Toggle, Rasputin, Toggle!

Moneta free association writing:

pawnbroker broken pawns silly little songs singing things in the dead of night; soft whispers go unheard for miles and miles in the moonlight three sings three signs soft things there are madmen and there are sanemen and there are those who have far too little sleep; up and at 'em, go! we lose only what we find when we stop looking for it. often times there is truth in the madness that we write; oftentimes there is poetry in the rosy prose of lurid unmasked and unasked professionals; toggle, rasputin, toggle! if the russian empire had fewer switches, there would have been fewer problems, perhaps, perhaps, perchance; these things are not what they seem to be sometimes these things are not what they are; what they are are words, words, words, not fishmongery nor whores, but words, sluttish, lovely words; a million dollars for them, each shining and golden, shining and golden; i have no need for thought when i have fingers singing songs on percussive keystrokes, strokes, brush strokes canoe strokes; crew team meanderings wanderings lost; lost again, unfound; there is no honesty among fishmongers, monger monger, codger like rasputin was? is? do we even know the ways of losing ourselves? do we even know?

three blind mice watch moonlight through half lidded eyes; there is no surprise in this, no wisdom to be lost or gathered or got in this, nothing at all; no sleep leads to dreaming even in the waking, when things are given for the taking, the rhyming, the chiming; there is moonlight on the snow and someone is crying, weeping, sobbing; for what we do not know, cannot know shall not know, ever, never,
know.

flugelhorn
cryptogram
bankruptcy
mythologer
cantankerous

light in the meaning of the darkness of the being of the truth of the matter being what it is and was and will be; jeanettel, whose name i never spell correctly, gets of to a late start; this is not a race, one must remember; this is not a race. this is something greater; something closer to being true, truth;

stop. reverse. go. sally sells seashells by the seashore; by the shore the horseshoe crabs (grabs sea shells by teh sea shore) are mating, dating, deliberating while the sea gulls (by the sea shore) wait for them to overturn (turn over, over whelmed, I'm whelmed over) so they can feast on the soft, fleshy underbellies of stupid crustacean neo-paleolithic (insert clever geologist phrase here) creatures.

thump thump thump goes the radiator; hiss hiss hiss it goes, as well; snakes and dogs barking, snarking, filling the quiet space with angered mutters. The heat in this room is growling, snarling, scowling; it wants out, it wants in, it wants to drive away the cold but in doing so also drives away the quiet.

Like creatures in the walls, the sounds bounce back and forth and hum to one another, communicating in ways we will never understand. There are mice in these walls; they come up through the holes in the floorboards to peck at our trash, our left-behinds, our leavings. They cannot ask for anything more- that warmth, those scraps. They live, they spawn, they die- like salmon, without the streams, and the decomposing livers.

(Salmon are freshwater fish only when they are born; out to sea they go, for seven year stretches of life, but then they return home, to the freshwater deathtraps from which they emerged. Their bodies cannot stand the lack of salt, the new bacteria, the new/old environment of their once-womb; they return to the spawning beds to lay their eggs, then die, livers and gall bladders and internal organs eating themselves to keep them alive long enough to reproduce. They hover in the rapids, three deep, stacked in the water, swimming backwards, away from the saltsea that would welcome them, away from safety and towards their doom.)

That was a pleasant interlude, don't you think? The pace is slower now; this is not a race. We can keep this up, no feat of endurance here, please, we are not heroes, not in any way, shape, and/or form; we can keep this up for hours, don't you think? The walls have gone silent, and all is silent save for the typing scritching screaming of words being born.

It's longer now from where we started; there need be no sense in this. I am not worrying; it is not in my nature to worry, though the walls have grown still beneath their breathing and the quiet threatens to break us all in two. there is no moonlight now; it was an illusion, bent over the backs of those who came before.

all work and no play makes me a dull girl; a dull gyre, winding falcon; we should stop channelling shakespeare and think on sleep; this is no seance, after all.