Friday, December 26, 2014

cheers. (throwback.)

September 19, 2011 at 10:36pm

[it's not a real mystery, see

i can't carry that casually,

and actually, i can't quite care]

i cant speak for everyone, but the time has already

come and gone when i grew sick

and tired of promises becoming loose ends

to be snipped and tied back and forgotten

amidst layers and layers of extra armor,

yours and mine, leather and feathers and

heavy metal plates. sagging, weighing,

dragging, pulling all the threads of fate




seams. . . .

we've all already grown weary with whispering,

laden with secrets and hinting at these very things,

that we won't take much more, but we're met with

smiling eyes as we raise our glasses to toast to the next


cheers to our loose change.

cheers to our ability to discern.

cheers to learning from our mistakes, time and time again.

cheers to ripping it all




seams . . .

and maybe we've all grown to love the way the patterns change,

the loose shapes vaguely reassembling into likenesses we can

understand and befriend, into caricatures of lovers and exes

and partners, to make amends, only to tear it all down again

and again with the lies we'd known we'd all tell since we started.

we should've made ourselves clearer. we should have sacrificed.

at least our cups are full.

cheers to spilling our fortune and fame.

cheers to the waste.

cheers to laughing it up and lying in the face of fate.


surviving the mind (throwback.)

surviving the mind
October 25, 2010 at 12:45am

i burned a crude effigy today,

in the lightless afternoon

no one attended, though to be fair

i admit it to not quite be the affair i'd intended.

i carried my concerns there with me, after shopping,

after strolling through the store and the park and eleven

miles of shit i've seen any other day i've been out,

near home.

i gripped them as though i'd never let them go,

though the purpose of taking them outside was to lose them,

lose myself without them amidst the greying daylight,

somewhere between the dim midday and the darkening afternoon,

drawing and dragging the cloak over the sun into the abyssal dusk.

i admit these, my concerns, to be very near to my only friends,

and as the near-colorless sun sets on us, we can weep together,

in darkness, and in cold, alone, where no one can see us and our sores,

where there is no hope of a new light to shine on us, just a copy of a copy

of one greyscale day after another.

again and again,

restless repetition

into the end.

i clutch them close, crushed quietly into my chest,

pressed there against the ribs, a rigid but hollow shell,

my husk.

because they are the only ones that can replace what it seems

i've been missing, what i've lost, or forgotten,

or never learned

since birth,

something that would mean we explain the journey down the aisles

between the bar stools.

something that would explain away the time it takes me to wind through

the tangles in your hair

before you've left.

before you go.

i carried all my concerns with me today to the fire,

to arrange them into the shape i imagine my heart to be,

to burn.

to watch it tremble, to watch it fade and wither

into ash

into my hands, after you you've left.

it's what we do.

again and again,

day after day.

tomorrow, i'll be leaving you all at home

Friday, December 19, 2014

west texas sun. (throwback)

west texas sun
January 17, 2011 at 11:13pm

if the sun dies out

if we're in the face

of the setting sun

the dying southern star

when it subsides, silently

when it glides into tonight forever,

i'll still be wishing i could be moving the warmth with you

along the longer fencelines

and lazy texas roads

wishing i could move the warmth with you

next to you.

wishing i could hold this long distance call

down every interstate i screamed nights upon nights

upon nights

into the open air for you

even before i'd ever seen your face

before i'd ever even heard your name.

now, it lines the horizons i tried to change for so long

the dying, breathing effervescence

of a light i'd come to sway with in the evening

when there was spring in the air

or a faded light i'd salute when my breath

was cold enough to hold up my face

to take the air and break, in

the leaving light of winter

the leaving light of always, nevertheless.

we're falling away from the holiday in this glow,

wishing, wandering, wondering,

where you are

so i could move this warmth to you

instead of sketching along brick walls

off gravel roads, drawing our graves

above the Texas dust to blow away

the West Texas Sun

the West Texas Sun

that setting sun that hitches down the interstate with us

never completely leaving us behind

what a heavy vanity to overcome

when we're taking this journey

cause i saw the sky

in you.

wolf. (throoooowback.)

July 28, 2010 at 7:47pm

was it from crying nights upon nights,
howling at the moon?
stretched out onto forelimbs, taloned fingers scraping ruddy earth
i still cried
though, i tried in all the ways not to perceive the fur
around me, consuming me, and the hunger
the way it quiets when you're nearer
and rages when i'm right with you.
still crying.

or, perhaps it was the moon i missed and
i was just howling for you
for lost quieting glances and strokes across
what used to be my brow
and is now a furled and confused distortion
of dancing, restless eyes and overhanging fur
above glistening fangs, tiny daggers held quietly inside lips
pursed because, after all
still crying.

so when im out again, when i can perhaps
stand the daylight, without you walking me
leash or no
without you by my side,
i'll listen

who was really crying.


Saturday, December 13, 2014

Wednesday, December 10, 2014

the light (throwback.)

the light
April 18, 2012 at 9:09pm

[you're always the first to say

the light you seek isn't there anymore.

your friends are paces away,

but they might as well just

be faces

in the dark.]

"it's getting late," she says, painting a face on a vacant stare glaring back at her from her bedroom mirror.

she frames her favorite parts and leaves the rest, alone, to the imagination.

she wanders the line her mind has drawn between her window and the door; one to the hall and one, ten stories to the street below. she lingers at the window, wondering, warmed. is there any other mode of egress?

she bears her heels down into the carpet, into her own footprints she knows would take her somewhere if she could ever leave her room.

she watches colors trace her hands, her strands of hair, as she turns in place.

"the way the glass is cut," she says.

and the lines she can retrace on her floor, on her face.

"the way the glass can cut," she says.

she lies across her rumpled sheets, drifting into deeper thought in the crystalline light of fusion crawling prismatically through the air, dreaming of solar radiation; of altitudes, and hypoxia.

asleep again,

and her dreams are always the same,

 in them,

she steels herself against rushing air,

in them, she is always falling.

when most people dream of falling,

they never hit the ground.

she does.

awake again, and late, and she's braced to feel the cool night air on her painted face. she crosses again to her portal

to the world, and leans out to breathe it in.

"just to feel the night," she says.

Tuesday, December 9, 2014

30/30/30 Part 2

         Haha, it looks like it's going to be more difficult with a really strange schedule to accomplish this task - So maybe the thirty lists aren't going to be as consecutive as I'd originally intended, but don't despair - no, never - hold out for posterity. We're going to get this thing done, alright?

In my previous list post, I opted out of the tangle of possible intellectual property webs and just listed the names of songs - Here, I'll try to provide you with a link to the item, where practicable. Here goes.

       Here are 30 awesome short stories I think would be worth your time to read, even if you only read a couple, one a day, or whatever. In no particular order:

That's 30!

Friday, December 5, 2014

30/30/30, Part One.

   So, in effort to divert my mind from my traditional mental ramblings here, I have decided on a new project:
I'm going to make 30 lists of 30 things in 30 days. I apologize in advance to you OCD and math-oriented types, I really don't give a fuck that today is the 5th; December has 31 days anyways.

