if . . .

Voices scramble thoughts all over the forehead Like a kool aid rash from hair dying. What can you tell from fallen locks Collected and wrapped in prayer flags Storied at the feet of marriage storks? Will they take on some meaning? The silly looks, smiles and smirks reveal nothing. A black toque hides, The altar carefully kept to honor Nothing less than a life of sand and ash. I am tired, beloved, of opening my heart To the want of eyes, Vibrating fully into empty space Marking time. I rub the darkness alone, here, under the cracking plaster of the cold.  :: Note :: ... tired ... 

I am lost in a foreign city. Usually the city is  in a state of ruin. Though I meet people from my long ago past am unable to find my way & never make it to the airport. The panic wakes me up. My university degree is revoked as it is discovered I neglected to hand in a required essay. My car is broken into and ransacked. I'm mortally sick unable to die. :: Note :: ... after a four year absence Oblivio : Stories and such by Michael Barrish returns ...  in the early days of blogging before twitter & facebook and the whole notion of social media he was a favourite ... his quirky humour & wit, clean & minimal look with what I believed to be a deeper sense of purpose inspired me  ...  the reason I love a good rss reader is a subscription may lie dormant for years & suddenly come to life ... as in the past   Four Recurring Dreams   inspired this post of mine ... I missed you Michael ...  much like the etymology o...