Original article posted by Olorle:

If I miss anything from living in the dorms, it’s the hum of my computer through my keyboard. The slight buzz of keys against finger-tips jostling thoughts into the computer and out wherever they needed to go. Now I just listen to the fan and wonder how much it would cost to get the noise canceller or to switch over to a fanless system.

Entity of noise
swarms beyond thought, sensation
abandoned. Forgot.

The semester is nearly over and the biggest disaster seems to be the exhaustion built from anticipation of events that never spiralled completely out of control. Still, it feels like something lurks on the horizon. Perhaps not disaster, but at least a begining. Which only comes after an ending.

Coil. Pressure builds.
Lost moments time devours
before memory.

A sequence, a set of ideas shouting for release, demand my attention. Sometimes without giving me words to match. Everything else in school fades. Hoops layed out, half ignored as the future glitters, a pretty bauble just beyond. Still, things aren’t all bad. Things really tend towards good. Towards fate subtly bumping things into saving me. A test dropped. An assignment removed. A job opening. A few snares, minor compared to victories.

Furies drive fate home,
stake to heart. Misplaced organ.
Wizards trick grown old.

Meaning falters. Direction fades. The clock ticks down slowly to morning. Another dawn. At some point, I think I had a point. But then again, maybe not. Or maybe the meaning is just hidden amidst the jumbled thoughts of a tired pooka. I tired poet so lost in the words and images and breaks in his head that even his news post ended up something else.

Dream. Silence. Moment
beyond thought. Nirvana found,
rejected for life.

Orginal comments:

Nickname: -soma-
Re: Cascading Words
Poor pooka. I too am drained. My, how I waste time when I am supposed to be working on my poems. Yesterday I spent a good part of the day here in the writing center working on, um, my poetry. I sought distractions. No one emailed me. I have two poems that are almost nonexistant. They need a whole lot of something but I am empty. Instead, I sign on to sixmilevillage. No one new has posted, or Rodney must still be asleep. 8:47…everyone is still asleep. Last night’s dreams were a surge of emotions. Stress. I have too many things going on right now. Even your poetry is creaping its way into my dreams. Hey you, stay out of my dreams! That’s soma’s soma time. This morning is cold, but as the day wastes away, it will get increasingly hot until the writing center is a smoldering hades of bitchy writing tutors and stressed out English students. Then it will be time for my shift.