LOG_ENTRY // 2026-22-09
Potato hatched roof bins crank loud music over the fields to the streets of the city like a megaphone call for quickly finding your lost mind in the drawers in the cabinet you forgot you owned. Remember? The one in the corner that you mistake for a lamp all the time? Exit the house and touch the ground. There’s coins there sometimes. The music plays on. The sky rolls on on it’s film reel slowly motion moves fast the time ticks faster by half a second. You are wide awake now. See this whole mess? Who did that? You? The government? The universal god? Open the tubberwear lid off your sanity. You are not crazy. This always been here under our noses. The earth slow-claps for your realization. The key to the cabinet broke in the lock. The music churns like a winding down music box. The age cracking in it’s gears shows in it’s tune. My knees do that sometimes now. The ache of time and accidents that gnaw away at cartilage until I come face to face with the old woman I’m becoming. The welcome embrace of extra oatmeal and four hundred a month of cheques made out to me by the government telling me I’m too old for anything. Here’s money and shut up grandma. The ache in my hands as I type the angry letter to tell them, I would have told them to fuck off in my younger days.
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LOG_ENTRY // 2026-21-09
Checking out the glass robin egg blue eye cracked like eggshells yoke tears falling like rain
on the ice lake of snow laced banks empty of gold bars and bankrupt vacancies in vaults behind
eyelashes dusting off the years that settle at the corners of your rooms like eye dream dust backed up
hard drives of headlines aging every second the force-fed knowledge you don’t need right now or need to know the money runs out and you have to follow where it goes like a eye rolling down the sidewalk chasing after a dream it never had or known to have but did it once it can’t know because the hard drive is corroded lost memory of dreams and past and what could happen future aching in our bones and teeth that lost how to chew words back and now just ooze from the side of mouths like moths to the screen glow mistaking it all for the moon
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LOG_ENTRY // 2026-20-09
ShhShhShhShh
Shut out the noise. It’s too early in the morning before a coffee where now it’s somehow gone cold due to waiting to wake. The mornings are cool now. When it just seems like a week ago they were too hot. Nothing has a grey scale anymore. Just one or the other. No betweentimes. The hawk watches from the building top across the street. It laughs at us pathetic humans who don’t know the sky. I always write about the sky though. Wanting to be a bird. Wanting to fly into the hum of that blue and grey ozonic rain scent, or honey sun scent world. Though craving quiet, I think I would get none there. Our planes and satellites and other junk could be worse. Sometimes we want what we don’t have, without fully understanding what it could be like. The coffee is like ice. Front porch season isn’t here anymore. It left. I guess it would have been fine if I just drank the coffee when I poured it. Waking up takes longer, the more you sleep in.
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LOG_ENTRY // 2026-19-09
Final tablecloth banquet food broke the jaw bones of the eaters. They become food for our thoughts. How cannibalistic. Rain wash off the wine from our lips. You can’t kiss it away if you tried. Our lips left you behind. Sitting at a table so rusted and torn cloths holding nothing back from the surface.
You drink the fly in the wine. He makes a home of you. You are a fly home now. No other purpose to
be at this banquet. Find another before you become a cave to more insects.
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LOG_ENTRY // 2026-18-09
The dictionary has a small cold today, so we must swallow a clock lozenge to ease the rawness of time lost to our hour clock sands. The hours caught their hooks in our eyes, and the second hand virus burrowed in our throats, making all our words cough up nothing but ink and travel logs of memories we just can't remember, but try to explain. What is a memory in the future but anti-memories. The time just floats by us like a fog. Nothing is remembered any more. Mind disease of the loss of NOWNESS. It's a blur. Whirling winds throwing newspapers one after another in our faces, as we walk down the street trying to enjoy the sunlight. We're all so pale from indoor phone screens. Our dictionaries still coughing on the old shelves with runny words leaking out of the sides like snot. We are infections to them. The lamps are not a substitute for sunlight's warmth.
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LOG_ENTRY // 2026-17-09
Don't take my word for it. We are all going upwards and downwards. Rollercoaster ride. But what becomes of it? History's wheels are turning. What comes will come. We are going into a ball of bouncing chimes played by a child who don't know we're in there. But we will stop eventually. Just hold your breath and hold onto to the bars. Children get tired eventually. Mirrors will break. Luck will turn. The film reel jams and snaps. Something will mend it. It takes time to put in the effort. But your area is your control. Do what you want. Make it a pocket of sanctuary in the whirlwinds from outside. Your oasis. Damage will be done, and brace to fix it. You are in control. Never forget the power of your hands, and your soul. Let the world change. Never change your home.
