early

the days seem perfect
especially as they run out.
no catastrophy required.
they run out just the same.

how many hours
must I spend
sitting in parking lots
all over los angeles
waiting.
observing oilstains
parking blocks
concrete walks
shattered ancient walls
the adventures of discontent sleepers
spilled everywhere like
the guts of a fallen angel.
the collage of songs,
voices,
drifting from
the second story rooms
passing car windows.
the individuals are so unimaginative sometimes,
plodding mules,
but the intersection of bland colors
has brought about a whole new pallate,
three dimensional sound
the ever flowing mix of 10,000,000 feet,
rythm and rhyme had never been tested so.
it is the soundtrack of another perfect hour spent
waiting out the clock,
either racing
or waiting out
the tide of cars.

I am sure lucky here.
it is all so perfect...

sleeper

back then
the lost kids
we played at being monsters
dragons
bears.
any beast
that had the power
to make us
bigger than life.
invincible.

from kids into boys
some came down
and learned to play more civil games.
still many remained
to stomp through the forests
and pounce from the trees
onto the innocent
unsuspecting
masses
sheep.

from boyhood into men
it became impossible
for most monsters to keep the faith.
appetites for destruction grew
and the cost was too much.
those that stuck it out learned quickly
that monsters and humans don't mix.
put them together
and somebody
is bound
to get
hurt.

over time fewer monsters
and then
fewer still.

these days it seems like
just this one
last beast
locked up in a cage
playing instead at being a man
but keeping one eye always open
for the game,
the chance to reek havoc,
or the occasional random meal.

chomp. stomp. smash. crash.

any combination will do.

dreamer

some days you feel all the years ahead,
and it lifts your heart out of the mire,
setting you to the tall proud walking
of a hero, a statesman, a champion.

other days you feel the pull
of years passed by
when you were the hero,
you won the fight.

these days lift you in a different way,
instead of inspired, aspiring, striving,
you stand tall just knowing that you might never have to do it again.

work.

drifting in los angeles.
thinking about
what
happens
next.

probably should be thinking
about
what
happens
now.






i'll get around to it.
later on.

coffee in san diego.

eras drop like days drop like flies.

it doesn't matter if you hold on like a death grip, they still go, and if you're not careful, you might not even see it happen.

i have been embroiled in a project, trying to fall in love with even the most adverse of circumstances. sometimes it works.

even still, sometimes lately, i fall out of love, and i end up sleepwalking, floating, drifting all day, eyes closed, heart closed, aimless wandering...you'll definitely bust your shins more that way, but it seems that this might be less painful than life when you forget to be in love.

i have to remember:
wake up, fall in love, today is the perfect day.

keep on the project.
stay on task.
nose to the grindstone.

don't stumble though another minute with your eyes closed.

if not for yourself, do it for your shins.
if not for your shins, at least spare the coffee table the horror of another smashcrash spill...

wake up!

fall in love.

today is the perfect day.

observations on car sleeping

almost the last time to sleep in the car.
I don't even need a quiet spot anymore.
I can rest quite easily never stretching my legs, even for a few hours.
I wrap my head in a towel to block out the light and the noise,
cram the seat belt buckle into my back, and pow!
out
like
a
light.

traffic light mebbe.

I rest so well,
it can only mean that I have mastered the deal,
or that I am really, really tired.

makes a couch seem fit for a king.

when a big truck rolls by at top speed,
it is almost like a vibrating bed.

I always liked cars.

it seems they like me too.

hey Colorado.

I wish you could feel me
feel what I feel
when I write
play
see the long day sunshine finally stretching
into the longer shadows of autumn afternoon.
when the air tickles the tips of trees
just so,
dropping a thousand languid days in my lap.
I wish you could know and understand
just one second of what it has been like
standing over here.
but I know where you are standing
and the shadows and sun are a different beast
from the other side of the works.

if I could
I would give anything to show
what it has meant
the miracles that seem to be.

I'd give the rest of my years
every day
just so I could give you one second
for real
you could see
what it is like
and has been
standing
over
here.

thin air

struggling
sweating
straining
to get up the face
to the top
years fighting the gravity
pushing to the peak
when atop
enjoy the view
years in coming
stay a while
sunsets and sunrises
you've missed so many
they were made for you
before you head down stay a while
once you set out to go down,
gravity will take hold
set you to spinning
hard to stop
and go back

at the bottom is the end of your journey.

some folks are so busy struggling
they pass right by the peak.

some folks give up half way and sit on the hillside with a bottle to keep them company.

but look at you.
you've made the grade.
so stay.
enjoy.

don't worry, you've earned it.

