Relevancy comes in two tones – discretion and impetuousness
Sitting in the muse of my existence
Shadowing the lucrative limelight that surrounds me (I’m not impressed)Cycles swarming
Vast peaches falling
Spilling
Juice
Down
the corridor of my mind
Flowers seem as deceptive
As the breeze simmering through my lips
Blowing…
As if there was a fingertip
Pushing the words
balancing shades
Of sorrow
And the not to mentions
Of tomorrow
Shaking the difference
Of logic and the emotion filled
flagging it up to
A whistle blown…
It’s going to take me time to sit down and admit what I didn’t want 
the wind sings to me through the purple sheer drapes
writing the optimistic primal graffitti subject to change with the wind
why is my landlord talking to me through my window? A lady pushing 70 with bleach blonde Sandra D. hair and makeup compiled to resemble the little clown that hides underneath my bed..I some how wish this were all a fictional character, but of course, in my case – no such luck.
The hours daunt by like a little child running to the Ferris wheel. Moving towards the light permeating through the white pupil – my thoughts, my hand bag, and typewriter in tow. I ask myself if it means anything to see beyond the little black dot in the middle of my eye. And if I’m the only one asking and the only person I’m asking is that little voice inside my head. Wondering if this constitutes as insanity or schizo talk. Nevertheless, I don’t think I’m the only one that has the little voice she talks to when no one is looking (and sometimes people stare). It’s not about questioning motive, but answering in which language do you think? Sifting in and out of sleep I see a dark shadow meandering towards me. The shadow feels somewhat like a little old man hunched over mimicking a bird nesting its spawn. I welcome the bit of awkwardness of this sighting, and do nothing but gaze in the other direction. My crooked smile and the warmth felt as harmless as a baby boy in his crib. I take a deep breath and look back – the dark spot vanishes, and I mutter “danka”.
If you ain’t got the bloody bible call
Jen Juice 