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write it down

My notebooks, you're losing reception; your struggles to channel me back to the places you once brought me have become utter failures. Are you dead when nobody is paging through you? Does the past need to sneak its glances just to look at you? Because so seldom am I satisfied with the glances that I take in hindsight.

My interior is now the pity that I pride myself in. The decisions I've made dance in tiptoed circles around the few ideas I still even attempt to entertain. They're becoming immortalized as the symbols of my brittle volition, my flawed free-will. Let go of them, tighten the bite you've got around the nerves you've been teething on. My nerve's been orphaned; I can't help but notice it when this, this and that could have all become something else; could've been avoided entirely; could've figured themselves out completely.

The uncouth words and colloquoy I've been putting forth are now speaking louder than ever - for the sake of misinterpretation.

They wanted to tell you that I stopped feeling your sunlight stretch across the hairs on the backs of my arms. I stopped feeling it crawl down the sides of my neck. I stopped feeling it as soon as it was established that some vacuous obligation was required for us to survive in each others' company. I can't do a thing about it, so from now on I'll try to catch myself from slipping mid-sentence; maybe when I'm on the verge of spilling some secret or some toilsome detail of my past.

And instead, I'll spill a few brainless one-liners and offer up the last weak chuckle I can muster from whatever clarity I've been trying to fake. And I'll write it down. And I'll try to laugh.

And I'll write it down.

Slipping down the serrated air, scattered white soldiers
parachute from every inch of an infinitely expanding void;
a nulled grey screen obstructing all views of the vagrant
sun. Legs offer a ride but won't tell me where in fear of
spoiling surprise. So from opaque windows I watch a canvas
so bright I have to squint. Emerging, soldiers still coming
down; their emancipation of my constraint indoors slowly
somersaulting. And I, so defeated by the sight of snow, am
somehow relieved that time isn't speeding by as recklessly
and rapidly as it does for some. But still, I've never been
this disappointed by their return, piling themselves
in our cities and streets and stubbornly surrounding our homes.

the hand

motionless, at rest
and struggling to stay asleep,
we're never really sure that we can hold them still

while harnessed like death

in some five-legged form:
a thin bodied creature
continuously trying to kick the lid from its casket

in some type of reincarnation

rebirth in action,
filled head to toe
with the innate urge
to move

or to soar
like ideas through time,
hopping nickel fences
dancing,
weightless,
all limbs jumping heavily about

crushing all in reach;
water out of stone,
strongest grip known to man,
the softest as well.

a jointed seesaw, quickly
shifting direction with a comforting touch;
pause the tap on the shoulder

a pillar;
support
strongholds for balance
we trust our lives to

some great rock; a weapon used
as we cast stones
and drag them
constantly weighing us down
and trailing behind us

and ultimately
i feel
it's a beckoning call;
heedless employees
hired by luck and default
whose words we live by
and die by
and bless by
and kill by
hurt,
comfort
and help ourselves by:

an unlimited source of agents
disguised as five-digit numbers
like subtle qualities of the hand.

it means

I am no longer concrete; rather I am a timeless idea, drifting multi-directionally throughout the legroom of space and time. Sometimes I catch myself longing to be remembered in a strange ambiance that I was once discovered in. On a few of the warmer nights, both their ears rang gently with quiet rounds of nervous laughter. Uncertain hopefulness was the condensation on the windows. The sounds of sheets echoed while sirens sang along. Snowflakes were not falling, but the walls were on their way down and though they crashed, I became the strange ambiance in the room.

But the warmer nights grew cold and the laughter stopped.
The sheets still made the same noises but there was no more song.

Something happened to the song.
It was no longer concrete.
It was a timeless idea being reached for by a yearning hand.
That hand trembled under the weight of nostalgia.

ideas from 5:53

I remember when it still felt like I was sitting on handfuls of time; I used to imagine huge clusters of all the moments I had left parachuting around me, patching up tiny segments of the ever-stretching void I’d created in my temperament. Well, needless to say, that stopped.

I had visceral feelings of uncertainty that I became afraid to check on. Somehow, I was under the impression that I was still smiling when the images of different futures began shifting and trading places like chess pieces. All the details spilled recklessly onto the board.

Long story short: I sacrificed a few of my pawns, gained a few of the more charming pieces I thought I was supposed to be looking for. I thought that was the point. Oops; it looks like some mutant, fucked up precedent led me to that conclusion.

Fantastic.