Mohawks and chain wallets.

strangest thing.

poor aspiring to imitate the rich,
who steal
culture
art
fashion
language
land
time
from the poor.

save for the time and space,
the other stuff only makes sense
if you make it on your own.

steal away,
put us on the payroll,
when we are edged out
marginalized
locked up
distracted
dispersed
destroyed
by the neverending taking
taking,
all the time in the world,
and all the world in time,
will still be empty
without
us.

seduction.

stand, stand, stand.

kneel, kneel, kneel.

sit, sit, sit.

lie down.

gravity and women
have such a way
of wearing you down...

Nebraska

walking day,
obligitory
transmission melted.
I still like to walk
wait in the gutters
strange corners
with strangers
convicts making good
and the others,
making bad.
it is nice still
to see
smell
hear.

as I walked through the chula vistan mortuaries
j street crematoriums
made up
palm trees line the streets of the dead
I dreamed
inspired no doubt
by the air surrounding,
slow processions
weeping faces
black clad gatherings
sweating it out
in the late summer
late morning sun.

dreams of my death
how I go
where
and the party to follow.

I want to be dropped in the ground,
in the midst of a great corn feild,
under fast moving clouds like today
just a bag of cotton balls
torn apart by a young pup
and strewn across
deep, deep blue.

young corn rustling.
buckets of beer.

I want to fly everyone there,
all the different folks
that I have been with,
seems like a million,
I want to see,
from just up above,
how the dancers
the freaks
the insane
the sane
the pious
the brilliant
ridiculous
brave
old
new
loud
beautiful
mass of people
that have been my life
would all get along.

skylight

hands and head
bleeding profusely
legs spent
lungs burning

cracks like lightning
spreading
it can't take
much more of this.

nor can I.

I could just make good
underneath
safe from the rain
ample space
for comfort
and even a really great life.

but something in me says
that I have to break through
even if it kills me.

I suspect I might die
if I don't...

I wrote this while taking a shit

you might see
a safe quiet place
no speeding cars
neighbors take care
rows of flowers
home in the far off cul de sac
American dream.

these filters for eyes
bent from the beatings
maybe even before that
from just the formation of birth
see
a
dead
end.

I could stay
but I know better
not just for me
but everyone around
the vision persists
and would set me
to burning down
the whole neighborhood
just as a way to make sure I still had somewhere to go.

six billion to 1.

one more time
the dream.
not the watered down
half baked
more safe
easier to swallow
kind of
sort of
close enough
almost
version.

no matter what
after you start
trajectory changes
winds will blow
clouds will obscure
the chosen path
circuits burn
seals give way
every piece and part
of the machine
cracks apart
breaks down
freezes up
under the enormous strain
of lifting this old heap
of dusty childhood
into space.

if you start off half assed
to save on the risk
or the fuel
you'll never even make it
off the ground.

never mind
that flat on your face
up in flames
is a very high likelyhood anyhow.

at least give yourself the option
chance
possibility
that this time could be the one
the great escape
gravity lost
floating
weightless
empty
cool
dark
alone with the stars
is worth shooting for
even with odds this slim.

cold night

when the time for rest
has long since passed
the dreams drop in
regardless
eyes open
5am
spectres
in the cool grey
before dawn.
I'll stay waiting
even one night in ten
makes the whole thing
worthy
wealthy
drenched in love
with the quiet night
far off cars
distant thunderheads
blackened giants
reach for stars
ripples of light burning in thier bellies
as first sun sharpens
glancing off the hanging wires
coiled
at thier post
ready
for the world to begin.

circus tricks

the world can turn upside down
faster than a jugglers twist
and everything you were certain
you didn't know
becomes,
shoving
sometimes violently
all of the old certainties
some from such a long way back
over mountains,
7000 foot peaks
even from before the road began
as a foot path through the grass
some things so certain
they seemed to be the road itself
up in flames
seen surely for what they were
once under the light
of a burning heart.

just things
just tools
for a moment
not the way
not company
only there
materialized
for an instant
to pry through the barbed wire fence
we put up
encircled
to protect the very means of escape
Houdini
at least a hack job anyhow.

now we're loose,
who knows what where when
I will be seen again.

tearing down roads
breakneck
full tilt
tearing down fences.