My first list is 30 songs that I think have pretty sweetasss breakdowns. Before you music-theory circlejerk participants get your panties in a bunch, I'm talking about an interlude, a cool bridge, just any sort of break or diversion from the regular structure of the song.
I'm including times for some, where I feel like the overall context of the song is unimportant. Otherwise, you know, listen to the fucking song and nod your head and shit. It's fun.
Here it goes, in no particular order:

  • 18 Visions - Vanity (around the 3:00 mark)
  • Thrice - To Awake and Avenge the Dead (around 2:15)
  • Zao - Free the Three (around 2:38 ... it's strange)
  • Norma Jean - Memphis Will be Laid to Waste (The whole song is a fucking breakdown.)
  • Blood Brothers - Love Rhymes with Hideous Car Wreck (Short enough where you can find it yourself.)
  • Heavy Heavy Low Low - Kids, Kids, Kids (The vocalist is insane, once again, short enough.)
  • Lamb of God - Vigil (Just listen.)
  • Pantera - Great Southern Trendkill (
  • Pantera - Domination (Double up here. These are not even my favorite Pantera songs, but shit!)
  • Red Fang - Prehistoric Dog (I don't know what it is about this one. Right at 2:22)
  • The Sword - Chronomancer I: Hubris (Do yourself a favor and check out the whole song before you judge the break. It feeds into an outro and they blend, but who gives a rat fuck?)
  • The Refused - Deadly Rhythm (Serious injustice if you don't give this one a through-listen.)
  • At the Drive-In - Catacombs (Bizarre, visceral, with some kind of easy magical groove.)
  • Chiodos - One Day, All Women Will Become Monsters - (Something about these high-pitched motherfuckers.)
  • Human Abstract - Mea Culpa (Uhm, why did they even bother with the first half of this song?)
  • Deftones - Root (Simple, hard, and tasty.)
  • Faith No More - Just a Man (Okay, maybe it's just fanboyism, but something about Mike Patton carrying out this weird bridge thing just does it. It starts around 3:00)
  • Poison the Well - Nerdy (Haha, this takes me back.)
  • Protest the Hero - (So many time changes, it's hard to pick out, but this one is whimsical as fuck!)
  • HORSE the Band - Murder (Listen through, also whimsical. MURDER)
  • letlive. - homeless jazz (interesting.)
  • Mastodon - The Wolf is Loose (Oh sweet fuck.)
  • Small Brown Bike - My Own Disaster 
  • Minus the Bear - Hey Wanna Throw Up, Get Me Naked
  • Hot Water Music - Jack of All Trades (Goodbye!)
  • Holly Springs Disaster - Showdown
  • Glassjaw - Piano
  • Dillinger Escape Plan - Room full of Eyes
  • Slayer - Raining Blood (Had to pay homage.)
  • Kvelertak - Blodtorst
If you have any cool breakdowns in mind, put them in the comments!

Wednesday, November 26, 2014

A night in the den of lions.

[the sharp pain is over and it's dog days.
we cling to the heat of the night.]

I was sure one day that I'd quit dreaming. I'd grow out of thoughts of things intangible that words can't illustrate, but like any day among many days, 
I've been known to be wrong.

Some days, I pray for the cacophany of ravens and nightengales; the shrill and staccato chirruping of the mockingbird. 

Sometimes the silence sounds so much more soothing, and sometimes the silence is all we have. But who wishes the weight of words away?

I knew there would be a time when being pictorial was boring and I'd wear my heart on my sleeve and my head wouldn't hang like hallowed kings and hallway chandeliers.

I knew even then that I couldn't stand in the way of any of my proclivities.

And I watch the summer pushing and trudging onward in a blaze of heat to burn a doorway through into another Indian Summer. 

It's a long wait here to sit and watch the summer die, but the boredom is exquisite.

I was sure one day I'd be tempered by drink and noise and long nights under open lights and the walls couldn't contain me.

But my temperance now is me. It feels so personal, and I don't comprehend the gravity of anything.

Our intemperance now is permanent, it's personal, and we don't grasp the singularity of anything.

I was sure one day I'd grow out of my skin and into some one else, and we'd share weeks and words and pretend we had the things we need. 

Libertines in life and in love.

I knew there would be a time when my breath for lectures would grow short and my tolerance would be unconditional. 

And now if I had one, I'd raise a glass to toast providence, as though that's what really put it in my hand.

I was sure one day that all the me's I made would fade, that I'd lie and say I never dreamed of anything else.

I was so sure.

Last summer, I left like I got my way.

I was sure the roads were connected as I read the map aloud, punctuated by nerves (in shadows) and streetlights. 

It was a long and winding way to watch the treeline die from inside the truck.

Last summer, it was a dark grey sky. 

The thunderous chests of ancient ancestors pronounced long vowels and struck with blazing fingers, calling out to us to rejoin the intervention,
and we reached out with our closed eyes, half-awake in fear beneath the torrents of the summer thunderstorms.

When we got behind the wheel, we were so sure that we were bridging the distance instead of creating it.

We all fall victim to fallacies under one false auspice or another.

We traced all the roads from what was home out to the east coast, and then all the way west again.

Coast to coast.

Before we knew it, it was autumn love, we were grouped up and regrouping, but you can't see, love.

You can't tell what kind of life you've lived 'til today/

I can't see where anyone's roamed. 

At least, if I was never true to you, I stayed true to us. 

I can't see where anyone's touched.

At least, if I lied to you, I stayed true to us.

I can't see here.

I was sure the roads were connected. I was sure I could see you from afar.

Still, I'm lost and forgotten with our lies, love.

I can't see where anyone would say that we're not to blame.

I was so sure.

If I had one, I'd raise a glass to you love, as though you're what really put it in my hand.

I was sure one day that you'd be the one to make me fade, and I'd lie and say I never dreamed of anything else.

I was so sure.


Tuesday, November 25, 2014

twentysomething. (throwback)

September 20, 2013 at 8:45pm

I don't want this to be about being young and dumb, and having our whole lives ahead of us.

I don't want it to be about succumbing to things like self indulgence and naive love, but when you take away all the things that affect those of our age, what are you left with? Is it vast, and empty, flat and dead?

Does it even feel?

Is it fleeting and indecisive like the Salton Sea, never really knowing when to be full and when to be a vast empty space, littered and punctuated with dead tree trunks like the hide of some great game beast, bristling with broken spears and primitive weapons?

Will we lie there on our beds of dust and sand as it slips from under us, sliding through the glass bottleneck of time, leaving us in the hollow ribcage of some great desert?

But, since I've become numb, I'm finding more and more that none of us know a thing about love.

How does it feel?

At night, I thank my lucky stars that mine is unrequited.

I thank the night for the falling light and the ghosts of distant stars that drift and vacillate like motes of some glowing dust.

And then burn up.

I thank the night for the cool clutch of coins in my pocket, and for the liquid that coats my heart.

"To fortune," and this bravado we both know I can't hold.

But waking up finds me mostly alive and well, and wide-eyed from my dreams.

But I don't want this to be about dreams and lively idealism, back in times when our dreams had potential.

I don't want it to be about succumbing to things like ego and narcissism, even when all we have is ourselves.

If you take away the great distance to our hearts, what's left of our generation?

I'd feel bad for us.

I'd feel

I'd feel anything at all, if I could.

Friday, November 21, 2014

the quiet (throwback)

...the quiet...
April 19, 2009 at 10:22pm

[We are woven into the earth,
a seamless portrait of all the
collected echelons of history,
and memory. ]

...the quiet...

We are few quiet bones and breath, wrought with heartstrings and reverberating with utterances of a time not unlike ours, only before anyone ever admitted to be a child of a love that never tells.

