I Know

Sometimes, I just don't know things.
I see things I want to see, pretty people and situations and hats that I can't pull off and it's all just gone, really.
It's gone because it's happened and happened is gone, and no matter how distressed your jeans are and how grainy your film is it won't ever be happening.
Sometimes when I just don't know things I feel like the big thick tubes going out from my heart just get all tangled up like yarn or string or a shoe lace, something or another.
I read things that hit me harder than life and I wonder why I'm here and wish my here was there, just without the T.
The same day dreams have sailed around my head for years and as that S on the end of year shows something longer the less it seems like they'll be anything but.
Most times, I just don't know things.
Ill fitting and worse prepared for most of it; I get nervous if my belt clashes and I'm a long way from anything worth. My sentences are too not simple and I dislike it most the time, but i can't slim them and trim them; I breed American sentences.
Most times I find my own ideas out there without even looking that hard and it makes me want to cry from happy and sadness; it's nice to not be alone in your process, it's nice to know you're an explorer.
I want to scream pop-art and my words flash pink to yellow, then carve a book into a sculpture and post pictures on the internet to be stumbled upon late at night and late in the afternoon or morning, or even evening.
Is everything pre-posed? Or am I just that bad at the effortlessness of everything?
Are the greatest thoughts thought? Or we are just typical. Everyone wants more and I don't much believe in destiny; just in stating the obvious.
I wished I'd climbed more trees as a child and maybe broken my arm; if there's something I wanted move than anything as a child it was a broken arm. I went to the hospital and all I got is this crooked nose.
I would enjoy a stark room but am too messy to accommodate; I would enjoy a bath with feet but only have a shower.
There is no prowess for a paintbrush in my fingers, no dexterity for music, but I do have tiny mouths at the end of each tip.
My beard isn't full and I believe I'm ready to be in love again.
Where will the kids find the wonder in our generation? We paint no ladies on our planes and we know the dangers of cigarettes. Was the Jazz Age called the Jazz Age during the Jazz Age? Was that timeless 40's look timeless in the 40's? How much of what happened is just clever marketing and how much of your own memory is just of the pictures in your grandma's photo album?
I miss everything I never and ever met and have only heard a song or two of every band you've ever heard, but not enough to form an opinion.
Time is just clocks and that ow in nostalgia.
This is all i know.