number two

just photos

out my window, and on the sill

.,.,

i defamed the sky,
for showing me a color of blue
that i much rather would not
have wanted to see.
i just wish i could sit in trees
those leaves, those leaves.

modesty

considerations of some intangible kind
i could lump all the dark spots
into this bottle. the green won't keep long
it's just the last stab i have
at some brand of ignorance... won't keep long
if i continue down the mountain, no matter the speed
the avalanche gains
if i stay, this branch won't keep long.

you always thought.
always the first mistake.
i crossed three states yesterday
and i'm not talking about fucking wyoming
or something like that.
this is it. it's serious.
i've brewed coffee before
but never had to strain like this
it's all my cloudy days accumulating
it's all my rainy nights articulating
it's everything i can do to not run
it's everything i can do to carry on
none of you have any idea how much this is

reverence

it was subtle, i thought
but i wasn't the one standing
on the green bridge
my legs, like typewriters,
feeling visions cast out
from those suspended stars
wrapped tight to steel railing
still shaking from the shock
of elevation
soon it was alleviation
from a plastic pump on a metal drum
and being told what to do
never has been so rewarding

poem

i sat back and watched the dust settle
like a drawn out sunset washing over the green fields
within a moment it was over
the sun nestled between two walls of mountain
which rested a thought
if it never rises again, i won't mind

how many people cried?

foreclosing
my midsummer night-stick plummets to the depths
fields are hazy with jubilance of youth
with mardi gras of yesteryears
tessellation of an overt variety.
of grains of stalk
grains of sand
attacking the thought we
thought we had conquered
mere effervescence amongst the veil of exuberance
building walls on lands of quick sand
exterminating those means to an end
perpetuating correspondence on deaf ears

tuesday still

i dreamed a field
meadows of green
and rolling clouds
trees that whispered silently
secrets that no one else knew
i carried a basket of the finest delicacies
port, brie and poetry
the set was locked, it was impeccable
i lilted a melody, immaculate
the sun set low, the sun set low
the meadow darkened, ashen, barren
upon my lips was the glass
revealing itself empty, desolate, dry

up

anything at all,
at all, at all
is far better than the box
of empty in the mail. sometimes
the rush delivery isn't the
option that works best

dernks gervin

cast off in the cigarette gaze
torn through like paraphernalia
i had previously sensed this bottle opening
in the background
when i dove in and came up for air far too soon

it'll be far more whiskey sundays,
far more regurgitated fridays
before i can mitigate my cloudy days
my under the weather
my secret pouches
and some new-fangled banana sundaes

draught

i can only think of foggy days
of cobble-stone roads, moss at the edges,
swinging on the unraveling cord
this unparalleled dreary feeling
mouth as dry as the sun
with every intention to prove it

null

i've just piled all thought
all emotion in this hollowed out box
it may only be this early, but i'll say it nonetheless
how do i make myself invisible? how do i build up this wall
may i, earnestly, close this sector?
may i, truthfully, shut down?
i've been working this long and still i'm deceived by sight

travel light

4000 euro short
the weather made itself
appropriate as i watched through
that slotted window. dark clouds
gathering, rain hitting the pavement
which i saw coming. the windstorm
of fallen red and green, where will
it take me next on this one legged boat
long gone, sailing into darkness

walking home

it all went down the river
under that fall-leaved bridge
in the early morning overcast skies
moving along, following the stream
so it wouldn't hurt

faux

how it must feel
when that ceiling collapses
and the ink comes running through
staining what little you had
in your possession
soiling that sea of disregard
oh, how i'd like to,
oh, how it hurts how i want
no one to feel

asdf

a melody in my right ear
suspended; perpetual
mug of black to the left
of my left ear. in peripheral
i've got my gloves on
but the fingers have come off
do you think that i'll ever
be satisfied?

.
.
all these tuesdays pass by
they sit atop my flagpole
all sitting in a row
at half mast
birds sit idly by
chirping for lack
of common sense
until it's repetitive
redundant, irrelevant
a dull roar underneath
so much of what our days
are composed of,
and look at it now
the sun isn't even up

direction

Ornithonical Caruthers draped his dreary skull
across the mantle piece, on the empty shell
of the coffee table.
where he lays it next relies on the imagination
of the weary, the brainstorm of the psychotic,
the passing glance of the insomniatic

all i see is blue

the walls build up with
soot and moss.
draping their greenery
about with the slight
impression of charm.
it's chaos in the valley
footprints on the moon
and so many blocked off
barricades, holding back
forces that our normal
faculties aren't capable
of remedying. the wall
that holds back tomorrow
slowly disintegrates
and the anticipation
fades into background
noise cutting off any
enigma that may have
raised its head, unheard.
so many times there may
have been some enlightenment
but it always was swallowed
by the truth the world holds;
that there may be no truth
at all, that all of this
is facade, a radiating
pastime of the elder years
taunting us,
tormenting us,
giving displays of
pedestaled daisies yearning
for that last bit
of solitude, gripping at
the abyss. do we go forward
anymore or do we sit
and wallow in our merriment?