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LOG_ENTRY // 2026-16-09
That time I got grass in my hair, the humidity hazed over a summer coin, that I could hardly see out of the corner of my eye. You were not there. You were a ghost on the breeze. I felt you beside me picking the hair like a small bird, out of my fringe. Cooing cool of silver bell voiced chirp. The croak of blue frog stones in the water. I wanted to live forever here. Under trees, and the bed of fields. It was the first time I saw such a wide open space. It's been a long time since I have to date. I had the taste of blackberries there. The wild fruit that grew along the side of the fence. Let's be bohemians here. The freedom under the wide sky. The earth, wood and grass smells. The hum of nothing. No cars. No people. Just you and this sky and grass under feet. I was listening to a radio as I was sitting at a café, which played a radio on the windowsill I was seated by. It was playing a song that I knew but forgot. I spilled pen ink all over my journal in excitement. This was what a memory looked like. This is what nostalgia on paper is. Painting with words.
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LOG_ENTRY // 2026-15-09
I crossed the finish line that was marked by the mirror self looking back at me crashing into it with welcoming arms. We merge in two flip worlds wondering where to go. The blond hair of sun caught in our throats as we laugh and choke like two old friends, who are opposite but the same where it counts. The grass sinks us to our knees as we know the names of each dandelion. What happened to all the butter cups in the world? They were everywhere when we were children? I've not seen one in years, I said to I. How do we know we like butter? Then the clay sought our hands to play one final time. Creating ourselves in it. We play god with ourselves. These little icons of clay. Put them on the ground and let them run away. They will find a way home. They just have to go through it, like we did. Bye-bye, au revoir little ones. The night will be long and the days longer, but you will get home. They'll look everywhere in the world for home. I said to I. I know. They'll soon remember where it is though. I said to I back. We always knew, we didn't want to admit we did. I said back to I Eye the setting sun. The day is closing. Mend the mirror and return to ourselves.
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LOG_ENTRY // 2026-14-09
coffee jitter chatter coffee shop box of paper back room gossip of the day when the road traps go avoided you want to brag about your skills, and the aches in bones are icing on top of life's sweet moments to teach us that we can't always have our cake and eat it too. In dim bullet shots at hallway lightbulbs gone black eventually blanking out pages leaving the uncertainty of words our eyes don't want to hear for the moment because we want peace there. Like BEFORE TIMES kind of peace where life had just enough silence on the radio that you thought the station was off-air, or the mundane stories that you would say, my god, it must be a slow news day. If there is a god above, please let me live there again in the past in the future where we have an abundance of slow news and living again.
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LOG_ENTRY // 2026-13-09
We could be a beautiful merge of swirling energies. Lost thoughts will be remembered upon touch and the beauty of two humans merging like icecream melts on hot concrete in summer blaze. You are blazing out of control wild animal running through a burning forest, adapting until it becomes evolved to a fire animal igniting everything, and me, and the page I write on. Until I splash into your inferno until your fire can’t catch it’s breath to roar anymore. The cool down calms the blaze, until it breathes a breathless language of quenched drought and morning birds sing on the black branches.
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LOG_ENTRY // 2026-12-09
Remember snake bites do happen just in zigzag patterns on the floor of your foot skin gauze it up honey. You adapt to the venom soon enough. The world is full of it. Move on. Always forward facing. It’s leather jacket season. Nothing will touch you even if they dared. Glass window reflecting their side fears as you pass. Rumble their earth. This is YOUR time now. The floating fish stars carry on the dark rotation screen as clockwork gears keep time in seconds. The music box half worn out still sings out anyway. The world continues. Not matter what happens. Walk through the noise with your headphone worlds. Nothing worth hearing in the inane chatter anyway. The bomb could fall. But you’ll look badass if it does at least. Just take it with the knowledge knowing, you will rock anything coming at you. Hold your head up. Face it and glow away into the atmosphere with open arms. Anger is pointless when you only hurt yourself in the end. The troops could be in the streets, but you still have music, art, and poetry. Let their anger cannibalize each other. Loose yourself in the arms of a song.
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LOG_ENTRY // 2026-11-09
Wow this is how you flow down the water of the concrete drain jungle heat humid and blackness around nighttime feasting air on all our bodies doors that shut out and keep in or let out lights out on and off blinking building eyes distance between us all but together in one mind we all work this way robots can't take that from us souls can't be replicated push the button and get nothing more than a smile and a string of words that make very little sense like this flow of consciousness waiting for a clock to turn to tell me it's done but not now we go forwards always wanting to put one word foot in front of the other to prepare to create something that maybe ten will read.
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