"They tell me it's just a myth," she says, a long finger alternatively tempting the rims of separate glasses of iced tea and peach schnapps. She had a blue corduroy jacket draped over the back of her chair. I remained speechless. Her eyes, blue, but not unlike the fluorescent white of light. This night, the gravity of everything had tinted them slightly grey.

When we spoke, we spoke in practiced turns. We sang a funeral procession of verbs and predicates into the smoky air, swirling with motes of silent breath that once desired to be words. We only broke the silence to let anyone else that might be listening know that we were still in the room, somewhere.

The air crackled with the density of silence, the sheer weight of clarity birthing our new thoughts. Our new, bristling clarion.

And my eyes, my mind, my heart. They trailed over collarbones and jawlines, folds, curls and tresses of hair, glossy but lost in the color of the pale light, followed arms to fingers, to glass, back up to teeth and quiet lips.

We were alone. Alone under a million beams of moonlight. Under a million beautiful reflected faces of the sun, come to witness us in our surrender. To the quiet, the warmth of the silence in us both. The only place we could think out everything we'd never tell one another.

Everything we'd always felt.

She steepled her fingers over an ever-emptier glass, inhaled a breath so subtly as to speak, but the words. We both knew the words would never cross her lips. I passed a hand over the table, running my fingers along its edge, the honest things weaving a spell across the tattered, fraying ends.

In the night, the faintly lighted place, we were ghosts. Picture-reel effigies. Silent, colorless bodies. But the movement meant everything. Ever moving. Ever breathing. Together. In the calm. The rhythmic sounds of us, these husks housing hearts of ours.

Maybe, the sound was my own. Or maybe, the sound was two.

There's no way of knowing, under the starless sky. Children of a love that never tells.

In this, our silence.

at the gates of the bayou.

[My worries, I'll tear my fucking eyes out.
Where are we going,
 all the way?
We'll thumb the razorwire and praise our
Awkward situation.
Don't say I didn't warn you.]

We're learning a little bit more, day by day, how to forget, not forgive,
Well, so fucking what if we're killing ourselves? 
That never gave us reason before, nothing will give us reason now,
Now that we're not really even here at all. 

Dining, paging, texting, art, waits, lies.
And they're forming scars across us,
Lying across duvets and pillows, laughing,
Eating, calling, waving, paint, lines, lies.

We're the last kind, we fade a little bit more each day into regression,
Well so what if we're killing ourselves?
Despite what we say, anyway, we're all dead in some kind of way.
Well, farewell, burn in this barrio, panic in all our eyes,
But the abrupt punctuation of gunshots,
It never stopped us before,
It's critical now, your life's about to change course, the wave

all the waves are overwhelming
forming scars across us
digging graves as shallow as our breath
echoes of us
we vanquish our fears.
echoes of us.

Thursday, November 20, 2014

au revoir.

[Ask for me tomorrow, and you will find me a vague and distant man.
Oh please, just last. ]

I know the heart's not meant to move like this, over the sharp topography of the map, but the razorlines of travel are so telling. Our smiles and our tears, they scale from base to rapier summit with reckless abandon, reaching up and dragging zenith nails across rayleigh blue, across thunderheads and the angry words of long-dead spirits of what may have been our ancestors.
I'm surprised by this more often than you know, you know, I'm in love and I laugh about it.
What, exactly, do you take me for?
I will give up the gun, lay down my knife, this love thing, I never could quite knack it.
I know I'm confusing, and it may sound trite, but tell me what to do and I'll do it.
I've got saying yes down to a science. I just want you to tell me where to be.

I know I've been irresponsible with things like language and romanticism, but I just want you to tell me about yourself.
If I carried this weight out to the edge with me, well I'd already be a memory,
Like you - And maybe I'm losing more of it every day, but how would I ever hear it go?

I know that love's not supposed to go like this, on one side, but I couldn't bear the collision, so I . . .
I opened up the door for you to leave as soon as you arrived. I left this thing, this love, dying on the floor,
abandoned. I don't know exactly how to tell you, but it's a mistake every night there's a body that's not yours, it's a lie in every smile I mirror that's not yours, that's not yours, it isn't enough.
It isn't even enough.
I'm in love and I lie about it.
I know it's confusing, and it may sound stupid, but tell me who to be, and I'll be me.
I'm flexible, and the thing about changing to be a better man, I couldn't quite knack it.
I've got this thing down to a science, just tell me when you want me to show up.

I know I've been naive with things like mutuality and exchange, but I can hear the door open and close.
Can you tell me about yourself?
I lied, you know.
I'll never forget what we've tried to put down for weeks now,
Like you - And maybe I'm losing more and more of you ever day, but ...
How would you ever know?
How could you know?

One wind, one win, one distant shout of thunder,
One quiet sigh of wind through these hills,
And I'm your passenger.
Tell me where to go.

How could you know?

Friday, November 14, 2014

for thine is...

[After this, I promise I'll get away from the keyboard.]

I'm becoming (think) more inclined, in time, to let these things just pass me by. Pass the vodka.
It doesn't add up, the pieces don't fit, but we don't aspire for things that make sense, we don't strive
for cohesion and peace and love, and all of the utopian bullshit from the 60's dreamscapes. We don't have to wonder where the fuck any of it went, we all just grew up, we shed out our universal naivete (sorry guys)
and settled for things like media infusion, and news, and headlines, and confirmation bias. We're more dangerous with knowledge now than we've ever been (ok enough, we're absolutely filled with lies and misnomers and falsified information) . .. . we're not trying hard enough to know eachother.
Where the fuck have we all been?

Tonight's your night, I fucking swear. Nobody cares if you forgot how to pray or care, for thine is the kingdom,
Your freedom, your privilege is your power, your glory is your apathy, forever and ever.
Friday night's your fucking night for sinning, you can genuflect your sins away on Saturday,
For thy kingdom is between the sheets, for thine is kingdom,
And the power, the power is wrapped around your throat,
And the glory, the glory, oh oh oh ... fuck,

It'll never be enough, will it? In time, we'll find that the divine is not quite what we had in mind. In hand,
pass us the bottle. And we'll run out of confessions, we'll run out of time and fathers to whom we'll mention
Any kind of remorse (at our intervention) - We'll swear further oaths and silence, but we're going down,
We're going down for atheism and lust and all the hedonistic shit of our age. We don't have to wonder why ours are the doomed, we never have to grow up, we just fuck and drink and die and shed these mortal husks and settle for cliches like leaving beautiful corpses (ok enough, we've absolutely derailed on our sins and following the parts we imagined to be our hearts . . . .. . we're not trying hard enough to know ourselves.)
Where the fuck have we all been?

Tonight's our night for fucking, I swear,
Tonight's our fucking night, I swear.
For thine is the kingdom
and the power
and the glory


[ Oh, you thought I'd stay silent.  I rarely, if ever, have nothing to say.]

Winter holidays to smash your routine, a sinking and cutting fate only the kids can appreciate.
The frosty morning air against my blood is what motivates me. 
I listen in to my own complicity, I listen in to revert to simplicity,
But I am captive, I confess, to complexity and sin.

Are we held captive, my friend?
Are we sinking in,
Let that liquid swim, let it fill you,
Can you imagine a better fate?
There's no other fate than sinking,
sinking, drowning.

