A feeling creeps out of twilight’s residue.
It’s a feeling clobbered by the idea
that to get somewhere you have to take it
step by step, an idea which ignores
the existence of the leap.
What a mess I was when you discovered me
discovering the process of linear thought.
It turns out that we both had been caught
in the same tar pit which sits
between will and idea.
We were both still young enough
to conceive a difference, after all
but soon came to find that there was only tar;
the limits were a fabrication, a consequence
of our two minds’ mutual inability
to accept that we were stuck and sinking
without any hope of breaking free…
“Too often, I find myself playing ghost,”
was what she said, and with that,
an itch came on sweet and sound.
Things fall in and out of place like that
constantly. Sometimes correctly, but
mostly never in the ways we want.
So we go on, telling ourselves
whatever tales need telling,
spelling out the spillage so that
we can better ignore our inadequacies
and sleep our dreamless sleep.
These thoughts roiling the deeper regions
of the brain will never unhinge us
from the sacrificial slab.
The eyes have it, or they don’t.
Meanwhile, she let her robes fall
about her feet and basked in the cold April sun.
A limit had come undone, one
we never acknowledged, but whose necessity
was now apparent in the light
of this new situation. Time for a falling in,
what we originally supposed was a cop-out.
All over, seeds were beginning to sprout,
those we’d scattered and forgotten about,
and truthfully, we were still in the midst
of that forgetting, if only for the convenience.
Spring does a number on a body,
but this is a well-kept secret, stashed
beneath some floorboard
in a parlor outside of time.
Yesteryear, the syphilitics praise
a redundancy like no other.
Doomed we are to walk this sullen road,
comet tails ablaze and biting.
I’ve drank of the stagnant water
poured from the horse’s mouth
and felt otherwise refreshed.
It was like this in the future
we saw once in the iPhone ad.
My teeth came unclenched.
Mucked the filter, fucked the landline.
Scrubbed down with anxiousness
and turpentine, we don hefty robes
and chain smoke in oblivion.
The taste is slightly sour, often sweet.
Nothing beats an evening in the shade.
Frame by frame,
the daily news comes on
like a hangover.
We really are gratuitous,
aren’t we, and senseless,
full of reactionary pride.
We spied the fallout
from atop our tower
made of graves.
What you do saves you
from the messy mass you are,
but what about the one you’ll be
ten years from now
when the cold disrupts your bones
and the gray rain
washes away your eyes?
Sing to me
in a voice as thick as amber,
and don’t make it easy for me.
Don’t make me say “Forget it”
before I’ve had too much to drink.
We lay in the arms
of one shining sussurus moment.
That’s all it takes is a moment
for our heartbeasts to grow wings
and jettison into the polished sky,
entangling one another,
collapsing into one another
and dropping to the ground.
I’d stay with you forever in that moment.
I’ve failed the paternity test.
Just when I thought
I couldn’t get no lower.
A breeze comes barging in
with a declaration of love
or something equally disturbing,
and the cats have gone to gab
in the retrofuturistic sandbox
we put up a week ago.
Looks like rain,
that’s something people say.
Rain looks like a big stack
of books I’ve been dreading to read.
Eyes swell more easily
when a swamp is in question.
Try not to get so unfocused
this time around,
lest the light
shatter your headpiece.
Oh great sky
peering down on me
through your great
electric looking glass,
when will you ever
I need something
to jump out of
and a spot of hope.
Oh great sky
full of milky rope.
The end is pissing
in an empty bottle.
We all live in a fever,
but that isn’t
the half of it.