That's one hell of a spider web,
but I like the way it vibrates.
If it takes two to tango then how many more do we need to tap dance?
I think I fell out of the Conga Line and into the river.
These **** shoes will be the death of me.

That's one heaven of a flower arrangement.
Congratulations on your spatial awareness.
If I had a few more of these then I think I'd finally be able to understand the extent of our particular disease.
It seems we're always partying on a molecular level.

I don't proclaim to know the half-truth of secrets spoken in ancient tongues.
It's all a bit too convoluted,
but if you pull this tab right here then the whole thing comes undone.
And yea sure,
maybe now we're more vulnerable but that just makes it more fun.

Everything is quiet.
My soul's all but silent.
The voices in my head a dull murmur.
A whispering susurrus.
At worst, a distant cicada's rhythmic chirping.

Drunky McGee,*
that's my nickname for her,
though lately I wonder
if it doesn't also describe me.

Never look down on a man with a dream,
for he is master of his own destiny.
His path in life may seem clandestine,
but he knows what he wants and he knows what he means,
and he's willing to sacrifice everything to make it happen.

I wonder how many people have ever felt like this before;
Cowering with the knowledge that there's a rhinoceros on the otherside of their door.

She says I'm just a little too lonely for her.
She says she can't be bothered by a lone ivory horn.

But I was born to wallow,
in a puddle that the better beasts know to avoid.
I was born to swallow mud and cough up fertilized bone;
to choke on marrow while distant gardens grow.

She says my spine can't seem to find the right way to write itself.
I told her she's wrong.

I told her that I can write like a mad man,
that I can grip words and twist them with burning fists that punch holes through preconceived notions like some sort of metaphoric hadouken.

She says it's too vague,
that I've been swept up in the plague of Easter-eggs and internet memes -
that my bad posture and pessimistic mentality are just a reflection of how broken things really are.
Basically, that I'm part of the Problem.

She says that I'm ******* in the wind in a river that's flowing downstream;
That I'll never be able to reconcile the difference between real life and just dreams.
That I'm swimming in ten different types of reality and the only one that should matter to me is the one I can't seem to see.

She says a lot of things,
but I've had it.
From here on out,
I'm not listening.

Went to bed and dreamed of getting my *** kicked by the Queen of Earthquakes.
Six hours later and I'm waking up with a headache.
Hid from the sun beneath sweaty sheets.
The only thing that gets cold here is the space in our chest.

Road the bus with a load of automatons withered with rust.
Scanning the seats with dead-beat eyes.
Hey, would you mind if we traded places?
I like the window seat best.

Paperclip trebuchets wage war in front of ignored spreadsheets.
Just another day in paradise,
but now I think I feel a stirring between my legs.
Here we sit waiting on a disaster to speed up our slow demise.

But all that aside, the thing is that when I stare into her eyes I can feel my feet sliding -
Carrying me toward the tittles in the middle with a gliding force that can't be avoided.

i think i might like her a little.

Thin walls.
Ear plugs.
Windows.

Whatever, do what you gotta.

Shut it out or let it in.
Bring on the feast:
Let the games begin.

Perhaps I should've thought twice before partaking in this hike.
My legs are killing me.
I'm tired all the time.
My dreams only remind me of all the trips that I've had.

There are some people,
these are their thoughts.
Here are some arrows:
Aim for the heart.

It's not until you start swimming toward the shallows
that you discover how deep of water you were in.

Liquid ladders melt beneath every step.
I'll hold it in place so it doesn't shift.
Two levels up and three looks back,
at some point we lost our grip.

Dream on you maddening dream thing,
with shakes and scattered breathing.
Shattered moonlit scenes spilt out in technicolor.

Dream on in tickling breezes,
and coughs and spasmic sneezes.
Dream of falls and rises.
Dream on, oh great Dream Mother.

Sow these seeds in hallowed ground.
Furrow through common sights and sounds.
Grow your beasts in wild silence,
then echo out their roars.

