There's a Genius in the Walls

IF WALLS COULD TALK . . .

.

.

.

There is a genius in these walls, did you know that?

A genius in the stalls—

Something like a throwback.

—

But now we must go back, and back, back...

I used to live in a room that had three walls,

Door displaced,

Like a shoulder—

No, my knee—which was dislocated,

Working that warehouse.

Brain finally located...

Connected to spine I had outgrown,

Then reassembled.

Found my backbone,

Fingers brushing spine to spine, the bones of books.

Reassess my situation.

Is this equation right?

Am I?

Do I die...

Outside this room?

——

Travelled roads,

Dabbled alone.

I found the genius outside a so-called home,

Thinking maybe it's not there anymore.

Ghost...

Calling to my ghost.

Different shades for each—

Sweet season/ing/s—

An aura that glows;

Then fades out

In the hallway.

I have to go,

I say (privately).

———

I was scared at first,

Though not a first.

But the genius isn't attached like a limb.

It's a spirit, it is soul...

It came with me.

I came knocking once I'd gone away.

Are you there?

Took a minute, but there they were.

And other muses would come and go.

Flowing out of me,

Life, hell, heartache.

Why do you look at me that way?

I say to myself in the mirror:

"Growing pains."

Evolution is mandatory.

If not, you'll be left spinning in orbit.

Debris...

No direction.

Land in a laboratory.

Jupiter.

Don't be stupid now.

Experimentation is not allowed here.

They don't have experience to begin with.

We're all a subject.

Study, test, fuck with.

Don't mind your head.

————

Anyway,

I found those words to be true.

It's not about who.

Not about where.

There is no why.

I will find the words.

Rather, the genius will always find me.

I could be overseas,

I could be on my knees,

I could be Nowhere.

It may take time.

That's the damned thing about life,

Isn't it?

Clocks, waiting rooms—

The waiting game of it all.

—————

The thing in the walls,

Does it talk back?

Oh, yes.

But not quite.

I've been listening and questioning,

Writing down the whispers within the cracks always...

In all ways.

It doesn't matter, even, how this all started.

That voice is mine, it's yours—if you want it—all things all at once.

All consuming.

It will always answer back.

I'm not sitting here talking to walls,

Making up some conversation

For ruse, entertainment.

I talk to myself all the time—

We have a gas, myself and I.

The walls do talk back, you must know.

They talk to me—are me—

Repeat.

——————

Rinsing hair.

Cycles.

Bleach.

Seasons.

Retreat...

Vacation

On layaway.

Layovers.

Hotels.

Flying fucking hurts my ears,

Hurts my head.

I can't write there.

The walls are too broad,

Too small.

Fly away like everyone I know...

I'm everyone.

I'm anyone—

But no, that isn't so.

I think you must confuse me for you confuse yourself.

Silly rabbit,

Go down the hole.

You talkin' to me?

I just got back from there.

Your turn.

Heads rolling.

Queen gone white.

Red in my cheeks,

Smirk on the side,

Rolling to the back of my eyes.

And repeat...

———————

We didn't have to go so far back.

It's all a continuum.

See your past laid out behind you,

Present—before you—

What will happen in a second, up to you.

50/50.

Chance, choice and...

Inner child.

How do you talk to yourself,

Little genius?

See the correlation.

It's now,

It's back then.

It's NOW.

All determines—what next?

——————

Somebody somewhere—here or there—said history never repeats itself, though sometimes it rhymes.

As my mind...

Never a repeat, perhaps much recycled, while it works in riddles.

Twisting, churning, turning on its side.

I don't need anyone to understand nor comprehend.

Our attention spans are kept as much as we are, and are capable of.

Whatever that means, right?

Exactly.

So keep to yourself and figure your meaning of life out.

The genius never fades, only time—

Hah! How mundane.

Well, that's fine.

So am I.

Now, anyway.

For now

...in the walls!

—————

Hear the sounds.

Lengths

Of my fucking brain.

Moving, in pain.

Outgrown this place.

Moved away.

Still going insane.

Not trying to fade.

I'm full of colour on each page.

Black ink filling my veins.

Exploded inside your mouth...

————

Laugh-out-loud.

Fucking great.

Not so genius, are you, now?

And am I okay?

———

Ancestors, talking to ourselves;

The genius is past/present/future.

It's me.

I'm talking to myself.

——

Today is February 9th.

Started February 6th.

Most of this written February 7th.

Today is

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Yesterday.