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Despite saying I was going to bed, I didn’t, and this small piece resulted.

Patterns 3

This is what come of being unable to compose, you know, real music.

• CartoonChurch.com: Church marketing
  How very, very true.
  (tags: church humour religion)

Morose wave lapping at my feet, I
listen: a low groaning stretched over
the water:

you enter the harbor, a great ship,
majestically soot-covered,
limping as a hull limps.

Like a spy, you know all the channels.
At the shore, silent now, quickly now,
the bastard skeletons dive:

I feel the ripples,
toes in the water.

You are
nearby.

I will set the bones in the valley
of my palm, until the joint snaps
back into place.
I will knit your skin to its
former glory, if you

let my fingers wield the needle
and thread like a finely-tuned
instrument,

until you are whole,
and wholly mine.

I fed the sheaf of paper into the shredder. I watched as it was pulled inexorably towards its disassembly, but felt no grief at the sight. From my desk I grabbed another. It, too, would be consumed.

I didn’t recover flight
after my last brilliant
attempt.

Nor will I, if that’s
them meaning of this word,
“Free”.

Are there things meant
to bind ones feet to the ground?

Maybe. This cage is
so beautiful, and
so full of gravity.

What is it that
you want?
What’s keeping
you from it?

No, not the thing
itself.
Not that.

It turns out I had underestimated our network drive usage: a dialogue box popped up telling me the disk was full. Impossible! I thought. But it was full. So I took some archived files off and searched for my co-workers MP3s. There were some MP3s on the network drive. But not for long.

I began to get frustrated with the note. No matter where I placed it, the sound was off. Or the position was off. Or both. It eventually maddened me to the point of deciding to watch an episode of The West Wing to cool off.

In the confused babble of words
there is a kernel of silence:
the core that is not spoken of,
nor imagined.

The obscenity of speaking
and being the subject of speech
about to cease:
at the beginning,
in a half-thought
that doesn’t end.