XI

The ladder is an illusion, but the rungs are a reality. Even from the nosebleeds I could see your toothy smile; Do you believe me? No, I don't have super vision, not even 20/20, (in fact, lately I've experienced the sensation of what I am self-diagnosing as 'astigmatism,' and I slip into and out of living a blurred existence.) Wow, 11:11 lasted longer than one minute tonight. I do not love when that happens because I feel as though I have to prolong my wish for the whole longer-than-usual minute and I end up adding unnecessary clauses to my trusty, constant hopes. I am in a perpetual state of hope. I hope you believe what I am telling you about the ladder... it just doesn't exist. But the rungs! The rungs, Oh, they intentionally separate the steps we take to get to the top- But I am on stage and you are in the nosebleeds, every single damn day, until one.

X

Sometimes when I stare into the tummy of your guitar I envision myself diving straight down the rabbit hole into another dimension where I could find you, really. Really if I could crawl around in there I bet I could find your friends, too, guitar picks wanting what I want and slipping into your abyss, changing your sound. 'Sounds like quite the adventure, Alice,' you'd say to me, unaware that I was already so far gone. Gone are pieces of plastic you used to play for/to people... no, into. Into the circle that's partially responsible for the seductive sound you create to control the crowd, we go willingly - what is wrong with this picture? Picture the capacity for change, a single sliver of six-string silence. Silence you know not of, out of choice.

IX: semi-found

Blank stares bring me beyond where I should have gone.
When I explore hidden coasts from my living room chair I can still hear your voice. I don't just tolerate your diction, I revel in it.
In our advanced theories we were forward looking.
We said we'd work more, earn more, live more, have more fun. But we didn't - We did some of those things but not all because everyone always has to make sacrifices.
I chose to stare directly at space.
You went to work while I went to the moon. I curled up in a crater and power napped. When I woke up I no longer tolerated anyone's words but my own. Instead I listened intently to my professor, the newscaster, my friendly waitress, my flight attendant (who also happens to be my yoga instructor). I am patient in my attempts to translate the words of experience and knowledge of Other into
my own loose language, all the while making sure it makes perfect nonsense.

VIII

Someone should write a play about this because it actually happens in real life.

VII

Sometimes when I look at old writings of mine I re-write them or tinker out some images if I feel like it. When I re-read the poem that was here I did not feel. So now it's gone.