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.

Friday, May 2, 2014

the oubliette. (throwback)

the oubliette.
July 24, 2010 at 12:42am

[When I seemed to have my mind made up, I completely lost sight of it]

Even in dreams.

With a quiet little push, you'll find it
The memory, that is.

There's one in all of us, at the very least
One footstep, a limb or bent steel post and girder
A pocket of silence and disbelief around the next corner
A path you will no longer look down.

It looms there, ominously. You dream about it.
It's a place where, even when you're not alone
You shake for it.

It bristles with energy and shadowed, grinning mirth
Or, its indifference.
Either way, it can be felt and breathed but never touched.
You'll never meet whatever's watching you from that corner
Or field
Or empty office building.

It's the reason why you'll sprint the stairs in a parking garage if the elevator hesitates
Any longer than the ignition you turn in the feeble and fictional safety of your car
All glass and more fragile than any of us.

It's the silence you suddenly quiet your friends over,
Or the place you didn't leave your keys or camera
When you walked away for that split second.

It's a game when we're children, when we're lied to
Because the people who teach us have forgotten
It's fun to know we're not alone when no one will be with us.
It's an undeniable floating and swirling bundle
Of vacillating, dancing, vanishing
Motes of no particular distinction,

It's a place of forboding
Of forgetting,

It's where all those memories go. The ones that would normally hold the chills in your spine,
Or say, add several palpitations to your near-still heart.
The things you won't speak to anyone
Whom you know in your heart of hearts share
The childish fear that something's out there
Even if you're safe now, behind your brick and glass and pine framing

But being inside doesn't take the forgetting away.

it takes us, in part, in phases, through this veil.
Through our

We won't take part anymore, can't entertain anything outside this narrow myopia
Anything extended past our shallow and waning riverbed of consciousness
And monotony
And indifference
Watching our passions drown
In mere stagnant inches.

It's still something we know about ourselves, these animals
These breathing and moving shapes in the dark
That haunt us
Forever holding our memories of them until we meet them again.

The trouble is
When we pass these buildings
Alleys, bars,
our old homes
There's no choice but to feel it again.

The hair bristling on your arms, the railish fingers of your
Abandoned consciousness gripping your nerves
Your adrenaline
Because you're there to retrieve it, hunting
In the moonlight,
Because the energy was yours once, too.

We know, as children do,
As often, as often as children do
That these things, we can't do anything but call them real
Even without a name
A heart
A face
Even a body,

They are with us, forever haunting the one corner we turn.
Taking us, piece by piece
Not that we'd know
Until we pass them again.


[any evening i don't have you by the throat is a loss.
i don't have time for nights of any other kind.
i won't crimp every cent i ever spend,
into your hair,
i won't ask where you've been,
just to be fair,
i'll see this thing through to the very end.]

we can smoke in this bar, but i'm wasting my breath on words i've dreamt for you.
but, you and i can both see it's a gamble i can't win, but i can lose, then again
that's just one version of events. relax, relax, watch the stars and sit still, wish upon
the ocean and find yourself a spot to sleep in the sand. we can't leave this beach
until we both confess there's no chance of this at all. it wasn't in the stars and cards
for either of us. you want some adoration, for all of us to be awed, you want
sweeping skirts as you leave the coast, you want to hear applause. your last two
told me that everyone you come across, you nearly beat to death. let's just
let this rest.

we'll ring around this statue
 maria, maria, maria.
ave maria. my life without any twilight
forget anything i say tonight,
maria, maria
call us all out tonight, tonight.
maria, maria.

we can drink on this sand, but we're so near empty, and so near the border.
we've made our way to the very brim of things, and here in our semi-sterile
pallet, i'll teach you something, if you look up. look up to the stars my love,
we have everything to lose.
we can't leave this beach until we atone. our acts of contrition will be,
to care for each other, the very last thing we'd ever want to do beneath
these wisps of swirling clouds. let's swim out to these lazy tides and see, girl
let's see if they can change the things we've said.

we'll ring around this earth, maria.
ave maria
light of my life
remember my words tonight
why don't you
call out
my name
for a change
maria, maria

getting to know (throwback)

getting to know
July 15, 2011 at 11:45pm

let's get to know us. i'm a man, i'm a mess,

a whirlwind of fetishism and guesses,

the son of sex and sweat - at best -

a product of cowboy ranch brands,

the salt of the southland, and man

and i'm pitching my tent just here.

you mean, i climbed all the way up here

just to see another pretty face, a

lackluster grin, i'm amazed

another fool on her back, well

at least her shoes aren't fake.

i am still solid solitude,

i'm the highest point you've made,

and you're alone in your shoes,

unlaced and you're faced with

what you're faced with in the face

of the awkward truth.

yeah, i'm still a man when i can.

i get mine, forget hers, pack it up

for quits, you see, when it gets

to be too close. you can call it mistakes

but it's the choices i make that

make me forget i'm alone.

yeah, getting to know what you can.

getting to know me.

i'm still a man when i can.

still a vessel to carry this truth.

polar (throwback)

March 22, 2012 at 3:02pm

[i'm bored hosting charades,wrought with polished childrens' games.]

where would you like to meet,

the ice at the bottom of the world?

i can be there.

we can be the separation there,

we can be the sovereign,

all that's left of a species scattered

over cold

and colder,

where nobody will care how the ice feels in our lungs.

where there's nobody there, anyway.

across the southern ocean,

across the coarse waves and words,

words we can take with a grain or sack of salt,

like old medicine, like older foods and fruits,

we can cut with our knives,

we can rest right back in the ice

and choke on the rinds.

how do you like life in the cracks, dear?

the hours of day slip away in pairs it appears,

as sun rolls to night,

we can fill our great patch of ice with the fingers of flames

as we burn our neat little effigies,

the smoke rising in tidy rings

like the breath of an outlander

who has spent too much time alone.

we'll fill our lives with the confirmation

of sensibility and nonexistence,

the quiet simplicity of loneliness

as we melt away our homes,

here at the bottom of the world.