December mornings to leverage your defeat, hiding out away from your destiny,
The promise of sleep the only thing motivating.
You listen in for you inclusion, it's not here, it's not here,
We're captive, we confess, to this contrived delusion.

My friend, we're held captive,
We're sinking in
Let the liquid swim, let it fill your lungs.
There's no better fate than,
There's no other fate than,
This suffocation
There's no different fate from drowning.

we lie.

[I know my actions can be confusing sometimes, but it's not often I get to express the best parts of what I mean.]

This sojourn has no deadline, but it has an end.
I imagine I won't see you there.
These bones and blood we're made of won't be chronicled in the end.
You and I know both know I wish you well, but don't take me for a well-wisher.
These words aren't right.
They're not the legend you're looking for.
I don't intend for them to win you over.
I don't even expect you to relate.

It's about all i can take.
I smile when I see your face again and again -
Am I effusive? not often.
Most of the time I barely have a pulse.
Most of the time I barely have a face.
So, I don't expect to win you over.
We can barely even relate.

It's about all I plan to take.
I'm sick again and again when you leave.
Am i bitter? fuck yes
You barely answer back.
We lie to each other in so many ways.

How can I show you I won't always be around?

Like this?
Like this.

Friday, October 31, 2014

K. Flay

Sorry I missed the show Kristine - I thought about a song that might describe the circumstances. This is the one.  Hahaha, ohhhhhhh shit!.

Thursday, October 30, 2014

it started with french for ten.

Some people will never face this dilemma. These people will say that it’s all part of God’s design and that’s fine.
But the rest of us, we’re left to decide on which side of the faded line we’re standing, if fate and circumstance have already collided.
We’re left stacking our decisions on a makeshift house of cards, atop a foundation of flimsy and capricious words like chance and destiny;
Reminded of the hopeless, cheap, ephemeral nature of life burning under a star amidst a sea of other stars just like the one we count on to show its face day to day. 
Am I to be reminded of some vast, interconnected array of unknowable beings and providence that thrust this situation upon me?
Or am I once again awarded with the unavoidable intersection of coincidence and serendipity that would have us face-to-face again?

      I don't know what to say to you.
      For me, the smoke break is an afterthought. I don't know if this process is reversed for you.

What was I thinking when I saw you framed in that doorway the first time? 
Maybe the circumstances surrounding this meeting aren't important.

What am I thinking when I see you framed in that doorway from day to day?
You and I both know something the other doesn't, that's for sure. 

I'm foolish with words like fate. 

Maybe we checked out a long time ago - maybe that's what's so important about this thing. 

Maybe this unusual and preternatural dance we're performing under a swarming sea of bees and daylight is all we're meant for. 

Maybe as fate or chance or circumstance or providence or some other clever destiny phenomena (you pick) would have it, we're meant for more. 
All I really know now is that I don't want this dance. 
I want it all.
And maybe that's another instance of selfishness, but I've become acutely aware that I can't second guess my heart anymore without consequence.
And what's wrong with being selfish in this case? Philosophy is a singles game.

Maybe for a few more days. Maybe while we spin and careen through this small space, haunted by the distance between the outer rings, and us in the very center.

Well, where do we start, when we're already in the middle of things?


          You'd hoped, by now, that the hallways you'd always imagined constitute the inner workings of your mind wouldn’t look like a Warsaw Ghetto. You'd hoped the bags under your eyes were from sleeplessness and the wrinkles in your forehead were from the sheets. They aren’t.

You understand that from childhood into puberty, there are changes. You stretch out, split your skin and grow.
After that, you might expect to gain some weight in college. At least, the years you should be in college. You're changing.
Then, you wake up in your twenties and you don't see where your hairline has gone or when the creases started to form in your forehead or the corners of your mouth.  You don't know when the twinkle of childhood fantasy left your face. You're changing.

But there you are in the mirror, and that's you and that's your face. 

Some changes are insidious.

Some are not these vain observations you think you're watching every morning when you're brushing your teeth.
Some are nested deep down inside you. Some changes will take you by surprise.

Some changes happen in others. 

Sometimes it's hard to tell.

But you wake up and you shine over that thousand dollar smile. Hundred.  That smile. You adjust a collar, a tie, a button in the mirror, but every day it's like painting the door on an empty house. 

You reflect outside for some time, in the swirling tendrils and motes and smoke. There's a feeling that's forged only from the residue of sleep and dreams, and it's a bittersweet elixir, but it's peaceful. The problem is that it's not enduring, it fades, and you have to leave again.

You stand inside the closed door of your house, waiting to go out. Waiting to catch your breath, waiting for your heart to hint that it's still beating, alive in you somewhere.
 You're standing on the tile in your tied shoes, and you can't muster the energy to move, but a guilty conscience will move you over the roads.
Your travels are guided only by your ability to avoid the hazards in your periphery.

You'll strain a smile over the kitschy keychains around the register when you buy your coffee, and you'll drive. The distant magnetism of responsibility will guide you safely to the next space.

The fiery orange genesis of sunrise will squint your eyes against the horizon, and you'll arrive.
You always do.

You'll tell yourself how much you've seen with your head down.
You'll tell yourself you're not out of roads.
You'll tell yourself you'll do better tomorrow.

Saturday, October 25, 2014

nights like these.

Nights like this, we do everything we do to forget all of our little tedious annoyances.
We waive our right to acknowledge them any further with stern resolve, and the radio plays.
It's so fortunate that all subjects were dropped behind some speaker pulsing, beating away in the night.
I can't be expected (on nights like this) to uphold any of your expectations.
On nights like this, we do everything we can to avoid one moment or the next.
Hiding out from friends, having sex with strangers. On nights like this, I'm in service of another.
Your face, your cold white stare, it's meaningless. What'd you expect on a night like this?
I waited for you, here, on any one of many nights like these, but time and time again,
Time waits for no man. So I'll retreat back to this bed of razors and thorns I've made.
I'll repeat your name to myself, on any night like this, over her shoulder, through the valley of her clavicle.
Her wrists are warm against my throat, what's in her head when she says "until next time?"
You can ask about the marks upon my skin on any other night, but not tonight,
A night like this. We're strangely entwined, the cost of these trysts will toll later, but my life,
Your lies, they'll unfold before us, and consequently, on nights like these,
You'll just have to wait your turn. You'll just have to get left, in turn.
Nights like this, what's this? Don't bother expressing your penitence.
I'm afraid of what we might miss in the shutter speed. You knew, you knew, you knew,
From the beginning.
That it was over.

Friday, October 17, 2014

Emmett's Magnum Opus.

[Yeah, well fuck you too. ]

So, we sew our mouths, we sew our heads up, we won't speak until another of
December's tragic starlight drives.
So you hate the way we face each other?
We already staged a time to miss our fears,
We missed it, we missed our shot, our chance to hear the secret voice of god.
And I've scratched my eyes.
You've had a taste of my blood, a taste of winter.
You tasted winter.
You tasted me, the salt of tears in our parfait, yeah.

There's no reason to believe that the next time will be different than any other,
There's no reason to believe that I mean it this time.

So, we change our address, we address our change,
And we don't speak of one another down
Any road we might take that diverges from expectation.
We faced each other to talk this winter,
We staged a separation under air that just froze and broke,
We missed it, we missed our shot, our chance to hear the song of our hearts.
We had a taste of one another, under the moonlight,
Under the sky.
We tasted this,
We tasted love.
We tasted the iron of blood near our hearts, yeah.

