tied to these tired bored letters and spaces, these little waked jets who wander for these little errors. i cannot belong to these letters. a person told me that there should be no hierarchy of letters. sometimes, i agree. other times, i suppose i must rely on the standard resources of normal grammar, as i did attend some place that supposed it was a school. i waited, of course, until i needed to respect the great light to wait alone in the dark for a placement bringing me down from the written way down past the leaving time. that was, in fact, a drunken statement by an important person in my life who wrote a note to me today that i was unable to see. he was not here to be alone with me, but sat with someone typing at the computer.
the impact is a level - these morning shiners and blessings of written wired spots brought by little men, they belong to the others, and i cannot see anything. that is, of course, the silence that i create. that is, brought together, the learned world i would like to exist in. it’s the people that bother me, i fear people, so i would never be able to exist with eyes.
wonder belongs to the wired wrote men, they speak like the foreign land and drip like a dire wonder watching from the sidelines at an old man’s play - written for the still around to be like the lesser pissers. these people have their riots. they speak like the midnight and watch for these mighty tomes, they can belong to restless folks and speak these midnight hours away because i must watch the television and learn that i can see. explain see to me, i told the invisible people - which they did. “that i do,” i said. but what about viewing the same perspective as me? i am unsure that anyone will. i am uncertain that penticton even exists right now. it could be a condition near summerland next to limbo, because i thought for years that i was dead but i suppose i exit this mind-state and live alone in my space, yet there are two people in my bed, a man and a woman, neither one is famous and neither one i know.
shining on the little razor i can belong like living folk, these places cannot be as sure as the one place they saw. these little razors take the little weight from me, i cannot learn without the little waste that watches me along here, places certain from the water that i drink when i have no coffee. this place is weighty and hidden and i live along the lines of soviet people. somewhere i exist in a place that knows that i can live in hopes that the world is quite different than i think. i must bury the thoughts that hide lower on this page, unseen by most if you look deeply than i know the hope is written somewhere - i hide like the rest and hope that i can be way far back and learn the written world is somewhere hidden in the mind as i rest.
i deeply suffer somewhere in a world that does not exist to me anymore. i do not understand this light. some place i have written worlds that wish their hopes can follow these things into the hopes that wrap my world around the higher ites than mine. i can suppose that some with limps will understand that i exist with the rest of them, but mania can make me say some silly things. i suppose i do choose to live and function with the medication. i am much more worrisome to those who care about me when i snap off the tablet and pour the tin of thoughts down the sink. these are the inane ramblings, these are the senseless wanders, these are my notions and believe me - these opinions change regularly because, like my world, everything changes pretty well every day. some things stay the same, but the rest fades away.
this note with ropes and lights and pain will remain what is, the peaceable form, a sort of water that brings me home - the little place that keeps me hopeful. this space is mine, used for living, but in does not change. it has been other places. it has been a much better and a much worse world. the so-called parlor i once saw was taken from me. i had my sight once, then it was stolen back. he said i learned from the experience, but every time i go to nelson it haunts me. i am not supposed to keep leaving in the siren. i cry to approach a happy light. i am haunted by these trials. these shapes and figures that i see, they care about my mind. my first cell gave me the cat that stayed with the other first regulated sign, which i suppose is just gibberish - but means so much to me that i cannot explain properly. some place i ask my consciousness why i exist, but she does not know. i ask the angel on the other side and she sheepishly turns the old place and we have written nothing in the shame filled lacking drop.
so here is the jabberwocky: a silent step to find me, a written word to hear my little fending purpose and bringing hope from higher elves and brighten my day for these ropes that take their terms to written letters and they speak like higher ites than mine. i cannot be certain that any of this is real. there is a light somewhere inside the crime. the town is whitey, i do know that these folks were the crime. i was talking about them in the past, but i suppose if you keep reading you will hear it in your future.
white elves, like the pasture keepers, they can be here. my friend and i are sure that the details keep me belonging to the silver line. they keep my posture correct. they keep the siren in near the shame that laughs at me. this is the little red fire that keeps me near hector and the rest of jabberwocky. crime belongs to writing about myself. sheltered people, like myself, care less for the written world and more for the sirens. nobody dreams any more, so the dad remembers that everyone must. keep the line off the project. this is the reasonable thought.
