1-3 An Evening in Room 205 / Align / Be Nice, Be Funny
6:43 pm. The slow trend. I remember a seat by the window and the rain become a mist, trying to get a grip, trying to gather up the parts that I missed. The details, the depths of me, that’s right, that’s what I’d forget. Swung from the ceilings - Express yourself. The stories, a moth in a blade of grass and a cord around my neck. Express yourself. That puddle on the floor, its where I spilled out. What trick did you pull to get me out? Buried myself. This time, when I come back - all smiles. I remember a few phrases that I got hooked on - “Was I trick enough to be tricked?” “Was I pull enough to be pulled?” Out from similar roads, traced the exact route. Your impulse - took the one thing that I owned. I know my role - be nice, be funny. When the world starts cracking, starts skipping - Express yourself. The docks. The couples with their dogs - that’s what I’ll remember. That and your crumbling laughter. What do lovers talk about? Am I happy in love? Am I stuck in the details? A moth caught in a blade of grass, a worm stuck in a small clump of dirt. Burrowed itself in the back of my skull - the small notch just behind the earlobe, perched there with the assorted details, the stories. I spoke to myself from there. I said, “You traipse along similar roads, you can trace the exact route. One day you’ll get caught in a small crack and plummet through. You want to be caught up in the big things but box yourself in with the small. Your impulse is to align - so don’t align.” Tripped up beneath the tracks with the spirits and insects. Re-emerge - I’ve grown sour with envy. I’ve grown heavy and sluggish with anger. I’ve grown quiet. The worm in the ear. Followed the slow trend towards silence. Obsolete, abandoned, leftover. Debris, buried myself under dirt and insects. The extra of three - what do they talk about? Tending toward silence on the one hand - and on the other an easy drift was likely. What would I remember? The moth in a blade of grass, a puddle on the floor, a mist rain, a worm in a clump of dirt, abandoned houses, straight streets, the office. And your crumbling laughter. I’ve grown sour, and sluggish. “Your impulse is to align - so don’t align. Grow quiet.” Under cover of night, scan them for what’s living: the abandoned houses, the cargo of trains. Spirits and insects. Saw a herd streaming out and running with heads bowed, in the small cracks, fell through, beneath the tracks and pulled back out. Emerged again, but held back that I had buried myself. When I speak the words have a long way to travel in order to spill out, overwhelmed by the process. Spill out with details, the depths of me. What did I forget? The hundreds scanned, from the seat on my ear, speak to me - remind me, describe the contours of the apartment, and the office, and the rest of it. I never had the talent for it - you’ll tell the stories when I’m obsolete. Re-engage. This time, when I come back, remember what they told you. “Be nice, be funny, just have a good time.” Buried itself in the back of my skull. What did I forget? The days, the conversations don’t add up the same. “Be nice, be funny.” Auto-suggestion. “Each and every day, in each and every way, I’m getting better.”

4 Stay Engaged
This is SY rhythm. The doors and the discs spinning. Knocked flat by your movements. Get lost, don’t move, don’t think, get lost, get out, slow down. When the current grew slow so that I hated even the sound of it. Be polite, say please. Even if only going through the motions. Even if long-winded waits. What you cast out will come back. Tell the people you appreciate just that - tell them, “I appreciate you.” And when the sun goes down, “Goodnight, sweet dreams.” Stay engaged. You’ll be proven wrong from time to time, it’ll be good for you.
The bird in the bushes, perched on a seat in my ear, arrived a half-hour late and brushed the back of my neck. Brooked the conflict. Still hooked on the same phrases, which were a landslide. Ran them all straight through and over. Was the outdoors sick? Were my surroundings rotten? Were my insides garbled?
...Smoker’s lot. The new innovation was a light-up screen. Taught me how to connect, and I told it all my secrets. Exposure, what lurked behind? Spat out from my jaws, my teeth become pearls. Precious secrets. Patience. The notches. The windowpanes become crosses. I kindled a relationship to crumbling laughter. Slow down.

5-7 Have You Done Good Things? / The Wrench / Time And I
The thread wound and unwound. Time, slow and composed. Back to start, dive and repeat, questions- “Are you responsible? Are you accountable? Have you spared a thought for you friends? Do they think of you?” I’ve been filled up with myself, covered in hand-me-down rot. “Did you have a lot to say? Have you waited your turn? Have you been patient?” Overwhelmed by the process in my gut, curled up. “Did you have unrecognized talent?” Spin myself silly, convinced I was right. “Have you done good things? Do you do things good?” Enraptured more in fact by the process than by the result. “What do you resent? Are there things about others that you resent?” The world cracking and skipping on repeat. “Has it been a long wait? Have you been patient?” The syndrome. “Are you in love? Are you feeling well? Have you taken care of yourself?” Prayer of thanks for a few healthy years. “Have you done good things? Do you do things good?” No. Laugh it off, back to start. The wrench when pulled that held its breath and released a torrential downpour for wayward feet. Landslide of time. Enclosed in a wicket, the basket that encapsulates me. I’m curled up in a thread, slowly unwound. My fingertips are just beyond the pale. A seething ecstasy torn asunder - that went beyond the reach. Devil select me - I want to be agreeable to everyone that I meet. I want to be proven wrong. I want to be more than agreeable. I want to be shook and grabbed. I want to burst aflame into a catherine wheel and spin myself silly. Prayers on fire. The syndrome - dive, repeat. Prayer of thanks for composure. The syndrome, the process, the downpour: One line, a fist drawn/tone ride/I’m in danger/Lift up, now I’m back at it/Left side, heave/How’d you get so filled up with yourself/Back to start, laugh it off/Were you convinced you were right/One line, a fist drawn/tone ride/I’m in danger/Lift up, now I’m back at it/Left side, heave/Promo campaign/How’d I get so filled up with myself, so it all became a promo campaign/Back to start, laugh it off - a prayer of thanks for composure. A prayer of thanks for a few healthy years. Have you shown patience? Time and I switched places, and it became a basket, and I became the air, enclosed in a wicket. It was turned upside down and reversed - dive, repeat. I tried to put a wall around each second, because I found that I was overwhelmed by the process in my gut, the process of speaking with detail. I was overwhelmed by this grasping, this longing for a heart. Seconds became massive, and the basket from which my minutes were woven became colossal. Wrenched, I curled up and let it swallow me whole. Time and I switched places, so now I’ve got to grow to fill it up. When I came back out and there was no one around, not even the spirits and insects, I was a lone tower, and saw from above how the whole thread was wound. So when I came back down I knew just how this grasping for your heart would turn out. I want to be shook and grabbed by colossal hands. I want to be proven wrong. I want to be agreeable, I want to listen. Prayer of thanks for composure. The syndrome- saw the world start cracking and skipping. It made me hate everything, and everyone. Time and I switched places and now I have to grow to fill it. I know that there is a light to shine through, through the small cracks, to be pulled out, and I won’t close my eyes to it. But I’ve got to grow.