Why?

Why am I writing this? This always happens. As I am living it, the events and sights and sounds around me take on a certain intensity. My mind works in overdrive- creating a moment by moment narrative of it all. And everything is so damn fascinating! So full of weight and significance. In a restaurant, a table of three to my diagonal in the other room- the fourth seat empty, the one that would have masked my whole view. But it allows me to see a young girl crying- and it seems strange for that to be happening right here in the restaurant, on this night, in this town, in my view. And I swear I'm going to write it all down. That it's going to feel great and start to take shape, or do something for me or make something happen.

But writing is tedious and lonesome. And the feeling of loss and regret from not recording thoughts is actually a much more satisfying feeling to harbor than the feeling of brain deadness that occurs after getting it on paper. The confrontation of the writing process demystifies the experience, brings it back down. By mulling it over, you kill what made it special in the first place. Conversely, the neglect of the urge to write leaves all those thoughts fresh and intact, and makes you feel more alive, with that "next time" feeling always nagging and keeping you going.

does the cat recognize that i'm pissing
(when he looks at me- penis in my fingertips,
straight stream of urine from it to the toilet water)?
does he think- that's like what i do,
only different

oh, there was a girl out of place at a crazy intersection.
she came from a nearby business, crossing a nothing landscape strip
that separates one pool of asphalt from another,
stood at the corner.
she tapped her foot just a bit (there had to be some small amount of self consciousness)
then set her eyes to a downcast glance to nowhere
she had her cellphone in her hand, but didn't use it as a crutch
and i felt so glad.
after all,
i don't want to forget the way people used to wait.

today i noticed the jingling of my keys again,
and recalled a time when i feared my level of perceptiveness
would drive me to insanity or death

it is like cartoon sound
floating arcs proceeding towards me in marching succession
and, like curved, pre-fabricated metal,
they fit to my thighs, my calves, the parts of my legs
and stay for an instant before they dissolve into me
and the next one comes.
i've fowled the air
and have serious fears of limb amputation.
it's 5am and i made myself get up and write this

heading easterly now with lunar landscape
and light lifted head
headlights take to strobing
when they fall below the guardrail,
chopped up by its steadfast, sentinel supports.
in the distant darkness on some small country road,
four cars are spaced perfectly apart
and their headlights seem like some magical
mechanical apparatus
and for some reason
i imagine it doomed to become an artifact.

happiness is the words
i read on the page
that warble and flicker,
losing their opacity in random flutters,
blending into the page
all because i just stared briefly into the sun.
they're alive and playing with me
because the whole world does things like this
when it knows you've pulled back some secret fold
in its real world fabric to stop in for a stay in that elusive state
that makes you forget days
and all you ways