365

Rolling credits cut copy and paste
If we don't believe in reality then it'll hit a little harder
Tangled limbs on beds of resignation
I have the now to hold me over to the next life
The then weighs heavy, I can't carry it forever
Even so
There will always be slow acoustic on a rainy day
I'll never escape it, not with those clouds and this truth
For those who see the most beauty in hindsight
Well, it's just the only way to feel. 

Perpetual

Some days we turn pages on dimes, it's crazy to think those pages are that sharp.

I know this for sure after running them across hairline fractures to deepen the grooves.

They looked like capillary eyesores.

Well I too was sore when stepped on.

Stepping out is so prolonging and recreant, 

Stepping out wasn't part of the deal when the tune of a contract was played on my heart strings,

All that was audible was the dawn of a new promise.

No don't step out. 

When the season comes to a close run out at the sprint you ran into this with. 

The dust that is stirred will be all the preservation needed,

Because who said forever had only one way of seeking out the fortunate.

This rose colored perception that has infiltrated itself can be tainted without regret. 

Truthfully I never saw the appeal of perfection to begin with.

now is when the stripes of the skyline

will match up with the rivers of our moon shine

as it bends on painted window sills into angles more definable

beneath the shelter of the warped wood

penetrates the rain onto our faces

leaving streaks that are traceable

and cutting through layers of rusted favors.

night will meet end at the horizon

joining in stunning union

just because i can carry you home doesn't mean i'm basket case material 

unraveling eventually from the loose ends left frayed and exposed 

lean down a little longer i'll let you hit the ground hard enough to swallow truth.

me i consider myself a peninsula

separating myself almost whole in uncertain waters

you can hold my left hand

not my right because i'm clinging onto land

bound isn't a pitfall it's an essential for foggy mirrors and murky lakes

fuck reflections i can see all i need with eyes closed and disregard open.

Transverse

parallel lines have always served as a comfort
because i know
no matter how far they go they will never cross paths
with another
and lose a piece of themselves in the process of
factionalized patience with no beginning
only the promise of a fleeting junction
only hesitant common ground
only end.

Blue Sidecar

Blue sidecar hold me above the tracks
Keep time
Keep time against the hum of lazy hours
As they forge ahead to cushion the fall
Falling
Pushing through soft sheets of identity suspended in the air 
I might almost taste the condensed clouds
Breathe them in and let them swim
There lies sweet release in the saturation
Folding into the crevices of progression
Speeding across terrain in nimble flight
I come to stand stills now and then
For a moment only to forget 
The rhythmic pulsing of blue sidecars
Until we board again

Phases

I swallow myself whole as I breathe
Noiselessly
Through lungs bruised with my own handprints
Crushed with all the expectation of crossing out lines drawn in the sand
Crossing over was too easy
Time will pass
Without the familiar hesitation
Grinding
Rendering me raw
Marching on with a rhythm that echoes out of my rib cage
Fumbling from my mouth and staining sheets of beige paper
Close my senses
Until soft grey vapors can work their way into my dehydrated ambition
Always shrinking in the dull heat of obligation
.

Planes Of Us

At midnight I wrap myself in
The need to put you into words 
As I can no longer keep my hands from
Locking themselves onto the corners of vacant stares
Loosely fingering the idea of
You filling me
And my void of clockwork sighs.
Stop and stay a while
While we still have time to sink into the depths 
Of each other and the instinct to run fast and
Far so I promise 
You can step inside and rest assured because
I will never try to find you if you are lost
Across the hardened planes of us.

Matter

I‘m standing in a stark white room with one thousand brass locks scattered on the floor.

What’s the most important part of that sentence?

Not the locks or plain room-,

I’m

Standing.

Weight evenly distributed on both feet,

Legs bent slightly,

Holding myself upward.

So simple, so instinctual, so habitual.

Someday my bones will be dust.

Fertilizing the earth.

Nourishing a school of fish at the bottom of the ocean.

How remarkable.

The life cycle at its best.

What will become of my liquid gold?

Swirling around in a basin carved from my greatest insecurities

Every decision I ever made and the memories of the life I’ve lead

Once proudly displayed on the coffee table and in the sleeves of a wallet.

I’d like to think that they would solidify

And form the bricks of a fortress to keep me eternal.

Or the drain is left in the right, hand of fate.

And every coherent thought I ever formed is whisked out into space

Spread

So

Thin

Their contents become questionable.

Did I ever make a friend?

Fall in love?

Fuck everything up?

Maybe do it all simultaneously?

My favorite color is yellow

I tie my shoes monkey-around-the-tree.

I can stand on two lengthy appendages sprouted from my torso.

It’s a mid-July night

Laying under a sky that should have a few more stars

Uttering empty promises about losing ourselves in others, and in the world around us.

Only to then have it all ripped out from under your feet,

To then move on and melt into clouds,

Or carry on as a blade of grass.

But I’m only a blip on the radar, a grain of sand of the beach of forever.

When the universes collide and the skies open up to pour translucent blood on us, will we be able to process that our bodies are being compacted into unintelligible forms?

Or is it a pair of pliers, clipping electrical circuits until we’re blanketed in blackness,

Rendering us as fading light bulbs that are only useful when smashed so I can use the glass to look into my reflection and give myself a knowing smile.

“It’s over, pal.”

And after

As I swirl through a cross section of time and reality,

Will I remember the sensation,

Of this stark white room,

With one thousand brass locks on the floor,

And bones that are solid,

Just

Standing

Existence.