ggrrr

i've mulled over these thoughts now
so long that leaves have turned red
where the sun shines on them now
how many devils on my shoulder
pulling me by the ears
this way and that
decisions come
like rain in the desert
or snow in the ocean
all plans are left
barren, destitute
so this bottle remains
in an optimistic state
of half-empty

zxcv

i've hit this
and hit this board
there's very little
nothing's coming through
it's lost in a fog
protecting itself from
my fingers

parts and scattered pieces

noise sticking to floors
cocktails, chatter, all inane

if i called what it was sensitive
i wouldn't fool a dead man

if i called it hopeful
i wouldn't even fool myself

here i sit,
other peoples clothes

other peoples money,
time on my side
one less glass
one less worry

late

what i kept
swept under the rug

gnarled branches
tearing at the screen
on my window

i tried to grow
a flower on the sill

the dust covers it now,
as the moist soil
slowly digests it

white balance

through these walls are the
inner bowels of tech computing

night

somehow the sleepless 3a.m.s always came
at better times. my head remembers sitting
but it can't quite place the sweating pillow
or the restless feeling in ones stomach
i can't see anything outside
for the utter lack of strength i can't
find the strength to close my eyes
downstairs is fitful coughing which
perhaps i'll join for lack of a better plan
prosecco decks the halls
clothes mingle with the perpetual lint, dirt,
assorted horrible things living on the floor
vague mentions of christmas and festivities
long ago which someone, somewhere doesn't
give a fuck about

flavours

perhaps this commando
hits the irreverence
at brute force

perhaps this shade
of grey stalks night
with its own weapon

and maybe,
just maybe there
is one silhouette
perched on a sill

watching dusk unfold
reading back issues
of penzeys spice catalog

wouldn't it be nice
with this chardonnay
to once again
feel the glimmer of
spring, the innate
seconds of composure,
the dark settling
on your shoulders

apples

muskeg kettle cup said wheeeeeeeee as we poured
the next kettle cup down the hatch. down our
water-holes which preston says are unintelligently
designed, which is to imply(if i'm understanding
preston((whichusuallyonlyido(((ifevenido))))) correctly is a
signifier) the idea that we, indeed, are
designed. by who? perhaps by preston. perhaps
by some other land shark without wheels
or even some type of fucking fin. maybe steve
jobs designed us, but that doesn't work as
we're just not fucking shiny enough

minutes

an abstract gaze over hills of leather
peat, and goose down that fights the
way through modern dictation, through
warfare of quantity, through abstraction
and ab-machines, tied behind your
purple girls bike leading the mob of
less-than-savory, of stargazers, of
neer-do-wells billowing through for
a slice of whiskey, a drop, a wee nip
a dram entering the exit wounds with
peace offerings in spanish or some
other language everyone already
forgot with minutes turning to seconds
or that, backwards, if it pleases jesus
on his knees, on a cross, on the town
or just regular old jesus drinking tea

hahahaha

.

it's all smoke
in my view now
not much to see, but light. far off.
i'm differentiating between machinists
and watchmakers(stop me if i'm being vague)
a candle left on the shelf
lost its glow after two weeks, fourteen days.
the scent still lingers, heavily, in dessicated air
still though. continued on this line
the balance strikes matches with the bullets
of retribution, in-cognition, frailness, damp weather
soft crescendo as your main character takes its
last breath
last remaining bow. lights dim.

ooooooh

i was walking. dark out
i kept walking
the lamplight from the post shone
high above me
it became colder and i kept
thinking. which is tough to do
on such a dark walk
the light from the lamp faded into
background noise
i continued walking
until i couldn't see anymore
no lights, no thoughts
darkness

pre-menstrual

an aggravated sand storm
        cuts through
        the nothing of glass
envy turns orange         and lights fire. fire.
fire eats
   lunch and puts      its hat up
         slaps its wife
for half a good measure

the        television is on in zaire
three stock brokers have tea,
      whiskey tea...
      just whiskey,
joke about the old days,
the good-ol days when
         hurricanes knew when to apologize,
      when rabbits weren't just for chemical analysis
   or when lincoln
dropped the bomb on
russia for being foolish
          ...foolish