There's no reason to believe it was meant to be,
There's no reason to believe it was meant to be anything different, yeah.
We didn't mean it this time,

We didn't mean it.

I never mean it.

Your Weekend Recommendations : Dispatches and Signals from Unknown Sender

Unknown sender in this context, of course, is Lyla (Lila?) - She’s the palmistry professional I see sometimes when I’m drunk and I have questions, and I guess I’ve been there enough times that if she sees a little gloss or sheen on my eyes, she makes the findings a little more personal.
That’s fine, Lyla (it’s what I’m going with.), I don’t see what you see in the glass or the cards or the smoke from that vanilla-jasmine incense (or is that your perfume?)
I don’t wear enough silks or hide out in enough buildings that people ignore or take for granted every day, I guess. It’s easy to pass, this place.
I don’t see what you see when you say it’ll be my first time to really see the jungle.
I don’t know how to respond when you say that maybe all those mid-90’s songs really are correspondence directly to me.
I don’t see a pinched and distorted smaller me in the clear sphere, dissolving into some distant pocket in the depths of this makeshift desk.

But I don’t guess I have a problem spying what you call the horizon. Easy reads like letting bygones be bygones, and releasing the general state of dissolution that found me wandering in here with a pocket-bottle of French vodka, anyways. Damnit, Lyla.

                When the rumbling started, I’m pretty sure I didn’t hear your voice, though I’m certain they were your words.
                I don’t know, the trappings of some vague and distant prediction, some eerie nightingale song about the way this weekend is supposed to work.
                Maybe it’s just the aftershock, or maybe the rumble I hear is the just the distant roar of thousands, some dialogue with thunder.

Well, you said it would be my day and my week, if I’d just take it.
I guess you’re always right.
Thanks again, Lyla.
Thanks anyways.

Friday, October 10, 2014

cattle town.

another glaring day under the sun,
another restless breath from an otherwise empty chest,
but there you go again.
you're across on the other sidewalk,
or shoulder,
but there you go again.

you're up, you're going through the motions,
because that's what we do.
the streets are overflowing with better promises than you, but i can't stop
following the safety and comfort of familiar company.

i try to hide my face under hats and shades and brims,
 it's better to blend in behind lenses, i find
and in time i've crafted this visage more to finish the sentences i began than anything.
i just want to know where you've been, then again i can't care,
and i can't afford to be so generous.
but i'll wear this silence like a badge before i take you out

we're up, fixing our plates,
because that's what we do.
there's nothing here to eat except our own,
there are no real stars in what amounts, in the end, to a cattle town.
they're feeding on us here,
they're feeding us to us.
we'll be full, but it's a fool of a girl to think
we'll be happy here.

that's a dozen shots in empty parking lots,
another empty bottle reflecting the lights of
another glaring night under the light of the arc sodiums,
but here we go again.
one more swallow, and then we'll be happy here.

i try to hide my face in the shade of night, but i find
it's better to just be forthright, and in the end
we'll find out we've faked it all along.
there's messages on our cell phones everyday.
but we'll go through the motions.
because it's what we do.
we'll go through.
one more swallow
and we'll be happy here
one more
and we'll be happy here.
one more
we'll be happy.

Tuesday, October 7, 2014

deeply flawed.

It's like we're constantly waiting for the collapse of some distant bridge.
Some say that  design is one of the concepts that makes our species especially distinct.
This ability to gaze forward, this deliberate foresight,
it allows us to span gaps of air and rock with a core of steel wrapped in concrete.
It allows us to mobilize over these spans into other territories.
 But us, as a species, maybe we are the mostly deeply flawed.
But hiccups in our designs,
Oversights, rust and material deterioration.
 Maybe a failure to account for catastrophic natural events.
Floods and mudslides and strong winds swept up and across our oceans and waterways from the coast of some far off nation.
Maybe a rogue crop-duster collides with major structural elements in a cable stay bridge.
Maybe a barge is pushed into the beam of a causeway.
But we can't waste our time in the design and the planning phases,
we have to build and span and move and
lurch our bodies forward over these spaces we see before us.

It's like all we can really do is wait for all the water we're made of to evaporate.
We're just waiting for the moment when we split,
when there's enough pressure on our surface,
When there are enough flames in the fire for us to dissolve like this,
For a strong enough wind on an unfrozen day to separate us
Into our smallest immutable parts,
And we'll resonate in this empty space
We will all just disperse some day,
Or wait for the next someone to come by
just to breathe us in.

It's like, It's not what it looks it like.
I don't try really hard to complicate everything, but it's hard for me to be guileless,
Some say maybe I'm just made to span the gap from one someone to the next,
But I don't mind.
We'll chase the waves that crash against these rusty beams, and forget
How swiftly we developed all these irresponsible feelings.
We'll exploit all the deeply flawed claw marks in our design.
We'll sleep on the waves near the base where's there's no one around,
Remind us how we've crossed over our demise again and again,
Across battered concrete blocks and oxidation, in this strange place,
Beneath radio and sun and cloud and the fractured light of the sky,
Lie down in this design with me, let's wear out these flaws.
Just come this way.

Sunday, October 5, 2014

the sounds.

here i sit, looking forward - contrary to what is habitual to me.
still, i wonder -
did we squander the hours that were worthwhile to us?
did we watch ourselves pass through time?
is this me, this flesh, or do i watch from somewhere else, controlling it?
this strange abstraction, distant philosophy.
sometimes the things and the people i face seem so unreal.
sometimes, i know i'll pass through them untouched.
sometimes not.
i worry that others will suffer more at my hands than i do.
inwardly, i know this to be true, like you.

wasting your life waiting for me
waiting your life wasting for me
is it true?

all fingers, all paths seem to point to the same place,
and i watch as the faces grow old waiting for me to come around.
i just have to move there, overcome this inertia that holds my heart.
i'm sick of pursuing this tired avenue.
some say i should just stick to myself and try to stay mundane,
but i can't even stop the shakes i get when i sleep.
i can't stop the grotesque persistence of the sweeping second hand,
and it's still up to me to decide if that's a bad thing.
my life's in the background, burning.

i am nero.
ave caesar.
who cares if it burns? the band will play on.
or, maybe just me.
but doesn't it sound so sweet?

Monday, September 8, 2014

september 8, the world is still round. sort of.

i'm peeling back the skin now,
if only because i'm finding more and more every day
that i know less what to do with it.
it's automatic personality syndrome.

who knows what to call it?

my bones are stretching out past the vanishing point in the horizon,
our past my vision and i've broken into a full run to see where they're going,
if only to find that everything skeletal i need is right here.

all the miles of concrete i've milled over,
all the walls in all the halls i've dreamed,
all the inches of flesh i've lusted over
all account for something in the measure
of the area
on the surface
of this little glass heart.

i'm peeling back the skin now, doc
(it's the only time my hands don't shake)
to see what it's connected to
and i'm finding more and more
i know what to do with it

i know where to kiss it when it scales,
i know how to caress it when it festers
and all the pointed little freckles?
i know to follow them.

i'm shining all the skin now,
on this little glass heart.
i'm finding more and more,
maybe it isn't glass at all.

