The music fades and the lights go out,
and she's gone again,
like so many times before.

Silently beckoning me to follow her into oblivion.

Beyond the stage and behind the curtain she waits,
to **** me into one last escape.
One more moonlit escapade over forbidden landscapes with the sweetest of fruit clenched between her
teeth.

To ride carefree and reckless beneath the trees that shield us from our cruel fates' twisted shine.

Once again and for at least one more night,
I am yours and you are mine.
I can feel your pulse keeping time with mine.
A whole universe out-of-whack,
but here's this one thing synchronized.

"It won't last,"
she gasps, with an arrow in her back.

It never does.

My body juts forward with the impact,
and I hold her close one last time,
one more one last time until the next one,
as she whispers in my ear:
"Find me, my love.
Find me again."

You're getting on the ride I just got off.

Oh, it's a blast and I'm sure you'll have fun while it lasts.
Dizzy head spinning colors excitement et al.
A pit of the stomach feeling fear of the fall.
Fizzy scenes fading behind thumping screens and the uncanny feeling that it means everything.
Tingling fingertips and back of the throat drips that sink into an endless pit of elation/pleasure/despair.

You're getting on the ride that i just got off of.

I'll be waiting here after you've had enough.

All the things you think you want
hang precariously from string.

Pretty, precious, fragile things.

Reach out to grab one and they all fall to pieces.

When words form
but the voice is muted,
strings of sentences -
like loose lengths of yarn,
just swimming...
swirling in the currents
of the wash.

They meet,
they connect,
they get tangled up
with each other.

What had before made sense
now swells larger,
more intricate,
more tiresome.

It all converges
into a ******
as the spin cycle ends.

What’ll emerge
is a convoluted mess.



I’m a mess.

And then,
I get hung out to dry.

Walked to the bar through the snow.
There's too much on the ground to take my car.
With weather like this,
there's only one place to go.
Luckily, it ain't too far.

The feelings begin to warm.
The son has left without warning.
The night stretches out in a black blanket of unknowns.

The feelings heat up.
The hair on the back of necks bristles.
The midnight hour has come and gone like a missile.

The feelings are boiling.
The oceans are churning.
The ships have all set sail straight into the eye of the storm.

The feelings simmer.
The son has returned.
A new day is breaking.

All feeling has burned.

If your face were on the moon,
then the world would be nocturnal,
because you're gorgeous
of the drop-dead variety.

If heaven exists, then it's within seven feet of wherever you are.

You're what people wish for when they see a shooting star.

Jungle boots work suprisingly well at keeping feet dry in snow,
but they sure as hell don't keep them warm.

"Why are you telling my any of this?"

"I don't know . . .
I can't really afford a therapist."

A liquid thing.
Somewhere between melting and floe.
A shifting thing,
separating sheets that shroud the unknown.
A spiraling siphon that grows as senses heighten.
A quickening pulse that gathers and glows.

"Man, I thought I told you the show doesn't start til eleven."

No man, the show goes when I do,
to wherever I'm headin'

He glides down the street on free swinging feet.
Slides through the scenes in this ballet of dreams.
The only audience he needs is watching from heaven.

It's a burning thing.
Somewhere between an eruption and candle,
with sizzling skin left behind by things too hot to handle,
and footprints singed into the sidewalk.

It's a shifting of plates inside the brain.
A breaking up of the saner parts.
A typhoon of thoughts and a flame in the heart
that hits the body like an earthquake.