i want to say something here,
but all i can think is notebook fodder,
bullshit about stars and the moon
and fields of dandelions reminiscent of
Wordsworthian wanders.

that is all that's running through my head goddamn i want to write about everything i see i want to compose a poem to the trio of porcelain dandies surveying the battlefield of my room where the twin waves of books and clothes erupt from opposite corners i want to write a haiku for every picture my laptop pulls up i want to believe that a sonnet can be formed from how i feel about my abused and neglected and loved loved loved loved loved loved plants felix and elizabeth and i just realized i kind of gave them pretty damned romantic names they could be the hero and heroine of a gaudy godly romance novel harlequin but not the brand the idea the concept of harlequin of dark french clowns and jesters sleeping in cloisters of cathedrals and i know that's not what they did but i believe it is i believe and i know my christmas card conceptions of reality aren't real but sometimes sometimes i think they might be and when that happens i feel like a christmas card may be all i have to tell the world by and all the world is embodied in that one idea that one picture gracing the world.