I’ve been obsessed with putting the best form forward,
dragging every dreg of meaning.
lonely lines of code on the semi-global network,
called cradled and clutched from browser to browser.
endless erratic changes.
so unlike a page…
where each ink-etch falls in cadence.
and maybe it’s that the meaning doesn’t mean anything,
and maybe it doesn’t mean anything.
I can’t tell you how tired I am.
how many long lewd mornings drag–
–me half-formed from my cradle.
every dreg of meaning.
those spring squalls seem so short,
from the greener side of time,
whipping branches, whirling leaves in restless rustles,
light-
-ning strikes,
and perceived poignant meaning.
and maybe it’s that the meaning doesn’t mean anything,
and maybe it doesn’t mean a thing.
Not long ago,
you told me I was filled with such kindness
or caring,
or compassion,
or something … maybe I don’t remember,
you told me–
I’d told you I wanted such storms,
and why I didn’t actually wish too hard.
and today we talked of twisters and storm-wishing trees,
of gaping holes,
and today we talked.
and maybe it’s that the meaning doesn’t mean anything,
and maybe it doesn’t mean a thing,
but there are shakes in my nerves,
‘n it’s like that there’s a breakdown brewin’ off to the west,
much as I’d like–
It gets me thinking.
I’ve been obsessed with putting my best form forward.
I just want you to see me.
and maybe it doesn’t mean a thing,
but I just want you to see me.
doesn’t mean a thing.
