Tidbits and Shrapnel

My joy does not come from living,
But from thinking about it.
Thoughts of sullen beaches and
Exotic characters - in novels
Thoughts of poetic astrology and
Methods of ideas and intentions.

I turn everything I see into art,
Like a drug addict appreciates the
Subtle, intricate messages of a lava lamp.
The phenomenon is much easier
When, through mild schizophrenia,
Everything that's art
Gets turned into what I see.

People are poetry, books are
Simple paintings. Conversations
And thought and experience are music.
My eyes are slate grey/blue like
New York under the rain, unless-
They're the greenery under a fluorescent
Street lamp at 5. am, the rushing
Woods in a BMW commercial.

My joy is in sitting on a lake
In Minnesota (or Hemingway),
Catching fish with dad.

Because thinking is boring after
You've thought of every thing
In the Universe already that day.
My life is lost in literature, and
Joy will be found in my experiences,
Not my thoughts alone.
Poetry is not
Life.