Monday, July 14, 2014

vanishing point.

she wanted a chandelier hung in the green room,
so there it hangs.
the tiny crystals refract the dim white and throw blue and yellow.
she wanted partners,
so we're cold-calling magician's assistants in the dead of night,
calling all charlatans to devise these new parlor tricks.
but you, mistress of perjury. surely, you, 
you take the cake.

it's feeding time with some fair-weather friends of mine.
we've amassed all these hopeless provisions, we stack them eye-high
to hide our bruises and scars and, we, are inclined
to stay awhile.
we've dabbled in the business of building,
we say it's something we know will last,
but we hold contempt for this inertia, we're lost among
panicked waves of our desiccated materials we long to 
hold on to.
all of these unwrapped gifts, small brushes for ever-larger canvases,
atonal, rhymeless madrigals to catholic hearts,
all of our life, all of our time that we've spent spending,
we're just
                pushing a land mass between lovers.

we're splashed with green and splotched with mottled yellows and muted purples,
slashed at with stripes of oil paints, and we're exhausted,
we're spent from
     painting a garden where no garden would grow, 
painting a paved path to our getaway, honeymoon nowhere.

through long, grueling strokes, we painted where we knew our path would end.
a gruesome scene of red bricks fading into the background into 
a tiny dot of piano black,
because there's a vanishing point on every horizon.

Friday, June 6, 2014

all these pillars

i met a man just today, he says these people,
these columns, these pillars of faith, they form the face of god.
i'm not sure what he means when he says he's saved,
when he scratches his name across a cocktail napkin, when he draws a cross
he says there are no more martyrs, he says the son of man, he shows
the way he sacrificed.

i met a man with a touch of sanity.

he mirrors the way i sit in my chair, brushing his hair from his face
and twirling the long whiskers of his chin,
he says these glasses, these frozen cubes, they're from the remnants of faith,
i'm not sure what he means when he says we can't all be saved,
or that the cause had died, championless, he mimes an invisible noose,
and slices his hands through the air, he says we can't all be the sons of men,
we can't all be martyrs.

i met a man with a better grasp.

he says he lost his ability to express when he became a man,
curling a fist around a photograph of a woman,
he says these artifacts don't even seem like moments anymore,
i'm not sure what he means when he says he takes her out to stare at the eclipse,
or which night he means when he says it's his last,
and throws his glass across the room, he says we can't all go on alone,
but he can't go any other way.

i met all this pillars
i met this community
i met these men
but i'm not sure which is which

Friday, May 16, 2014

streetlights (planes pt 3)

streetlights, planes pt 3
March 4, 2013 at 6:45pm

street level, and the gloss black behemoth i'm in slides out of the taxi lane into slow traffic.
the glass above me is a portal to the moon and underpasses and the rain slides off it haphazardly,
hundreds of tiny starlight prisms splitting and rejoining, racing to the edges of the glass as we race,
as we saunter into the edges of the city, to the ends of the earth.
i try to find solace in the intermittent patches of night sky through the new glass ceiling of my world,
but supernova bursts from streetlights fracture the skyline and leave burnt impressions,
but even these slowly fade
as impressions often do.
piano and contrabass hum and beat against my shoulders in the leather seat that fits around me like an old saddle,
but even the light score seems despondent and atonal in a grey night of rain and restlessness.
my hope swells with crescendos and dims again, and the car swerves and lurches forward as we gravitate
toward some distant point on the horizon, guided only by the lights of night and the white lines in the road.
shades of the car glide over storefronts and first floor glass and fade into memories in alleyways with breathing gutters and gatherings of the ghosts of better men.
in my mind, i dream.

i dream behind the presidential black glass partition that divides me
divides me from the man, the face motivating the motor i'm in.
i close my eyes and i can bribe and bargain my way over mountaintops,
i can sew mercy up like a moccasin, i can cut and suture any hopes and strength
any of my followers may have marshaled
i can descend the other side, and as the last ember of my fire dies,
i can leave them above the treeline.

the car coasts and slides across wet long distance lines, and i've bridged the distance i intended to span
and more, and the jagged glass fingers of the city cut into the sky's ragged veins behind us,
the dull afterglow burning in the background,
and the more the lights fade, the less i remember the shape of my heart
and my home, where i left it.

terminal (planes pt 2)

terminal (planes pt2)
November 12, 2012 at 9:02pm

sea level and i'm shuffling with a wave of despondent passengers through a segmented collapsible hallway

lost connections spark to life in tones and beeps and whirrs as phones and their owners leave airplane mode.

we pass arrays of displays showing arrivals, showing final destinations, even though this is never the last place you go.

there's nothing final and concrete here but the floors, and even some of those move.

i sense tension building as leather and plastic bags and cases swing like pendulums from arms balancing wives and employees

on long distance lines, as the speed of feet clad in anything you can guess hurry past forty foot banners advertising far off places,

for those who've arrived at the airport undecided about where to go.

the rest of the walls are empty and grey, shining with an almost clinical sterility

i pass overpriced food and layover bars, i pass souvenir shops with shot glasses and duty free cigarettes.

i pass periodicals and shoeless bomb inspections but i haven't passed a single smile.

i can watch my luggage ride a giant snaking playground slide and wonder if anyone i know is on the departure board.

i read it like obituaries as my bag passes a second time, and i know that even if i could take the flight back,

i'd never be where i was.

drifting again, or so i should think, and i'm greeted with a song i know only from sleep, only in dreams.

it sings of roads and longing, and she's standing right here.

she says she watched me watch my bag go by four times, before the alarm

before the wall was able to swallow it wholeagain, she brought it.


she says she likes the way roads look like burning oil in hot days on the horizon,

she says she's photographed them before, but they never take,

life's like that, she says, fleeting. all that time behind lenses for a memory that will

never be anyone's but your own.

and before an answer can climb my throat and jump teeth, i'm watching a blue cardigan

i'm watching a cascade of auburn, a red backpack, i'm watching them depart.

reading them like obituaries.

planes (pt 1)

the young woman in front of me sings a muffled tune about long and lonely roads, and i wonder if she's considered that every last road is a figure of speech to some one just under the stratosphere.

the plane's banking now, and i'm drifting. the wind and air lift the aluminum wing, caress the fuselage with a serpent of white vapor.

a slow turn, and i'm dreaming.

i'm home and i'm young but i'm afraid, the grass between my toes is dewey, autumn and it's cold

and i'm alone in the morning mist and the sky is painted with dazzling lights

not natural lights, not natural for the sky, but fire

and people, there's jagged scraps and glass, and people?

the plane slices the sky open with a painter's flourish, banking, we're floating here and ..

on the news, neighborhoods evacuate as they're torn apart with shrapnel

and fallen limbs at terminal velocity,

and are we still turning?

i can still hear the girl singing sad and forgotten leaving songs,

the drummer here slightly out of sync, the bubbles rise in my drink

will we ever land ...

onward, and the homes on fire are still etching lines into the bruised purple sky,

long orange and red and yellow fingers lashing at a sky that refuses to darken

in this twilight.

the colors cascade across the horizon as the wind catches embers,

drifting debris burning tracers across an endless skyline.

i'm at home and i'm alone and i'm afraid

and i can watch the entire world catch fire.

we're descending, i think, but i can't bring myself up from this

nostalgic perfume scents in my senses, i smell shampoo

and the fire has caught everything

everywhere in my field of view, is burning

the opening of a vent near my head, the cold fast air as it passes my ear

and i'm in the fire now, but it's not burning

i'm certain we've landed now, the inertia of my heart in my chest is pulling

against me

as my watch my entire town, my life burned to cinders.

