I always to try to know in which direction I’m traveling.
East, west, north, etc.
Some days the noises in your head block everything.
And you think you’re touching all directions.
Four dimensional, almost.
The thoughts are scattered.
And spread out. And loud.
Then suddenly they stop.
Like a needle is carelessly taken off the record.
Loud, a screech.
That’s what you hear.
It was like you traveled east and north and west all in 30 seconds.
So you look for your book, and you can’t find it.
Where is Tennessee?
I think I lost him.
And you think of the words inside.
And you know someone is bruised.
So, you get the bleus.
And you try to focus
and, your kitchen sink is dirty.
So you do the dishes.
But then, bubbles.
The book is the collected poems of Tennessee Williams.