14-85, can't top it

this radial glow casts out
the purple bottom of a wine glass
6a.m. on a sunday afternoon
back house in the evening
and the moon only partially revealed
settled gaze on power lines
the world overflows with rubik's cubes
one last white feather. drifts down
as some ilk of metaphor
that i've heard on the lips of pygmys

guess who?

your lovesick pity grab
i'm not buying another popsicle of it
not one more fucking bite
now that those bins are empty
you have no reason more
no reason for being here
that scarlet, crimson donkey you rode in on
you can give it RIGHT back to the stable
master at whichever barn you
swindled it from
off with you, off with you for the longer
side of the equation.

oh shit

mahogany no one
hurricane sea sick patterns
terrain enveloped diamond---
           platter spun decoy dissonance resting
on the plateau, infirm in its decay
resting in beds of ferns. ivy. satellites.
wisdom filled in gourds,     mashed sadness
and and, nail guns piercing eyelids
without sound of what was platonic
all the while, settled chorus of disrepair
grasping at the lemon ,,  of perpetual motion

i want

i want i want i want








coffee

...........

all i can see
now is
green

the fan is on. there's tea.
i wish to pass out
in a meadow
with the
scent of winter
the only thing i can see

down

as i walked off into the afternoon sun, i walked with a passion
of artificial energy, of foreboding. i walked with missions in mind
down the road, leaves in gutters. that satisfying crunch as
your worries press out with each continuing meter

11th, no one goes down here. summer's here and leaving.
but in the scraggly haired kids place is an orange thing.
ah, i don't get that
but continuing
to have some companion, i thought. no no, surely not.
and wouldn't you know it, some other scraggly haired kid
hands me this liquid in a reformed dinosaur and i quickly
contemplate lost love(you didn't, don't fucking kid yourself, conor)

right, on the road, on the main road. out of sunlight. i look for him
he's already there. what are the bars in portland?
and how do i get to my parents alone, lonely, no companion,
no end in site,
nowhere left

demolition

i ran circles at midnight
street lights
and a glockenspiel
faking harmonies as feet
rose to meet this colder air
still colder now
compressed against wood
and vinyl. pressed against the saxaphone solos
met on street sides with
the well fed, thirsts quenched
wind ate the sound of sirens calls
of $5 admissions to shisha shit shows
the wind spit out thin crusted marvels of
human achievement
i slept through this late night toil

no title

...................................
morning is too early
they're getting darker
too hot for ice cream
...................................
the granite clouds
cats on the fence
lingering insomnia wakes me
from dreams of operating systems
...................................
i wish for another coffee
washed away by another beer
rinsed and repeated
...................................

just the other day

still gazing out that 6th floor window(or was it 9th?)
strathclyde below, all those people
3p.m. clouds arrived before they got there
on the BBC. i've always wanted to go
back there
ever since before i left
farther west perhaps, would be better
but i'm far away from everything now

too often

i wrote down
what i wanted to say

i typed it
it meant something

it was very clear
and rather than deliver

i deleted

oh window

it might be an early morning
the breeze wakes the day

it creeps by, as i roll over
blurred specks of lint
spread across cigarette burned carpet
        of all those before me
reds and oranges against green
occasionally, traces of you
outlined by this perpetual
glimpse of the past
framed by guilt. an
acid burn in my stomach
that persists to this day

,>.."

why is what
can't i just stand there(here)
impervious to weather and whether
that's an option or not
i would like
to just be distanced as i sip slowly
this bottle of wine
maybe at 2 a.m.
maybe never
why can't i have that bottle
$20+ so i can feel like royalty
and not give a fuck
gloriously

......

i can remember sitting
on that white building's balcony
if i remember correctly, i was sitting
with my back to the ocean; couldn't hear it
the white building
between a wooden water tower next to geese
and another building on the other side
little gray birds would steal chips
if you weren't paying attention, or if you just
let them
the fish were dead, vinegar, salt, lemon, ocean breeze
it was wretched. next stop, hazy valley, burning hills

alanthus

this thick book
out the window is some stupid weed
the kind that smells like
sour peanut butter when you
smash the leaf up
the coffee shop
knew my name
and i don't know    how i
  feel          (fuck, how do i feel)
about that,      (about anything?)
but it probably means
they're not spitting in my
drink that i ordered and
rode around on
my bike with
and microphones
can't forget the microphones

i've always got this moon rising
and my back to the sun
i told it no. and it listened
if i have one more time
one more yesterday
and four more of those
glasses of beer i hope i punch a hole
right through the mirror
suspended in a vat of this silence
and i hope it turns its volume up
and talks back for once

and all those lonely times, where are they now?