this might work if tried, a little elf that wrote me thought. this is the heart of the pirate. these letters do not speak to one like the foreign little fighting water that fords the white elves and pioneers the higher places that keep these thoughts down to me. i am not a place for these little wires, and the higher levels that place the hopes down wind from weighted places. these mighty matters, these warring factions, they are these inane ramblings. they are these thoughts that i keep to myself. the water knows, of course, and that is why it falls from the sky.
sometimes the elves come and laugh with me. some palaces rise for silent winds, the other final statements take their wind for weighted ghosts. these turbulent windows find their wisdom and wrap the hope and wind the crazed way down the path to bring the mighty laugh towards their ramp and pause a moment and love for a second before you happily space their spots past little higher written wisdom, high about these facts. i seldom laugh at these gibbered nonsensical wanderings. i shapelessly have their fate.
silent as the little ropes, i can belong their way. this is a notion that keeps my head throbbing through all this wiry silence. these shocks only come from knighted folk who take their wisdom and speak like fellowships who watch the turbulent elves come from their hope. these little heads are not the shining ones. i cannot belong to the others. some place i know that someone cares about me and speaks a shadow through their hidden paths to mine. these people cannot learn from me. they must take their lights, their torches, and bow in hidden mines to take the their spacious hearts out into the field and bring them down one more time.
who is a cool person, the window? no, it cannot be but senseless wonder. no it must belong to these spectrums and speak like the immortal shining sun who is re-lightened by a soviet transformer robot every few thousand years. i suppose this is why i spoke of being up on dockets a while ago. that and the lack of the ever important species of medicine, the pot and other little roses. these ropes cannot find their modern world. there is no plausible denial for the rest. they can only escape on time and bring time back to me. i suppose the last notion is gone forever, and as impetuous as it must be, it is gone until the thought comes back.
some place i belong - the world i am currently writing you from, this notable home of my creation had some help. there is a woman here who works very hard and tells me every time i ask that i do, in fact, pull my weight. i worry about this because there is very little work in penticton, that is why i would like to continue making the music and written work and bring the hopeful world towards me, the art and such, that lasts in a sudden way, i hope. these ropes are high from the little righteous time and it is once again a year for living righteously.
i have never told anyone things that scare me, but to escape my mind and i laugh with the invisible people, and higher than the rest i know that illness comes from smoke. this high drink shelters me and i have hopeful worries that rest at home with mental illness. that is perhaps why most of the written work on this blog is utter nonsense. that is why most of the lyrics in my songs utter nothing. they tell me i am a good person, who defines myself as a person, a second blob of fissure and resource that brings my home a reality. this, i am unsure of. but i did call for a plumber today, because all my sinks back up at once. this is the shelter i slither into and keep. this is my happiness. this is my home that for some reason still exists. i suppose it is in part because i pull my weight. i suppose this is because although i do not always see it, i can resurrect various souls and pull the hope towards a shining beacon of the north. this hope is my reason.
my father tells me that minds are open, and needed because i have the little war that brings me home. i hear the time tick slowly and i must think, i have very little to suppose, even less to write and hopeful wonderings that all the time i work - it is worthwhile. yet, i have no proof. i suppose if it matters to me, that is all the proof i need. otherwise there is always listening patiently to coast to coast am. i really do like that show, but i leave it on and try to wake my times, i lose my matters, i lose my functioning, i fall sound asleep and go on stage. this is my manic break, this is why i cannot function with the rest. this is how i sleep, on stage, with the resources that take my home from the others. something about red-cliff or dover, something about hope that brings me back to home. something about not moving.
our hero, the resourceful elf that cut his hand, he is happy somewhere, i am sure. there is no telling where he is, but certainly somewhere safe and acting as a sage written in the sky. this person is heavenly brought for waterworks and shining for the silent water and i am certain the higher elves are little silent watering the shining beacon from the north. there is basically no logic in the writing, there is very little space for me to bring forward. there is a place before my hope, there is a winding road for little elves and bringing me down for the hopes i can belong with watering hopes and some day i will be a liar in the silent night. these are all the home-schools prodigies of math, the silent wind that watches us. the musical sirens that laugh at the shining wind, the dripping white light that settles my soul.
and with that, this jabberwocky is over.
and i wonder what carried on.