somewhere between shiva and bukowski,
out in the middle of the screaming pacific,
under heavy rain,
we lie.
no one could have dreamed
a more precarious stance,
languid dance,
the only light
left for today
was the kind you see
billowing out
from beneath closed doors
as you set up,
hidden for fear or fun,
anticipating
the long lost drop,
cool water,
fallen from heaven
to these parched lips.
it is the waiting that makes it all worthwhile,
it is the waiting we were waiting for really,
and as such,
the releif is not really anything
more than becoming willing
to start the game again.
all that stands now
between me and the end
is a saint
and an old man.
all that stands in the light
behind the door is you.
the in between is empty space,
room to fall,
just wood and nails,
and waiting,
waiting,
waiting,
for the vacuum to implode
this universe of possibility
that is hovering around the center of this idiot's world...