I can feel the possibilities
in the hole in my gut
where they sat
all along.

FIRE ARROW

at the start
the entrance to the hall
all of the doors
still lie ahead
and as a young man
you can pass them by
like the abundance
that they are.

the longer you go
the more doors are left behind,
the hallway grows shorter
and the possiblity of an end
becomes now conceivable.

the doorways become precious
and every opportunity to open one
is held, relished, considered
unlike the brash
kicking down
of doors
in our youth.

remember from time to time
that the smash crash
of spontaneous entrance
was what made the whole thing work.

remember too
that the doors kicked in
are more likely
to be boarded up
upon revisiting.

some were never meant
for a second chance
these rooms
celebrations of youth
being the best
the fastest
the highest
the farthest
can be left smoldering
in your wake.

I watch the leaves fall today
early for autumn
and thumb the pages
recounting the days winnings
olympic trials
and savor with both things
the bittersweet
of old dreams of youth
as they tumble along
crumbling leaves
grey asphalt
breeze at their backs.

end of a road

living is fueled by the dream.
it animates the substance,
gives a purpose to the machine.

too many risks taken
has left only the nightmares
after so many years.

a fuel of sorts.
repellant,
and the world runs
like ants before gasoline.

morning is for...

blue skies.
hopeful sun.
the healthy joggers.
tires on the road.
cool breeze.
pleasant confusion.
langour.
alarms.
cleaning up.
tearing down.
recovery.
take out the trash.
science.
faith.
listening.
bad news, made by fools...
good news, made by dreamers.
Jesus H Christ.

everything to begin again, even if you stay up all night, waiting for the sun with a sniper rifle.

666

in old towns
I am tired to the bone.
to the marrrow.
to the blood,
sluggish,
crawling through veins
like greasy dust
from the back of the fridge...

old towns
have seen all my tricks,
so I am left
to grimy hands
taco meals
with the chatter
of the stained air
freeways,
trains,
and the ease
of slithering
into my old skin
for as long
as it will hold me together
on this western
sleepy
afternoon
in
my
old
town...

the reason for fat hobos

at first the idea seems perfect.
brilliant, easy.

live on the lam,
out of my car,
soak up couches and floors when I can.

for months now
maybe go for years
but already
I am worn
from the never ending sense
that I don't belong here
or there
or anywhere.
folks seem fine at first,
happy to see
to feel
someone living
on the edge.
then it sneaks up
like a shoeless ninja,
the novelty of the edge
grows dull
and on this bludgeon
one becomes
an interruption at best.
then the edge means
meals alone, always out.
rereading books
just to kill time.
no real sleep.
the cost is enormous.
just the money spent on things
to give a reason
to be
somewhere.
anywhere.
the rest of the money goes into the car
my house on wheels,
my steady companion.
gas and repairs
to keep me running
from job to job,
that I work
to pay for the car
so I can get to the jobs
to pay for the car...
then more food and shit coffee.
the meals, endless lonely meals.
I have never eaten so much.I have at least that one thing left
to remind me
of the long lost comfort of home.

pome

write your book
on a cell phone,

or the backs of napkins.

you will be certain
to keep it

short

but

sweet...

grumpy

when you can see
god in everything
you know
it is all perfect.

that is to me
all the more reason to
fight
be cynical
derisive
sarcastic.

there is god
in the devil too...

orange county

did we lose the war,
if there ever even really was one?

with how far
things seem to have gotten,
I wonder if the battles were just a sham,
the causes balloons,
propped up,
in front of the real deal.
perhaps all of
the Richard Nixons
buttfucking the rising pheonix
as thier legions doused her
with gasoline
to burn
again.
gasoline
and
cum.
quite a statement.
the revolution songs
are piped in...
keeping only ambience
keeping the machine
cool company.
it is really the worst thing,
these safe, plastic cities.
either the result of the war
that we lost so badly,
or the trickery
that we
didn't
even
see
coming...

300 lbs

I find it no small miracle
the force of will
incomprehensible
what some people do
tolerate
to
keep
on
kicking.

Sometimes the knowledge that there is no point
is almost enough on its own
to sell me on giving up
this lonely charade.

To add onto that
rolls of fat
decaying limbs
failing minds
screaming kids
monotony
or any of the other traps
holes
pitfalls
that seem to spring up
on most everyone else.

I can only sit and marvel.