Well lately, these pawns have become more like lions clawing at my doorstep. I’m not intimidated. It’s more like I’m deciding whether to tell them to back the fuck off or just open up the door so they can maul me and call it a night.

But yeah fucking right.

I’m leaving those pawns right where they are.
And if I have to, I’ll kick those lions right in the motherfucking balls.

I’m more than willing to defend the way things have been going.

like mornings

a dusted plane blindfolds my eyes seals my mouth and my teeth are cold like mornings when our lives vanish into thin air the only trace a tightly-knit string of memories death is a wide relentless galaxy of cavernous black holes which our consciousness is pulled into but gently and when it crosses my mind i see that my mind will someday cross it too and i realize that we've all got problems the ones we still can't solve when ill-repute is just a question that answers itself briefly burrows in deep and digs even deeper down inside each of us.

and they touch their foreheads together just like

"Enough waiting,
leaving,
faking."

Simply stated: enough is not enough.
So no more night-treading,
bedsheet-tiptoeing,
rebirth, art.

"It's disgusting
when you pick your head off the floor;
it's vile."

No more, 'till tomorrow,
the day after, the day after that.
No more solitude
in crowded beds, minds or rooms.

"No fucking more."

Throat's cached, aching from an entry
an excuse made amends with sulken eyes
and the world sees
and knows
and wonders:

How do they look each other in the eyes
when they fuck?

reactionary

when the end came
in the cool dawn of a serbian spring,
compromise paved the way.
he, himself a crusader
cut some corners, played the inside game.
the great puritan is at it again;
to drive out evil, to count his crimes.

but there is no such thing as a new day dawning.

in the cool dawn of a serbian spring,
not all shivers come from the cold;
by the end of today, we decide whether to hold hands,
to jump off the cliff together,
to win a lonely battle we've fought for years.
we decide whether to abandon old loyalties
and make a leap of faith.

but there is no such thing as a victory.

it is out of the question;
the cure may be worse than the disease.
we, ourselves crusaders,
cut some corners, played the most potent vein.
by the end of the day, how much will remain?

we are here,
yet the earth's climate does change.
and that is precisely what is happening.

Movement is always at halt in a mind afraid of wondering, asking or telling.

There is a subtle discouragement of questioning, even alongside all of today’s problems; our eldest traditions are still enforced as change is immediately framed responsible. Without the chance for failure, shall impending revolutions stand to falsely take blame? Perhaps it’s time to undertake something completely unorthodox, simply to prove it so; give it the chance to bare its faults. There may be no definite or truthful answer, but unless we constantly ask this of ourselves, the possibilities will still remain unexplored.

There is little time left to live in a schedule filled with worry about living. So, if all of this is completely incorrect, please provide to us a valid reason to fear change. Then, we'll make sure that our problems lie not only in that fear, but also in fear of the possibility that anything worthwhile is a risk.

If only we could learn to stop everything; perhaps then, we could finally learn to set things into motion again.

Grandfather




It's been years since I've moved; all of them spent protesting sign language with missing limbs, deaf now to the words I haven't the audacity to force out. Dare me to speak and I will simply pose my hands forth; doves in flight. Take or leave, free of charge, twisting and beckoning and begging for your touch.

Fluttering.

It's been years since I've moved. Comfortor has taken me; pinned me beneath its talons. Its light surrounds me, day by day, and I'm quickly forgetting the comfort of the night. My eyes have closed, no longer masked by the bright cherry shade that once teased these mornings. No, I can only see White; angels slowly orbiting my body, their eyeless faces like wolves, a black Atlantis dripping from their teeth. Snow is falling around me, tumbling from crooked wings of ash and sinew.

Fluttering.

I am but one of an entire generation; the children who had lost hope in dreaming, still yet to reach birth. But even I can feel the archfiend in your stare as you slither between my ribs; tongue always lashing, lungs always warning me not to move. Whether we're loving too much, hoping too much or feeling too much, there is always comfort to be taken in one guarantee: we will always be condemned to the fate of living in snake skin. We are damned to paralysis, though our spectres will continue on and on; no longer hoping, no longer feeling.

...But fluttering.
We are all still flowers in bloom.

Flora Del Sol

At the unripe age of seventeen
The Earth collapsed beneath our feet
Amidst the lucid dreams and lack of sleep
Bringing balance to our heads

And it cried, "Help, Lord!" to the hollow moon,
So jealous of our afternoons
Spent heating twenty dollar bills
Just to escape our heads.

