Missed communications. Miss communication. Lowside, bridge club and a small set of stairs. Turn the tv on. Unlock the locks and make damn sure your clear with whatever manner it might be that you set your fence posts. Make sure you dig the holes at forty inches or everything you’ve done will be undone when the frost climbs and claws it’s way back to the surface in the Spring.
Text, copy, handwriting. Words on paper or words on a screen. It doesn’t make much difference insofar as to how the letters are assembled or delivered if there isn’t a fundamental understanding as to the intention with which they were amassed. If one hand is signaling one thing and the other hand another, the receiver has no choice but to be confused. It’s mixed signals from the sun to the moon even though there is no more heartfelt kindness to be found in either the left or the right because they’re both too full to hold what they already have. Love and understanding and empathy.
Maybe it’s a train ride? Maybe it’s a separation of thought? Maybe there is no segue? Maybe the inside of that rail car has no walls and there is no way in and no way out? Maybe the old man in the deerskin coat shivering to stay warm by the dying fire has no more place in this world? Maybe the homeless aren’t homeless? Maybe our understanding of the understood is all wrong and backwards? Maybe the question is to not question? An entire paragraph?
Write another.
Set the pen down and go outside. Clean the yard and mow the lawn and put everything in it’s place. This is how the creativity is born. This is how things fall together and thoughts come pouring in. The creation is in the routine organization and the formality of finding homes for things. Especially when the homes for things are neat and tidy and separated by size and shape and color and alphabetized. Straighten up and fold the clothes and stuff them inside the duffel bag. Pick the pen back up and smash it.