The will.
tenacity.
steady
steady
resolve.

Above all else,
this one thing
gives me hope.

flying home.

from the air
mexico.

rivers of mud, like lost cousins of the missisippi,
winding through the carpeted mountains,
tumbling out slowly through the mists of the years.
the jungle unfurled for as long as the eyes can see,
clouds tickling the toes of heaven,
and the rainbows dropping from time to time
into the living canopy below,
the endless shimmering streams
of gay unicorn gods' urine,
pissing into the toilet of the world...

then interrupted by
the cities that stretch on like los angeles,
only here the shanties replace galleries,
and there are farms on the outskirts,
only a few of these converted to resorts,
golf courses...

highways chasing rivers and crests,
marked by towns of just a few thousand souls,
obscured by the trees,
maybe unnoticeable,
maybe left alone,
families still around,
even after all this,
maybe the hallucination has not permeated the rio grande.

occasional solitary shacks,
high on a peak, or deep in the fertile, green valleys,
and again
even further north
in the red desert,
in the haze of red dust,
barely visible,
horizon obscured
in the brown cloud
of earths passing,
feet stomping,
cars tearing out of angry yards.
through this hovering dank halo
that bridges the gap
between heaven and earth,
even on the bare bones,
stripped naked rock,
there is again the lonely hovel,
dusty trail snaking
from the highways
from the cities.

these lonely places intrigued me the most,
these cultures of one
seeking perfection,
standing all day
in the blazing sun
glaring holy god
as their only companion,
and all that is ever needed
in finding that light
was to step away from everywhere
to one of these thousand little nowheres,
to be from there
away
and into
and drowning in solitude
unprotected,
unsure,
as if there was any other way to find god in this earth,
except scrapping for the smallest handlhold,
savoring the slightest whisps,
years spent
in nothing of consequence
to the teeming masses
in the towns,
pueblos,
cities,
in the valleys,
downstream.

these lost old homesteads,
that seemingly so easily would fall back to dust with the passing of their keepers,
i watch them roll underneath,
and wonder only,
if are they the end of the roads
or the beginnings...

adios.

revolcadero

perdido.

when never again seems to be
about a day,
i have to believe
that i have become either really open minded,
or stubborn as hell.

considering the success
of the adventures that prompt this repeated promise
have been reduced to staggering
for miles
lost
on the mexican highways,
i have to lean towards the latter.
though the open minded side of me
considers the confusion
to be quite
a success.

no matter which i believe,
the falling sun always has a way,
of convincing me
to try
and try
again.

quite
the
spectacular
pusher.

s
u
n
.
.
.

dr. scholls

there is something comforting
about having your life's savings
in the form of a single bill
taped into the inside
of the bottom of your left shoe.

like a little arch support i mean.

dusty streets of la playa bonfil
call for an afternoon
of beers,
hazy sun,
stray dogs,
and a breeze,
just from
time
to
time.

a solution
for this immediate need
is flat
feet
for
me.

i am sure that a solution
to my ever dwindling
money
and insole
will come.

manana.

solo flight

the loneliest days are spent
whiling through mail
wandering bars
flipping the channels
driving long lost roads
into the soul of the land
through the columns of trees
as they recede into the black behind
the red of the taillamps.

the loneliest days
are earned
in much
the same
way.

family fun

seems that with the mexican root canal
comes a hefty splotch
of mexican pain pills.

turns 1 beer into 6
and mariachi
into a thorn
in
my
mind.

nothing new there
but i can say
that the pills
have suppressed
my inhibitions
to the point that
i am teetering
alarmingly
close
to heading
up ten floors
so i can
take
a
piss
on
the
band.

after so many years of rock and roll,
one deserves a little peace and quiet.

deliverance

between the broken legs
smashed feet
coughing
knees
and finally
this toothache
that has had me
drinking scotch since 2
i might suspect that i am getting old.
the single malts are working
the toothache is still there
but i am duller
and apathetic
and feeling younger because of it.

the hotel has opted
for classical
the mexican string quartet
playing the best excerpts from
bach
beethoven
strauss
mozart
and a couple of movie soundtracks

which i don't mind.

anything
just
no
more
fucking
mariachi.

t.v.

wandering backstreets
outside the matrix
i can still feel
her cold
cold
grip
forging
a
paradigm
where
everything
is explained.

flu.

i emerge from the room
alseep for a day
disheveled
damp
lost and confused.