Dream of mazes and ancient riddles.
Find the key to unlock all doors.
Dream of worlds both big and little.
Dream on you dreaming angel.
Dream more.

Sluiced in the veins through a pinprick,
thick blood spills back with the remnants of disastrous destiny.
Telekinetics pour out through gaps in the brain with a voice that booms,
"You'll never get away from this."

But here's the part where it slips into the space where no one can contain this wholesome emptiness.
Here as one and all together in the void where we'll swim forever.

Splashed at the flesh with a wrath that can't be contained.
Wholesome emptiness sluiced in the veins.
A ripped up fate whose tattered remains blow in the wind
in a secret coded pattern that can't be interpreted without telekinesis.

But here's the part where it's all torn apart,
in irregular rhythms like the beating of your heart that stops and starts,
and starts, and stops, and stops, and stops.

Here as none and all of no one,
a thick void to drown in forever.
A voice that screams in scattered patterns:
"You'll never get away from this."

The crownless head is unbearably light,
while the body floats off into the night,
with limbs popping like balloons against a jagged sky.

Fools pressed and folded inside paper walls.
The echo of one passionate wail can tear this whole thing apart,
but to think twice would be to think for far too long.

The trick is to convince yourself that you're not only dreaming.
That this scene features more than just one meaning:
To wake up screaming in a silent movie.
To spew vibrant ***** all over these monochrome paintings.

(To dance in a bathroom while the discharge of bowels are drowning down the bowl.)

To crease rays until your shadowed mainstay bathes in fire -
stealing meaning from featureless things to replace the ones you've been leaking your whole life.

I saw him take off,
launched headlong into the stars,
with gold and orange sparks spiraling out of his arms.

I wondered if he was afraid
to be alone up there with all that empty space,
forever out of reach.

But then maybe, it's not so empty.
Or maybe, he's okay with it.

Here for the rush, we all wait in line
just for a small dose of turpentine.

I've spent too many years trying to change the color of these streetlights to match that of my whimsy,
and I'd just as soon remain alone than to have you right here with me.

When an unseen breeze pushes these leaves to dance as shadows down my street,
I can't help from thinking:
This is beauty.

"Hardly the most,"
said the wisp to the ghost,
as they proposed a toast to the end of their days.

"Once lost, twice poisoned,"
lamented the withering roses,
with their thorns pricking those who had given up on their purpose.

Here hangs a garden of all that is worthless,
with tendrils that seek the necks of poor souls.
Drooping from branches like abandoned puppets,
without an audience to take in the show.

Death sows seeds where no plants grow,
but the dead tread there, and they want you to know
that no matter how hard you try, no matter how much you learn;
everything is flammable,
and one day you'll burn.

Oh ****.
Oh no.
I've slipped into a slippery dance with all of the things I've always feared, and all of the things I'll never know,
and I can't tell anymore if it's joy or sadness that causes all these tears,
but it hardly makes a difference, so long as I can still feel this:
a precious presence in the bones;
a song sung by the body that makes me feel not so alone.

I'd kiss you on the forehead.
I'll kiss both of your eyes.
Remembering to feel alive, at least until we one day die.

If I could manipulate time, then I'd put us both in the same instant,
to breath shared air,
if only for a minute.

Gravity with its heavy hand would have something to say about the way you stand.
Get out while you're still upright.
Get out while you still can.

I slid into a time portal that turned into a home.
I hid the lessons I forgot to learn underneath a rotting poem.
I leaned against a no-one and found out who I was.
I did it all to feel alive,
and/or just because.

Compassion is rare these days.
It's always been rare,
but you've got it in spades.

I'd tell you to beware;
not to just give it away to anyone -
that it's possible for it to be drained . . .

but I'm pretty sure you know better than I do,
and that it doesn't work that way.

