idleness is blessed work

everything by recognition terms 

feels blunt.

had to go into a mindset 

to feel separate from.

always nude inside of clothes 

but project as if being human 

is apparel. 

say lots of lines that are scripted

but most of meaning 

is really just alibis. 

ask others, 

to mirror the truth in me.

language is a form of leakage. 

all of say is really homing pigeons, 

losing their way.

could live on the tones 

from other peoples' voices.

so much of curiosity 

is spent on sensory input.

time is spent 

on keeping the abandoned bed sheets warm.

often wonder why sight gets to overrule 

what's heard.

have looked at spillage 

as unappreciated art.

have thought of cars on freeways 

as ballpoint pens,

all tracing the road with ink of intent 

yet wandering.

find it preposterous, 

being a person meeting another.

what human act 

would end the whole separate-from game?

never have played tag 

where everyone is it, 

but want to.

what if caution was really the wind 

yet still disguised?

if faith was on a pogo stick, 

it would be more evident.

so what does a mirror do 

when it's all by its stoic self?

how do I come to know 

about the brain activity of wonder?

have a chatty-Kathy for a mind.

it is so inward of me, 

to just passively watch,

as if idleness is blessed work, 

done in silence . . .