spent by the passing of the virus
not sure weather to sit in bed for another day
or try to pretend like i can function
talk
understand
type
walk.

act like a human being
instead of
a newborn
just out of the womb
disheveled
damp
lost and confused.

of course i wouldn't want to be mistaken
for anyone
in
that
sorry
state.

childhood dream

seems like fever is the best high these days.
best one can hope for anyhow
given the circumstances of who i've become.

finally i get to shudder and sweat
just like i used to.

lose weight and shit the bed
just like back then.

there are people walking in the hall
and on the wall in the hall,
i am sure the latter aren't real.

i can finally be pale
gaunt
black circle eyed.

i can whimper at the sight of oprah on the t.v.

i can tear up at the suggestion in the commercials
especially the ones for long lost animals
and dying children.

i can recoil at the touch of another person.
i have a good excuse.

i can sleep all day,
stay up all night,
eat a whole box of popsicles
only then to projectile vomit them
into the sink
acroos the room
onto the floor
the mirror
the wall

luscious greens
deep blues
and pinks
still soluable
as they drip down
in bile rivers,
chasing my heart
my hopes
my mind.

just like they used to
way back when
before my fall
before i was broken
when i was still sweet
hopeful
empty
and ready for the world to give me the ride.

caminar

sometimes there are sidewalks
sometimes none
then
just walk
in the gutter
scraping dead leaves
against asphalt
and concrete
they are returning
to dust
joining the rest of us
in our seemingly slow decay.

single file
all of the working families
struggling
in the gutters
on their way.

an american couple
in a rented mustang
tear by us
close
i can feel the air
and static in the hair on my arms,
as they yell, "move it, wetbacks!"

seems like
an especially stupid thing to say
in mexico
surrounded by mexicans
south of the rio grande.

none the less
the comment lands
on us
in the gutter
walking.

the others look around
at eachother
and me
shrug
"gringos,"
walk on.

i am somehow included
or at least overlooked.

my tan must be improving.

18

last stop
old mexico
marooned outside the city
with the families
giggling teenage girls
in the resorts.

might be the age of running away
to the crumbling city
following whores
back to small rooms

chasing cheap drinks
from the beach to the town

might be the age
of rest
reason
study
production

death of the young man
who should have spent more time
chasing girls

birth of the old man
who is discontent
with sitting and watching
but knows

it only makes sense
when he waits
and they come to him.

beer and burgers

crawling blue mountains
accelerating
impending
until the tips of giants
tickle enough of the sky
to cave in on themselves
on me
my sorry skull
tumbled along like like a stray dog
at the end of the line
avelanche
deafening white
suspended
still
directionless
surrendered
then
sunlight
air
salvation
hope
next wave
crushed
again and again.
Hawaiians said it was a small day
which makes me feel
fucking tiny
for which I am glad.

leap year

under this endless sun
the teeming masses
bloated
pale
frightened
Midwestern livestock
and
frail
decaying
snowbirds.

eating themselves
day after day
year after year
into oblivion.

I can almost see
their homes
sterileperfect.
their cars
shinygargantuan.
as they would almost have to be
to accomodate the waves of flesh
walkers and wheelchairs.

I can almost see the trinkets
figurines
decorative plates
as they pile up
in their luggage
and then back home.
spoils to be added to the coffer.

I can hear it in their voices
the mundane
bored
desperate
for anything to bring back the spark,
the magic
the reason
the LIFE
that is chased
lost
missed
and replaced
by another meal
a bigger purchase
something novel
almost feels
for one second
like the real thing.

all the time
more and more
replacements in the ranks
sitting in schools
readying for mediocrity
forsaking the dream
for the sure thing.

all the time
more and more
the cities
the beaches
the trails
the country
the dying seem to outnumber the living.

I wonder if it helps
or comforts in any way
today is leap year's leap day!
a freebie!
24 hours that you forgot to expect
plan
schedule
fear...
maybe this one could be spent
not squandered
relegated
avoided.

I can only hope
feebly
as the herd shuffles
lifelessly onto the shuttles
glazed eyes guide
blank stares direct
to the water
in hopes that a soak
in the mana
the prana
sun
for a day
could turn the whole thing around.

"where do you want to eat today dear? red lobster has a lobster feast for 13.99..."

life is sitting in your lap,
all day
even extra days.

hard to see if it's buried under a napkin.
I still hope.

