Here and There

    I sit around a room of blindingly bright boredom and mental frustration. The lights all around reveal nothing to me. I look in the wrong place. The clock tick-tock turns but it is more of the same. The new number does not change anything around me. I sit waiting. Tick-tock. It is still the same. It is still the same. It is still the tick-tock same.

    The light breaks out and circles around the dancing numbers. Spinning and clapping merrily they laugh and roll and play. Bouncing around they roll down the misty stairway leading to the wild-sane void. In they go and outwards they step-step, they step, they step-step into much that is not like all that floats around in particles. They do not lie still; they do not still lie in the unbearable mood that is always nearby. They go from here to there, and they do it because, they do it because, they because they, they they, do they, they do do, they. What was it that I was going to explain, sitting here in the cluttered collection of the dripping trickle-trickle flow from the moving water that gurgles and whirls about and is quite clean because it is clear and because it simply is. It simply was before it was noticed to be so. And simply it will be. I step-look about the middle when I do wish to, when all of me does wish to.

    I sit here and there if I can. Can I let the flow of things be and not tip-tap create a rumble-mess rumble-mess of the unknown, unnamed not how are you fine I am doing well.

    Yes, pretty much as I expected you would wobbily-wobbily wind around the jet-glare of the breezy clouds. They are the nothing that only is a wooly mass of spongy absorbancy and fresh air going-going-gone.

(c) 1993, Matthew K. Coughlin