Wednesday, May 14, 2014

from whence i came.

Waiting for the big grey and green airfield to come into view, and my eyes and mind awaken from my golden gutter.
I'm not sure exactly what day it is, or just who I am.
I just know there's a protocol here. I have two bags and I need to funnel in and exit.
There are women here to kiss on the mouth, but none are mine. I'm scared, I'm dressed to the nines,
and there's blood in my boutonniere.
It seems everybody knows to be scared when I'm near, what's their game?
I know you're hiding in this crowd tonight,
after I get up, I get off, I deplane, and I deboard,
I do a lot of other made up verbs, but after I -
disembarked, after I've shuffled through past you,
in this thronging crowd of people drinking, toasting themselves.
You scream out that you dream some day, that it's your game, it's always been,
That you want to go somewhere far away, like from whence I came,
It's a shame to always be afraid, I see you scream. You're wasting your breath.
It's a sad charade, and everybody knows, they know your game. Mine?
I'm not sure just what day it is. I get up. I get off.
Not sure just where I am. I bought a ticket, boarded, embarked.
I took off.

We ascended past the glass ceiling through which I wouldn't ordinarily see,
In which I wouldn't ordinarily see anything but own reflection, sick and tired and sad.

Waiting for the waitress in the tiny grey and green dress to come into view, and my heart and eyes reawaken to my golden gutter.
I'm sure exactly who I am and what it is.
I know the rules, and I don't care to obscure just who I am, it's too dramatic.
This is just brand new extract. The seasons taste exactly the same here, I recall
I count the nights I've been face to face with you, I count down to my next emplaning.
When I know just what to expect, well no one knows each other there, well
Walk on by, they don't give a fuck. I do. I scream out, someday, I scream,
It's not a game anymore, come with me
Far away, the next place is always better, don't be afraid. It's such a shame. A sad charade.
I don't have time for silence, before I
Before I'm not sure just what day it is.
There I go again.
I get up.
Not sure exactly what day it is.
There we go again.
Take off.
Not sure exactly who we are.
There's blood in your corsage, and you just don't care.
They're toasting to us now, and we just don't care.
Not exactly where we are.
Not sure which day.

parting gifts.

(irrelevant song i heard for the first time today)


you keep calling me, leaving me with
messages that are nothing but touchtone tones,
but you can breathe easily now, there's nothing
of you lingering, nothing of your fingers caressing me.
you can rest now, i said, your skin is freezing up on me,
i just thought i'd phone to say we're sinking a deeper blue here,

we were such fools, beautiful you, thinking we weren't the cause,
you you you, what good are you, beautiful?
we're alone, and we're both at fault.

you kept calling me and leaving,
i get the message, we won't get caught in it again,
it's a beautiful day for us to be alone,
we can rest easy now, i like you best when you're walking away.

just leave your love here.

Sunday, May 11, 2014

rhymeless (throwback).

February 8, 2011 at 8:54pm

the breaths i exhale tonight

so sullen and soft

flutter back to me.

the wilderness inside me

repeating a vision

of my arrows

piercing our constellations

through channels and patterns

of light we all must have seen

in the distance.

but to have seen it with you. . .

the fires in the alleys,

in the eyes under skies we knew,

behind and between noise

we've made in our homes, apart.

heaving out every last shuddering breath

into the drains with the dying hope

that we could civilize our stars

into any pattern

that may not seem rhymeless, but

may still separate us from sense.

never any reason to separate us still.


the breaths



back to me tonight

so sullen and dreaming

of a distant speck of light.

but to have seen that star was you.

Friday, May 9, 2014

deliver me.

[when i think of anything,
for fuck's sake, dear,
deliver me from myself.
don't try to feed me.]

is it evident? are we in between? have we clocked the time since -
since you started crying and I say dear, oh dear
why am i so alone?

the screen door squeaks when i pass, and i don't belong,
do you screen your visitors for me, what do i rate
between him and the others? hey, i only want the same as you.
you lie awake at night after he leaves, after all the dreaming
and drinking we do, he goes home, and i'm here.

when i think of the end, i think of you, delivered here to me.

lay me down, take me down south, grind my body and bones
down to the dust of the Gods, and the tumbleweeds.
take me out to the desert, take me out,
i'm in your service, you see,
i've been drinking, of course, i'm yours,
indifferent to consequences.

a king and queen in the end, i think of us, delivered
to us.
to me.
to you.
down ensbrook drive.

you took all the out of the way routes for any of us,
past the shadows and light poles that drag on ,
pretty soon they won't come on, you won't come around.
pretty soon, i'm drowning in you.

when i think of the bottom, breathless, i think of me, delivered straight to you.

i'm almost asphyxiated here. she's crawling on her knees,

forgive us both this confusion, we're drowning.
we took the wrong way home.
to us.
to me.
to you.
to injustice.

down my street.

done (throwback)

July 10, 2011 at 11:43pm

did you pack your bags against the pounding gulf coast waves?

against dire times, against coastal urging, barefoot in the shells

and the shale, against the fence? i know you'd never come clean,

in your defense, i'd never say it, i'd never ask, call you dancer,

in any straighter place than this.

did you move for a fairer sun,

a sunless summer, a wintery place to beat you down again and

again in the snow, where there's no fun in the facts and the skin

you wrap yourself in is nothing

to the bitter chill of the night.

did you sell me out?

i know you were small when we last met,

but did you tell all the friends of your friends that we were barely

friends? and when we caught up, you never bothered to ask,

it didn't seem, well - why would i do that?

way back when,

when we met, it was easy breaths over the frosted, condensed

drops of the glasses, entrapped for bitter moments,

running out of breath at night on a fervent, but hopeless highway to god knows where.

sad, anyways

you closed your eyes and dreamed, paper walls, folded again and again

the house you built, your home beneath constructed moon and walls,

origami moons hung atop stars, out of reach, come a little closer.

a little closer, quieter now, don't speak a sound. but feel, for me,

the paper heart, the way it's halved and halved again,

into you, into me, no more nights like this, no more nights with just

no more nights of injustice.

i see.

so you didn't say,

you didn't even

they never knew you knew me.


on a whim (thrrowback).

on a whim
March 11, 2009 at 4:35pm

she says she misses the way the rain runs down the windowpanes
because it reminds her of the way her father cried.

when she prays, she's a shadow between church pews
splinters of floor in her hands and
splinters of light tracing the curls of her hair
through stained glass panes
but it's not the only time she's on her knees

when she sleeps, she's a tangle of fears and teeth
in linens and things, nights of roving between
thoughts of love and longing, her loss
her family.
but it's not the only time she's between the sheets

when she eats, she swallows past tears
and chews through knots in her very core
all the memories she eats to forget how she got here
because her pride isn't the only thing she's ever swallowed.

but she'll say goodbye someday,
her heart's the only part she's ever followed.

penumbra (throwback)

July 4, 2013 at 8:29pm

[i've been on the brink of discovery for quite some time now.

tired and trying for release, but now that i'm numb,

debased, and bordering all the places i run from

i find that you're fallible, but positively untouched.

you resist, but please return.]

i'm feeding magpies and romancing red wines and deadlines.

i'm reading headlines and forcing myself into feeling

all these secondhand emotions,

and i'm bent at the mouth.

i've sentenced myself to an evening out without fiery skies,

with water on tap

and the only words i know

are the cornerstone of mistrust.

wishing myself dressed so smartly for this level of dishonesty,

but i'm divided like a triptych,

watching myself face by face by face and feeling

positively libertine

in the tawdry incandescent bar light.

my heavy head and hands are running up the walls,

and i cast away all my promises with the tramontane,

i could curl up on this spurious stone and beg change,

but i'm not spurred to do anything but turn a phrase

and expose myself to the tides of streetlights

turning red and green in shade of night.

i'm riding punctuated white lines and romancing better times

and illustrating the intangible with words and half rhymes

i'm contemplating coping words an forcing myself

into speeding just over the limit

all these secondhand roads

and i'm bent at the mouth.