Godzilla

ask yourself
what does it mean
what is possible
when you lose everything
everyone
your old way
even the very favorite tshirt
is consumed by the mess
of the rumbling masses
running for their lives
evacuating the buildings
houses and shops
heading to hide in the hills.

as the last stray dogs
head yelping out of the streets
and you are left
in the quiet
lonely
empty
streets,

ask yourself
why they all left.

something big,
has to be
giant
looming
apocolyptic
amazing.
its coming,
terrific
so why wouldn't you sit and wait it out?
just to see
what happens next.

a blast
tsunami
earthquake
meteorite
or better yet...

honolulu

back stage,
behind the resorts,
the production,
the show,
are the garbage trucks
dirty alleys
smoking Filipino chefs
blue eyed bums
with half full bottles
warm syrupy liquor
all they have to stave off the sun.
grit under fingernails
glass on concrete
brick walls addled with adolescent graffiti.
back stage,
off the main walk,
the beaten path,
real life is happening.
50 dollar blow jobs.Korean restaurants that actually serve dogs dog.
real life the way I've seen...
sooty
grimy
sometimes violent
fueled by the dream.
backstage
this morning
I crawl away from the cheapest
worst whore a man could stand.
I step into the early dawn
splintering brilliance
shade my eyes as they adjust
soak up the shining sky
and listen to the birds
as they lay down the soundtrack
to the beautiful show
we have made
in the alleys
the small rooms
searching
for another player
who loves to play.

glass eye

the more you're shattered,
reduced to dust,
the more is possible
when you put the whole thing
back together again.
peices have possibilities,
but dust is infinite.
at the end I always laugh,
when the last bits come settling down,
and I have the chance to look around.
from here is a girl,
a trip,
some trees,
backdrops and buildings,
empty,
full,
open,
closed.
dark.
darker.

what comes next.

the puzzle,
the path,
lost at sea
without a map.

some think it's a problem.

I thought it was the point...

couchroom

the only place i never snore
is sleeping on a couch

the years of training have finally paid off!

i am used to it.
i need it.
i want it.

i am finally a world class something.

couch surfer.

when i finally make it
in the books
the magazines
the records

or some long lost rich relative dies,

i will have a home,
a studio,
a car maybe,
some great women lounging around the brand new above ground pool i have just installed in the front yard to my neighbors dismay...

the bedroom will have a bed,
but that will just be for
fucking
sucking
screwing.

then, right next door
behind a solid
soundproof
wooden door.

will be a nice long couch,
that i will sneak away to
after i have had my fill
of whatever
whoever
has taken my bed.

even when i'm rich
it just will seem
to make more sense
that i sleep
with
the
dogs.

foot

broken bones
don't hurt so much
as
broken
hearts
loves
promises
plans
families
ideals
dreams.

they do make you limp and hobble.
in this strange city,
with a thousand miles of sidewalks
the gated steps add up
and make one think
a heart break
might be
okay.

acid

believing in another soul
is a bouey in the midst of this sea
of cynicism
and empty bravery here.

they seem fewer and far between these days.

my childhood friends and me
we would set
out to the far end of the schoolyard
past the swings
the baseball diamond
to the blank cold blacktop
away from the crowds
jeering ropers
the sports
who were always bigger than us
enough to be a problem.

standing way out
the farthest distance
afforded the greatest view
and space for us to think out loud.

we considered physics
science and philosophy.
we would speculate out loud
about the implications of which direction the falling of the snow took.

we were amazed by our prowess
as the incredible information effortlessly poured out our mouths
tumbling with snow to the ground
only to be replaced by another grand vision
and another
and another.

we believed so much.

but science and time would come to prove us wrong on most counts.

it turns out that atoms aren't held together
by small ropes,
not all animals are reptiles,
and the space program certainly didn't start
at the high school down the street.

many years later came the mountains of weed and lsd,
which would come to ultimately prove us right.

but not till after i had stopped beleiving.

not till after all of the souls around me became the water in which i was sinking.
flopping.
straining to stay afloat,
gasping for breath
as i scanned the horizon for just one.

birds

whats left to say
when the bottom drops out
of the whole thing
the whole mess
and love.

everything that was once at the center
peripheral now at best.
the lines are strained to stay connected
tight and humming with the vibrations
alluding to the inevetable collapse
that must come at the end.

when everything tumbles
falls
dissolves
burns
crawls
away.
away.

what is left for the broken heart.

start again,
from the bottom.

looking up is always a nice way to begin.