As the oceans pushed all of our towns
Deep beneath the splitting ground
Old Luna just came right on down
To laugh and watch us pour into the sea

But as we drifted, holding hands
Your eyes turned blue with rescue planned
As you begged me to understand
Why I had to let you sink and set you free.

As any dreamer would suggest,
I still remember your face the best,
Backlit by Helios and his guarantee
That I'd never have to live to see the end.

The Baptism Of Emily

In a dream I found a letter
From a girl named Emily,
Her handwriting swayed up and down
Like smashed piano keys
It read, "I find no use in hiding now
From the waves crashing in my head
I'll just sink 'till I'm reborn a ghost,
Shipwrecked and cold instead."

Well I woke up near a window,
It was about quarter to four
I glanced outside, down by the docks
And she was standing by the shore
So I ran out to the water
And tried to grab her by the hand
But when she jumped, I watched her fall
As young boys fought to pull her in

(Pulling, and pulling, and pulling)

And they're all laughing;
Watching the sunlight spill like gin
As it swallows up their pupils whole
And leaves stabwounds in their skin
But they're still laughing
Just for the sake of a good fuck;
I mean, Hell, we all want to believe
But we just don't want to
Push
Our
Luck.

I sent her landslides and radio signals
When I found out she'd survived
But it's been longer than a lifetime now
That she's spent under the knife
Her body's bent beyond repair
With cuts and bruises everywhere
My prayers were no helping hand
But now, I finally understand

That it only works for the lonely
Or for those too crippled to cry
Or for those children who believe in God
'Till they meet a man with glass for eyes
And when they stare and talk to him,
Their reflections join right in
To convince them that no God could build
A world so full of sin.

Now I'm waiting for a finale to cut into
A lifetime spent wishing I'd jumped in with you
But I can't pray and I can't grieve
My precious Emily;
At her home in the water
Where I only wish she'd thought of bringing me.

I Am Yield


There's something growing deep inside of me that I simply choose to ignore.
It's getting larger, getting heavier. I'm still not sure whether or not it's
legitimate to say I never saw it coming or that I didn't even know it was there.

I've just been forgetting what I know to protect what I have yet to find out.
After all, what you don't know can't hurt you. Unless you remember; you get a
cold reminder from the world around you. But I remember lots of things; flying
off some tangent on whatever the last thing was that I was talking about; talking
to somebody, looking down at the floor; running down the walls, jumping up cliffs.

And what do these events have in common?
Each time, what exactly was I doing?

Each time; talking, talking, talking. My words just don't have enough momentum
to reach any ears. They just fall to the floor the second they leave my mouth. I'd
pick them back up, but they aren't worth the effort anyway. So I've been told,
so I've been reminded.

Either way, I couldn't re-launch them quickly or powerfully enough to be heard.
I've learned it time and time again. It may be in my best interest just to look
down at them for a while; maybe analyze them, maybe just take a quick glance at
them. I could just leave them there for whoever wants to try their luck with them.

And it's just my luck that I can't stop thinking about driving; just getting in
a car, riding on top of all those words, recollecting whichever I choose. I could
simply adjust my speed to the conditions and road signs; slow down when I see
certain people, speed up when I see certain others.

When you watch your own reactions to certain people, it's interesting what types
of parallels you can make to the road. Drink up, speed up, slow down. Observe the
situation, proceed with caution. Watch for oncoming people and cars.

Just as the combination of everything in the world is like a long road, each living
person is like a road sign.

I am "yield."
And people slow down far too much whenever they notice I'm there.

Sleepwalk


So march in circles; go picketing. We've all prayed for the same sad fate; the short, sweet-faced one that nobody ever forgets. It's a quick and easy birth, a proper life and the same damned place to die.

So beg for the Hand to come down from the sky; a large fist from the blue to compliment the Sun. When it opens up, we'll walk right on. Fingernails and all, we'll live off the Land; excavate the Dirt and the Grit.

Somebody once told me it's possible to live forever; to lie down between fingerprints, nurturing our homes as they nurture our souls. But is it possible to trust?

It once crushed us into dirt; nobody survived. The Hand turned itself over, our rooftops caved in. Our books became hats for tired summertime scalps. Insomnia set in; the Living Dead walked our streets, and they were us.

We trekked on and on, following the crescent moon as it outlined our Horizon. We just kept walking until finally, we fell asleep.

Now, we've called it Lost and we've called it Forgotten, but it seems to me that we're still drinking it up, chasing it with rusty needles and knives. Our haunted streets are just horizontal lines plagued by faulty hopes and faulty design.

We're still asleep.
And every line that we walk is just another excuse that we try.