so i'm here, hearing
sprawled oblong on this couch. it's sean's couch
the earth is floating closer. in front of me.
toward me
oh shit it's a piano now
a sad piano.
i suppose her name was magnolia

the earth is getting farther away
it's tied to a church bell
propped up by the starlight
the side of the earth that sunlight
doesn't see
goodnight magnolia

drowning in

i can see the other side
   of this canyon
but 1000 smoke signals
disrupt any communication
with the other side
   so much
   i want
   to scream
but the volume
i would have to
 i. i. i don't...

think i have any more words.
this language isn't complete yet

1

green leaves, about to turn orange
sprinklers spitting out temporary rainbows
all those fallen down flowers
   pink and orange
     weeks to come
       and a bottle in hand
dulled out trash bins through
dirty windows
and not quite as many thoughts
   as usual

feet, ground, forward

fall is clamoring at the
doorstep, wind.
cool air hits the sheets
on my bed in the mornings
long before i should
be awake
it's when i'm cold
and i wake up crying
and my bed feels
like it's four thousand
miles from anywhere else
anyone else

meditate on you or something

i leave myself
in a tree
thinking about the return trip from
some type of sand storm
and i like
to think about balloons
and whatever effect they have
on whoevers foreign economy      (same effect as those butterflies
                                                                               or whatever, right?)
and why the fuck
would i give a worry
to them
i don't think
i like opera
but i'm glad those
fat chicks
have something to contribute

poor donny

fish and rocks, sand on the edges
it's big, and the ocean doesn't care

what's left

i have a problem with
the hole in the backyard i
use to bury my sad
it's filling up
and all i have left
is this starlight, but it takes none
from me
i'll leave you with this

confusion
        questioning

for whatever it's worth
it's all that's left

just for quick

it seems like
8 a.m. a lot
his singing
this is
treacherous.
that
concertina
almost
makes up
for it

sometimes there are
subtle touches to it
and it's enough to
put you on the ground
writhing in tears
spasms of melancholy

but there's work, distribution, reconciliation,
rectifying, refurnishing, zip-tying, copying,
organization, socializing, rebuilding, re re re
8 a.m. and i think society could use this beer
a lot more than i could. it'd do a world of good

pellder

trees stand bare against
this treacherous fog
it's not night,   but you see nothing
          miles apart
separated not only by fog, distance
but by a looming cloud of
not animosity   ..  but of
emotional despair
i fear
   that perhaps they'll
never meet again
    they're gasping
         they're choking
and out of tune
but sometimes..   harmonics match up
it just keeps darkening
the brightest dark
               farther away now
gone

oh dear

i feel like i'm swimming
in a really confused
bowl of milk
not only can i not see
the bottom
but also, this milk is
really confused
and i think i'm aggravating it
by treading milk

this is just initial expression smashed on a website

   thanks for the doorways
      moments aside
these walking motions in twilight
as for what it would be ► i don't know
if i actually had answers,
    or ideas of the future
       i could share
but i'm as confused as the rest
i'm cold, i'm shocked
even the deepest parts of me
can barely sleep at night, past
the initial passing out. i can't sleep
5:29, up at 4:00.              the sip of beer still
in the can is warm and stale now
but was beautiful, adventurous
   you were here

i suppose that's all i can say
except that i have this scratch
on my back
it's accidentally self inflicted
but i wish i had had some reason
to put it there

what i....//

       i want the rain
i want to stand in it, submerge myself.
soak my clothing until i'm shaking
and dripping, until drying off takes weeks
i want to walk in gutters while
            my shoes fill up with tears
            coat themselves in leaves, soil,
and drink wine from the bottle
    drunk enough to fall over while standing

see if this works

dawn, sunrise, dripping onto curtains
my frustration frustration
frustration bundled up

i want to throw it out a window
but i've seen this before
i know the end result
and i know the events

nothing is so pathetic
as a bike race
july 5th, 5a.m.        ...still not old enough
                    ...to really understand
                    ...(will i ever be?)

