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