there's this feeling I seem to get every fall, where I find myself trying to stay grounded in reality because nostalgia and fantasy conspire to unhinge me altogether. so I try to write a poem. and I do. but it's not what it should be, and I wonder what exactly is actually going on with my psyche. I imagine alternate realities trailing from my finger tips like ribbonsand wonder how I stay on the right thread. my mind slides from one to another, and I slip through lives like beaded curtains until someone calls my name and I realize I'm doodling explicit and inappropriate rhyming couplets when I'm supposed to be involved in some mind numbing brainstorming on class routines. No, I won't read you the ideas I've come up with. I don't think the wet slippery relationship between snails and waves is appropriate stapler-use protocol, and that's as close as I came to on topic. Except I don't say that stuff, because my brain is already back inside skin, but it slipped away so quickly I'm not evern sure whose or when. so I write incoherent blog post that make no sense but meant to say I love you. all. but I'm too nostalgic to delete anything.