and losing
not only the race

skies so blue

under a florescent glow
in the heat of the day
still i shiver

i'm nervous, and it's beautiful
but it hurts
a dull roar

i can describe so many situations
that i can see
happening

but no longer can i sharpen
the lines between reality
and my fiction

i'm so still that i shiver

and again

feels like soup today

i want to drink in the trees
swim on the rocks
eat sand and shovel
back the horses trying to stampede.

i want to pillage those
painstaking hearts
of these painstaking todays
and throw back the ones
that don't fit into my chest.

i want to remember what
feeling is and i want
to remember what feeling
feels like.

i want to remember what
feeling is because i want
to know why i'm feeling
this so much.

i want this because i want
to know why not feeling
makes me feel sad
but what does sad feel like?

poem

is this what solitude is?
a crater in disrepair
and fits of the most
indolent turmoil.
it's just because,
just colored yellow
like fingernails.
remember
the son of
god was born
in the dirt

after the math

this is what your nighttime looks like
this is what the light can't outrun
when it can't run any faster

dirt trails
and vagabond sailors
         we have the prince of dublin
      and his homeless brother
                raiding homes and pillaging
                hearts

and my shoes are dirtier than
after movement kept from    b eing cold,
  all of those answers went
untold. it was a good move and i can't stop thinking
   but night skies, river beds
     where do we go with what the wind tells us?
because throwing bones can only last
so long. and when summer ends where are we now?
where are we when the fog lifts,
the clouds part,
the long river
of confusion
  dries up

and a week of solitude gives itself some time to think
it's a walk down the dark roads,
street signs,
green lawns,
car ports,
backroads,
and so many broken bottles
that i hope don't foretell the the upcoming landscape

drunk when i wrote it, the words fell slowly off the page

i'm not sure if words are
  even amiable at this point
but i'll give it a go

i love you

can i even say this?
  i'm not too concerned
after you watch yesterday
stride slowly into the rear view mirror
and exhaustion settles in. you're ready for

a bit


of peace and quiet,
heavy eyelids, giraffe,
stop sign, fuck

and all this dirt on my sweater

sunset on the oaks

sunlight drifting in trees
      meandering casually
she, winding emotionless down
the road, striped dress, light green bike
black hair.

   it had been drunk, and dark
   i had stopped to think but the
   truth of the matter was apparent

the sound of rain
just for me,
          although it's clear out.
  misnomers, and honest water
just silent whispers but it feels
    like where half way around the
    world would be

and back to her, would she even
remember, would she care that i don't care?

^_^ + ^_^

makes me want to fall, sober, sobbing
without recognition, precognition-----
reminiscent and repulsive
my black vial has filled
with tar, and left me
cold in a ditch by the freeway going
nowhere

^_^

i'm not alright i'm not alright
i'll tell you again
it's like these stitches
just keep coming out of the wound
and the cotton stuffing fell out years ago
like your old beat up teddy bear

where?

the old ways didn't keep working the way we thought they could
but we kept it up
growing them in the jar on the window until the crystalline porcelain shattered
amongst the lost flowers in a garden.
the one turned upside down. should have stopped growing.
           like years of history grasping at
so many of those older memories. the times. faded green
on the panels hung to the rotting fence posts.         going. going     going

the last

   
   
        with  glass   and it's half empty now
     with the stains in the concrete   and the walnut shells just working hard to forget
  that they've withered and died without a spring
if they could have seen one more december, perhaps
                                          it's nothing

I'll put all my regrets in this little box for you. Happy christmas

i'll take this in small doses, thank you

as i awoke. rude awakening. hello tom
an hour before the sunrise but light enough
                          to find my way to safehaven.
peeling off the soot, the dirt and memories
in all other cases, likely to have been forgotten.
   left behind on the bench that          (and who the hell was she again?)
watched the first creatures of morning
crawling.       writhing.     flapping and falling

so on the road in a hotel on the road
and that wine tasted good didn't it?
two bottles bought with the elephants
                            observing with their
            cautiously optimistic distance

and i staved off sleep for so long
like some type of prize fighter
      my goal: the end of the bottle,
another set, another dance
i'm ready for                  friday
and i'm ready for conversation
    coffee, drinking, jumping and more
    dancing

it's nothing, really

tumbleweeds on green plains and fields
sunlight lighting up its satellites barren wastes
harsh tundras and dim forests
a small spring running through carved rocks
decaying, over time, the history
it took so long to build up. vanishing before
it knew it was there
rags and riches laid to rest in an ocean bed

but it's so beautiful you could cry forever
and if that forever was something
     you had
never would you give it away
even for all the knowledge of the redwoods
or the nocturnal vision of the most distant stars
stretching their voices across the void of
nothing

roll

hello rocks, i don't need your permission to take this photo.
just
    don't
          move
                ...