Thursday, May 8, 2014

lest we regret (throwback.)

lest we regret.
July 28, 2010 at 9:42pm

For every seven things I think, I speak on one,
saving six for later when,
even if I don't remember why it bordered the other five,
I'll speak another.

For every cent I save, I spend another ten
losing eleven in all, losing all
in eleven.
It's true, I quit counting when I stopped earning
And began spending myself instead.

Every breath we've taken,
we aired between our
pairs of lungs
even when we know there's barely air to share.

For every step ahead, it's said
One will lose one, or two instead.
A puzzling paradox when you consider
We're barely moving amidst these crowds
of shuffling feet and hanging heads,
lost, a step at a time, trying to remember our own feet
rather, whether they truly are planted beneath us
or if we've rooted ourselves to the ground,
a step away from where we wanted to be.

For every metered mile, driving feverishly forward,
there are halving distances, multiplying questions
and divisions of heart and mind, body and soul
after all, before you can get to where you're going,
you must go halfway first
and at that rate, you never quite arrive
there's no way to arrive at one if
you always divide by two.

For every one, there's another.
It's something of which we've never really bothered keeping count.
No one really ever did the math,
but the odds are, it eventually evens out.

The decision, then, is to just let seven be seven.
Let the thoughts begging and pulling be words,
To arrive, newborn and dazed
Into the crackling static air of our age.

To bring them out into the cold from the womb
and hang them up,
raise them until the brink of their confusion
their eleventh hour
and watch them as they swing
with the gentle sway
as gallow's quarry.

universe. (throwback)

August 2, 2010 at 12:33am

on odd nights, on off nights
i find myself dreaming,
never catching sleep, but breathing,
chasing it like a ghost,

i dream awake, close my eyes
and i see

underneath us

the stars,
the gifts we're given, unwrapped
tiny glimmers in a night sky
a far off hope, after all
some of them died long before we'd ever first seen their light.

as diminutive as we become, all staring at the sky
the swatches of inky black bleeding over the purple horizon
remapping the stars we pretend we've noticed before,
we never feel hopeless these nights, with stars above our bed

we stop seeking meaning then, and understand

as long as they hang there, we know there's hope
for something out there that's still burning,
some say they won't believe something until they see it
but how do you describe the fire that burnt out
long before it ever started showing you its face?
perhaps out there once, the lonely pivotal center
of some distant and detached universe of its own

maybe we do still seek meaning, and will never understand.

why anyone bothered to make them all visible in the first
place, why? with the oppressive atmosphere, can we still
touch the exact place where we knew, for a fact
because we saw with these very eyes, there was a light before
and beyond every shadow of a doubt
some glimmer of life near it

maybe it's not the point to understand, but the feeling

longing, lusting to reach out and die with that light
clutched, burning your chest in the exact spot
you imagined your heart
before you started dreaming you lived in the center
of it all again,
where it all orbited around you and all the faces
were lighted perfectly at one point or another
and you always felt
the light
of day.

Wednesday, May 7, 2014

breathing (throwback)

August 14, 2010 at 9:57pm

[it's all too short to waste]

It seems to me that from our moment of birth forward, we begin something of a circular descent; a countdown of sorts.

Every breath we release, we collapse a little within - not a wasting, but a waning. It's a paradoxical ebb and flow like the perpetually changing tides beneath the bold but elusive faces of the moon. It's endless and everchanging, but we all know, at heart, that those waters, the tiny grandchildren of tidal waves, they distance themselves a little more each day, the scalloped evidence over vanishing footprints merely a fleeting reminder that they were ever a part of the scenery. Whisked, with our listless and confused breaths, out onto a vast body that breaks nowhere near the vanishing point on the horizon.

The last time the waters and I were face to face, I expected to feel the inevitable pain, the grave and severe longing that lulls the spirit into submission. The waves and gulls' wings beat the wind, beat the shore, their atonal dissonance sweet as nightingale song over my shifting soul, shifting soles, both sinking slowly into the sand. Into clarity. It never came. I sat in the sands while Mother Earth idly lapped at my feet, pushing; perhaps reminding.

It's not easy in the twilight waves to decide which of us will dissolve first, to compete for who will be the first to finally fade into the simple and comfortable greys of the evening, to be forever denied permanent company  - After all, even though we predictably return to meet again, we simply shift too often to be promised remembrance.

And it's nights like these, beyond the shining moon on the waters, beyond a faint line of horizon, a word of no weight, a word to describe what is null and void to us, what we cannot see but for which we will always pine and yearn and set reckonings. The perfect dismal line across our field of view to which we've sacrificed all of our wasted breaths, borne by neutral waves to places of forgetting. It's these nights we know we've been looking in the wrong places for far too long, hoping for a moment to merge perfectly with the elements - to be adrift with the captive breaths we freed many nights upon nights into the endless void of ocean - We know now, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that becoming part of it was never an option. All those voyeuristic hours on shorelines, vigilantly watching over and observing something we'd never control. It seems that was just never the answer.

We needed impact. We should have been striving for some sort of change. Truth be told - In all this time fading, dwindling, eroding like the sands - we've been sacrificing ourselves to a great maternal hunger that could never possibly be satiated. That we were bled, hollowed, and left as husks to litter the shores until mother earth's loving arms were around us, washing, pulling, drawing us away into the forgotten. Away from memories. And we'd sooner do this,  give ourselves to a force we don't even pretend to understand than try to see what could change it, to embrace it and leave our mark, forcing aside the will of something we'd known for certain for so long that we'd never conquer.

Beneath the moon the glassy streaks of light flitter and sparkle with glimmering winks of understanding - The waters, my elders, they hold the wisdom I've avoided all these nights in the sand. The inevitable pain we seek on the shores isn't any sort of longing at all, it isn't about a loss of focus or control, and it isn't even about wasting. It's about prowling that shoreline, pacing over dunes and sandhills with thunderous footfalls drowned by ocean waves. It's about scrawling your name feverishly into the earth until the nailbeds bleed. It's about taking a stand and being unmoved, swaying only to the rhythm that beats for you, the heart palpitating over the ocean you know you've finally conquered as its waves break and part at your toes, reconvening at your heels where they feel safe again.

Sworn in on this starry night, taking an oath over the waxing and waning of the moon and the tides, ebbing away ... Forever distancing themselves little by little.

We know, by oath. We know, because we stood in it, shaking and confused at first,  Newborns to the night and the slashing streaks of blue and white moonlight cutting into waves. Our solemn code to the night, that we will not take it for granted. We've traded the strength of our spirit this night for understanding, for lifting the heavy blanket of longing, confusion, and waste.

And we've mustered the courage to ask Mother Earth to share.

Because it's all we can do.