Freewrite Entries Week 7

Entry 1:
Chuck asks me on Monday night before the weekly sacrifice
of pineapple and a few wouldabeen wasted hours: Do you think
they meant nothing is real or no-thing is real? pointing
at the misplaced letters of my zip up. and i don't know
whether i care or not, not that i don't care but caring is beside
all points. your opinion isn't worth shit, that's why everyone
gets one. point is, there isn't one. if i had one,
it would be good though, clean and smart like everything
that my everything says, i write it all down- one hundred days
of this waiting and waiting onward or outward
spillage of what you didn't tell me and what she did, first day
of this new year, told me things i can't tell you about books
and sidewalk conversation- but i'm getting too real right about now.
What I want to say is nothing, for you to read my mind,
lick the sugarplums in my head, chase out the raging elephants
that have been crushing the gray matter since i was six,
walk with me by singing froth dancing by shore lines
and you work your way into my everything. there's nothing
i do well except what i do for you, about you, and still:
there is no you. just things you left, things you leave,
things you say and give to me, your no-thing. you're nothing.
and we are the only thing that's real.

Entry 2:
I looked up "wander" in a thesaurus and got
hopscotch. aberrate, amble, cruise, deviate,
drift, float, follow one's nose, globe-trot,
ramble, straggle, stray, trek, vagabond, walk the tracks
and an ad for sparkling bright some kind some shit
that will take the mustard stain right out of these jeans.
but. hopscotch? a word i've never used to wander
with, i think you're wrong .dom as don't you,
in this game, know exactly where you're going?
number 4 or 8, forward three steps to a pink chalked
square, here today gone tomorrow forever from a hose
or summer rain, the same rain that locked us
into the white truck, marshmallows in a game of chubby bunny
squashed you up to me, a match made in hell, set that summer
and the next two or three on fire, hot as georgia
asphalt burning everything we touched. i remember
in first grade knowing i should move forward
when my turn came, take to the numbered squares,
hop in one way or any to another box and if you fall
you just start over. but when his mind wandered
there was no hopscotch. there was only me without a hose
to erase him.