel worse, I’ll simply say I’m grateful for any medicinal purposes and positive side effects of the stuff I do.

      p.s.- I hope you’re writing, and if not, that you will be again soon


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About mischa

I write things about stuff, and sometimes stuff about things. Depends on the day.