idle idyll

the Internet is polluted, decaying, degrading
I am compelled to surf searching
I have no private space
I am hesitant
I am undergoing a spring cleaning of the five aggregates
I’m lost in a maze of personality, religion, and literature
the senses – what are they
tired of the random spattering of words and images (called this “gemshit”)
trying to pretend I’m feeling my way by just watching what it is I like to post
but I’m losing patience for it
want to insist on a resolution
revolution
wanting wanting wanting to revolve
I want my private bubble
I will paint the inside bubble walls with paint
bubble pops (ephemeral)

do you think I could write a sonnet every day
I’m interested in words/images but I have no context
I have no facts, no thoughts, no explications
I can barely visualize what I can barely pay attention to
(it whispers)
I want to make a thing of luminous energy
I want to make a thing that you can wave
I want to make a thing that floats
I want to make something to place on the skin that will yield a demon
the roaring inside her

freak snow squalls