edit

curtains on a monday
and hair-brain thought
what are these empty cans doing
why can't it be me, and why is the how
that brings them to where they should be    it's an informal banquet
everyone is invited, but there is nowhere to put it

so i'll put the shovel back into the shed the general frustration back onto the rolling cart
push it down the hill to hide it from prying eyes and gawking mouths
and there's this thing, 'letterlike symbols' what the fuck is that?
if you'll ask what time it is, i'll tell you to shut up
just once more.

charging what i can
and piling the remnants back into
cupboards and closets
tidying up now. and leave it alone

this is for form not function
but i'll take love and lust

remembrances occurrences and lights
at the end of tunnels. welcoming home
the day when you passed out
and she told you it wasn't up to you
it's good to fucking be back

is it 8:00 yet?

back.          to here and now
to why and     when
to the ifs and buts
but i think      i'll keep this one in
to myself.      it's not for anyone else. perhaps you wouldn't get it
i certainly      don't. but it's probably not for me anyway

but you see the people go by outside, who are they; where
do they go?     at night
when you're    asleep and no one is listening.
where are they?

hopping the train

skipping stones, throwing roses
        a rock wall and jumping in puddles
you'll remember the tree forts, grass hutches
the trails and groves and the cold,
meandering breeze that puts your
           sweater on
and back to love and loss
the lonely days, tiresome winters,
afterthoughts      premonitions

but a creekside babble, cold
beverage to remedy the tired sentences
          of regret as the sunset
brings on a separate bit of reality

the night air, moonlight and blindness of
the treeless meadow.         and when
the car can't get any dustier you
brush aside the past and carry on;
   always ascending

who was me?

give me water, and the cold
ocean breeze and salty air bracing to hold
your lungs for a pause, a moment. an instant;

drawing back what conclusions gained have for sought
bring back the arrow and release and watch the
future crumble backwards back down the cliff where
it started. hold on
to the listless gaze of whichever eye held your
attention and think just for a moment
where did i go when this all started?

kitty in a box

got me thinking
the mind sinks roots of carnal
evisceration. exasperation.
confused with exhaustion in a cold
expanse of alpine climate.

and for just a split moment, the ice
melts - -
comes off in sheets, long winded chunks/////
that fade across the valley and raise the
level of impassibility in the
western reaches

All the while an escalation in
that deep chasm, corroded banks, edged turf
and the uncertainty principle
wins again
unless wavefunction malfunctions

waiting for the bots

the old times and how it was
how i was, who i was. it's gone
you get tired, always thinking
that can't be possible
this isn't possible
i'm not tired!
but i will be, i've seen it
and i've felt the autumn before, and again. i'll feel it again soon

up up

it's through doorways, back forth,
down stairs and up again, secrets there,
corners and darkness hiding and whispering
it's back from where you're from and into the wild
searching searching, searching and finding
not what you wanted, but you found it regardless
to there and from there into this out of that and around this corner next to the next one but still in the back if you don't stand too close it won't burn you as you cross your legs trying to look proper but there is a swimming pool that just sits dormant because the pool man forgot the chlorine and instead gave it a miss back to the bar where he waits for tomorrow for lack of interest in today.

suppose you found what you were looking for though. what would that mean
to everyone else after the day was over.
would they be happy
would you?
is it the right decision?
how do you determine that exactly?

not too much fun now

if it stops this will last me all night
there's the motion of leaving
             the perpetual abyss of freedom
       not freedom from living
   but swim was right
i don't want to be in the area of short-sightedness
   we only have this time
       we didn't have last time
            even when you've seen this night
                  upon the precipice of eternity
               we can't stop you from leaving but it's to be so staggering
             earth shattering
           the tears fall like footsteps coming down a mountain
       that couldn't have been the last time
   but that decision isn't up to us

how am i posting without the internet?

