this child of mine

"If you don't have anything to fight for, then you just shouldn't be a pirate."



"Are you just a mess when no one is around?"

our

And we just keep
mouthing that we are
in love, in love at
sight and touch, all four
or five of us, knowing
we aren't in love, because
here we are, all poets,
chanting about the
nudes of God and
the moon, dancing
in hammocks to
James Taylor and Joni
Mitchell. We are not
better than hot,
not better than bouillon. Just our
bicycle wine and our
souls borne into our
palms, our children in
our veins. Better than
nothing, ourselves all
disjointed and interwoven
like these too short eight-
year old sweaters. Just
with these boxes and these
bottles we are going to make
the world a better place,
saying we'll get married
in five minutes, get
married on Sunday.

the scene

imagine you are flying on a rag made of steel linen, and all that is left is barbarous ruins beneath your glass slippers, were you to step down.

"i've spilled everything!" she cried, gleaming down, actively alarmed, at the bottle of absinthe. quickly, he unbolted each of the radiating plates, adopting them into the flowerless breeze. they rose, not holding hands, but strung together with sautered ropes of stardust; hidden.
"it's ruined!" she sobbed, sounding like anarchy itself. he smiled to her, understanding nothing, knowing that he loved her strange sounds and skin, and the glittering transparency of her feet. 

t a l k

"I did my best, it wasn't much. I couldn't feel, so I tried to touch. I've told the truth, I didn't come to fool ya. And even though it all went wrong, I'll stand before the Lord of Song with nothing on my tongue but hallelujah."

I can't find a single pair
of open arms
in this scattering room
that is a world -
an entire, rushed,
shattered railroad of
constantly falling tears
blinded, silent screams
shrieking internally
for someone,
somewhere or when
that she knows.
Everything's smashed
on an open window
Forging, frightened,
blackened, reneglede,
fragmasdulus -
entirely inarticulate
a shambled mess
of unspoken and
unreached, trying to
breathe -
just for a breath.
Swim and scream
and bleede.
Bleed thick blood,
coated in reminisce,
slipping away
and away and far
more than far
more than what
lightning can touch.
It can touch me,
the unreal -
the unwritten.
What if I had lived?

"I come to the garden alone."

I'm going to miss your voice. It's so deep and calming and I feel like it goes straight to my soul. I'm going to miss it on the phone, and in bed with those late night, almost asleep "love you"s.
I'll miss your laugh and your smile and your goofiness and your idiocy and your honesty, and your loyalty and your morality and your manliness.

"The night will have no stars and you'll think you've gone as far as you can get."

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e art h

"This is gonna be one of those nights."

The theme is reckless,

Substantially tamed

Rather--famed.

Saving, reveling,

The inquiry of 

Saints and celibates,

Of who we are

And atmospherically 

Where we're flourishing.

"Maybe if she was thinner then he would have stayed."

A real feeling

Drinking, frenzied,

Drinking, drinking,

All the while thirsting

A Gregorian protocol

In the sky,

In our palms,

Plastered behind our eyes,

Fluttering against lamination.

Everything is presentation.

"Look at this photograph. Every time I do it makes me laugh."

attempted verbalization

It feels like...

The end of a really incredible book that has a sequel.
Wilderness.
The TASTE of hot chocolate in summer.
That moment when an umbrella pops open.
Scarlet and navy and off-white, but not all at the same time.
A balloon of deep purple plasma filling inside of you.
Wanting to taste a scented marker.
A fire too big for a marshmallow.
A saxophone and a banjo and an opera singer all at once.
The second before a roller coaster takes off.
Screaming and pine needles.
A scrambled alphabet that makes new colors.
Sunshine and thunder.

...not always.

13113

moonlight, if fictitious
     or residual,
anything is nothing
     that isn't you or me
keeping, moving, swaying
     farther and surreal
into every dream,
     painful, perfect, poignant.
now breaths are sparse
     and heavy
galloping through our hearts,
     passion,
like vitality,
     everything alive,
offering all that remains
     sensory--
vivid, as searching angels in
     lightning sounds.
ever new. ever beautiful.
     here is our fall.