new words for learning purposes

spangle - v: to cover or adorn with spangles (which are little fancy metal ribbons as i gather)

speleology - n: the study or exploration of caves

enjambment - n: the running over of a sentence from one verse or couplet into another so that closely related words fall in different line

williwaw - n:
                   1: a: a sudden violent gust of cold land air common along mountainous coasts of high
                       latitudes
                       b: a sudden violent wind
                  2: a violent commotion

yesterday when you got so old

sailing always brought about
this satisfaction
the drifting sense. doing it anyway
but no boat, shoes
the waves aren't water though, they're the fluctuation
of day to day matters. here and there. as you stand by
blue like the tears spilt [the auto-correction thing said this isn't a word but it so fucking is a word]
from the lack of presence
presented in torrents of categories arranged into
pigeon holed
universes just behind the shelf on the last left near
the drinking fountain

what happens when you don't eat?

i haven't got any other ways,
so it stays like the cold in an abandoned theater
                              it stays like the wind on the dirt floors of
                              yesterdays burned down amusement parks

last night

street light paints the trees yellow
and the beer is only halfway gone
and it's a stomach ache, 1:01 am.
from the corners of my eyes i catch
glances of all the things that aren't
there

and i wait for impending removal from the void
of where i'm seated. i'll be ready in the morning

but i think back to brushes and glances
pushing, pulling. the light tug of honesty

as the last beer empties, i look back to the street light
with its glare, there is what wasn't there again
too nervous to stay awake

and a time when you don't recall the distance

but all those nights. and all those times
didn't you remember them
yeah, but not rounds bought, not numbers crunched or words spoken
but the faces are there enough, familiar and
you'll see them as you turn around and catch the
moment with a footstep and a deep breath.
hold it;

it's darker now than it's ever been.

please let me get what i want

the little lights of twilight
just here, just now
and you'll see them because i'll take you there

puddles and pools and the dirt trail put you
up to the top with the vines growing around old
brick structures holding the soil and
plants and trees, people too aloft above
the
creek winding below you. but there's a clearing
and a fresh breath that you haven't had
in years. and. you with patience follow
the curve of a branch to finally glimpse it upward

the night cool as forever and hanging like chandeliers in the fog of eternity

time lapse

by preston and conor

broken and coping

there's a hill with two trees, there's the shadow
indicative of tomorrow
and the sun is low, cradled by mountains held in so much far away
air warmer than earlier and a cool breeze hits you with a sigh of relief
off for the day

as night approaches you see the sky filled with the
                                       memories of the ancients

and as the dreams of the past spy into you
how do you feel after the last sunset ever?

the why of it all

anticipation of this
i'm half a week early but this is already the past
      and the trees have always been like this
but it's like ice melting slowly, dripping on your hand
that gets so pale in winter
or the shadows of summer spreading themselves out
on the dirt in front of you
the path behind
and a marble gaze like jupiter and
that huge fucking red storm in it
   and no one saw where it came from
       but we struggle to pick up unconvincing pieces
 preparing for next time, bracing for the worst

it's common to lack the sense

drink your wine young man. the dreams had
aren't the kind
you need to be having. that withered tree
in the field, that's tomorrow for you

the moment you have is all i'm
giving to you
so don't wait
for the end of
this summer rainstorm

for fun

xkcd.com

I particularly enjoy beer

as the earth splits in half this is the escape i have

when was the last time you had a week
was it a summer or a winter.
                it was a january
there was no snow then, just light mist drifting through hair slowly graying.
no traction on shoes, or time for rest. but walking. and coffee by the pint of beer
              that you had
                after you had the coffee
it wasn't just a week though, it was two and a half of weary movement. impetuous as
the days carried along the fading memory of your life left behind
but it's unreasonable to think you left it, certainly
it was left but it held itself like a feather fights gravity in the wind and
over just as soon. with abandon. with the sidewalks covered in filth. and the tread your shoes didn't have as the footsteps carried the future closer and closer.
                                                                                          just a fucking sandwich, come on
a russian beer and a conversation about this and that. destination? it's coming up.                                     the footsteps are clawing towards some kind of conclusion but always the cards fall from the deck
with cautious precision. and rambling.
hills with greenery supported by the decaying memories of death
of traders and their historic progenies.                                   St. Mungo, who the fuck was he?
just dreary days and monumental evenings always with the
sunset that wasn't really supposed to happen
the haze, the mist, a pint of beer and the treadless shoes finding the next
                                            portion of warmth
over the bridge and you wander and wonder, how many people fell off of this christmas lighted bridge,
a very cold death indeed at the bottom. it wouldn't take long, but it would be so unpleasant
            and the rose remains elusive.

rememberies

an unwelcome invitation and with that the gaze of deception that turns around at you
always at the last minute and right when you expected it, right when you hoped you didn't expect it
you'll always expect it
and it's glasses of wine. it's the cans of beer. they'll come through in the end, right when you hoped you didn't expect it
nights on porches, in cars, in creeks, on porches and
and always again it's there, but you expect it.
but there's not a chance, you're told. no hope, they say.
deception and lies.

moderation?

we do these things because we can
if you want me to limit myself
i'll show you what my limits are

if it never stops i'll be here

i look down to avoid the stare
blank, emotionless. empty
the road ahead, impending

a curve left and the light dims
in a shroud of night (another sun setting)

these mornings, the gray of dawn
the expansive desolate bliss

All the wine turned to vinegar. The days of warm glory are the last before a long frozen winter

tuesdays of failure

the life of forever

i'm a tortured musician. they torture me with booze, with women, with fun times.
but i'm always sad because i'm an american and americans are sad

yellow as the wild western skies

ecumenical

i'm going to be a catholic priest.
no more women, just
booze and drugs
the way of a
true catholic!

Test phone post

welcome to the future, i'm the captain

i don't think that anything is important anymore.
caution, meet the wind. it's a steady breeze
a drink.
i'll play music, and the rest of it.
women, debauchery
it will come and go. the wind, have you met
?
i've met it, tossed about, gale force wind
the only stable thing
the wind
the world gasping at the horrors
my horrors; i've given them to the earth.
i've been to the edge, looked over
walked away. kept. going.
come and gone. going. going. going.

the dreary snow blanketing the meadow like a veil of crushing silence

as it comes
we watch it. it goes

and it's been years
absolute years

but ... an engineer. creating new products
it's beyond me

the law

the average time before computer
hardware becomes
outdated. obsolete. archaic.

6 months
a year? maybe a year

goodnight, on the shelf
shit
dust. collecting it

sound about right; it sounds right
about

these parts
engineering marvels by
masters of technology

6 months

a year
fading like a burnt out bulb

a pop
some glass
darkness

oh right

and it's the moment
of no return

past it on the left, the
event horizon. cascade of dark light
dimming with the distance
put in between
two points

this is this is this
is it
i can laugh and chuckle
choke
and dance

and sing
but the stage
i haven't got the stage
or the audience

monday

with no food and no water.
without the light that usually presents itself. none. with none.
not the ability to get down the stairs, even. tea. television
those are what i have

traces still
a line floating down
through the morning light,
no shadow

stalking the mirrors
the thought
the alcoves

i wonder
had that been seen
among the few, established
was it
listed. enscribed. noted

a minor key
and cool like a breeze
headache

this is

i want the telemarketers to call
me
but they don't

they call taylor,
but he doesn't let
me
talk to them

usually.

i want to tell them to get off of the phone
outside, coffee, walking, sunlight
more important than phone calls

so get off of the phone
get off

the distance of shade

midnight
on the curb, again
blurry

do you see them? there? them?
them
they're blurry

but it's futile to tell
you that they, them
that they're blurry

you know already

it feels like then sometimes like that was that and it was it

it's the feeling in my stomach
the one
that

tells me
that i haven't; i have
now i have to go. to caress the path. road. trail into
the depths of this forest.

it's darker here. at night
and in the backseat
intersection, road ahead

but it isn't like the cloudy days
in the rain

left to stare upward, green trees
gray skies

pay

the only
thing that i like

about

my

paycheck is the money
in

but opening
perforated edges, three of

fuck that

stored

blinking
with memories

with subtle hints
at the past

blinking
it's that
casual stroll
if you can call the stroll casual.

not a long stroll, but still
blinking

friends let

If you're offered a
chance, going, a drink, that
take the chance
taken

it's the music
isn't it?

why is it that
?
that
out of all of it.

suddenly this hits
and it took a glimpse at.
it took a car ride

it took the street lights at
night. yellow. the curb. distance
it took that

good for you

i have this bottle
and i have this mug a
coffee mug


also, scissors music harddrive whirring
the harddrive is old

the bottle is empty
and the mug is too
hot to
drink from


If. I. Were. just to drink it it
would burn my tongue
and my tongue already hurts

It hurts plenty, don't worry about it

this again

if I could just stop lying
to you

if I could release this feeling

something about that, it, whatever
maybe it wouldn't be too late

but it's morning and I'm moving
on tuesday, I'm moving
on

the mornings

a crumpled sheet and heavy breathing.

there is the neighbors dog. yapping

if i just had that gun right now, shit man

shit

if i had that gun right

now

shit

that dog would not be a

forgot

I was going to post a new blog, and I forgot what it was I were gonna blog about!