When you were around, somehow,
you made everything seem more magical.
I haven't thought about you in such a long while,
(if you don't count going white whenever your name is mentioned,)
but if you still read these, then I hope,
at least,
that this one makes you smile.

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"It's raining skulls again," sighed jelly head,
with his brain leaking out from his nose.

"Nevermind," she said
with a tissue in her hand;
"Skull rain's good for the bones."

Sub-human thing.
Unsubtle sting;
a barb that pierces.

My body sings a song that echoes owl screeches.
The moon, it gapes;
my one escape to the farthest reaches.

Out on the fringe, my fur is tinged by embers burnt into the skin
to be met with gnashed teeth and claws that grasp at meat within.

Sub-human form;
body transformed into a nightmare.
A howl that drowns out all and every modern trapping.

Run away and I'll give chase.
Red blood boiling through my veins.
Tearing flesh with filed fangs;
enamoured with the taste.

Headbutt a field of daffodils.
Uppercut a pair of shears.
Fall asleep on railroad tracks.
Throw a wrench into your gears.

Kick a chainsaw in the teeth.
Do a backflip into quicksand.
Take a bath in sleet.
Eat your own hand.

Sleep in a bed of cement.
Bash your head on concrete.
Throw yourself into a volcano.
Cook your own meat.

Swim in a tsunami.
Surf a typhoon.
Drown yourself in madness,
but please just do it soon.

You have to listen to all the ****** things the people on this side of the fence are saying about the people on the other side.
Meanwhile, you have to deal with all the ****** ways the people on the other side are treating the people on this side.
After enough of this, you'll start to get the sense that people are just pretty ****** in general.

Sense is a scene of collective meaning where prevailing modes of thinking swarm up in a mighty hand of insects with the intention of slamming down upon some unsuspecting bird.

Feel a solemn rhythm,
but please don't force it.
Clamor towards a common goal so you can value what your worth is.

Take a step back or two, or three, or four or more,
but there's no turning back from destiny after you've walked right through its door.

So take those strides with confidence, and even if your feet may falter;
they'll always be someone to worship at your designated altar.

Force the beat to match the feet of those whose are out-of-step.
Catch the break that falls from grace at the top of unfathomable depths.

Kick the can to show The Man that you can thaw the world they've frozen;
no amount of pesticide can **** the garden your plants grow in.

There's a storm abrewin'
and everyone's gone insane,
but I've never been much of one to mind a little wind and rain.

There's a prevailing sense of panic,
but I've got Bob Dylan in my head,
and I bought a pack of smokes 'cause you can't smoke 'em when you're dead.
And if it is my time to go,
well then I'll make good food for worms,
but if it's not then I'll give thanks for shelter from the storm.

I'm a nothing, and you're a non,
so let's get together and be someone.
Ford the rivers without a gun,
so who's ascared of a hippopotamus?
Beneath four three-toed legs, I'll swim towards some goal.
Hard-pressed against the net of chaos.

Here's a thrashing;
here's a lashing;
here's a joke to keep them all laughing.

There's a leak to keep them from speaking.
There's a lapse to keep from collapsing.
Here's a perfect ship sinking in order to crash their modes of thinking.
I swear I've dreamed of enough escapes to keep myself from clapping.

The woods are wonderful dark and deep,
but really I should get some sleep.
The patterns in my head are gold and red,
but really I should go to bed.
What dreams may come aren't always kind,
but don't be afraid to close those eyes.

Life's a mess but nevermind.

You take life too seriously,
and it's really quite a shame,
because life's too serious when taken that way -
it's better to play it like a game.

You should get a tattoo.
Something whimsical and fun,
like the Keibler elf riding a dolphinicorn -
Man that would be so awesome!

You take yourself too seriously,
and I'm pretty sure you do it on porpoise.
Listen: just because you got a dumb tattoo
doesn't mean you're worthless.

That's where I found it, but it's not where it was,
so I'll pick it up and put it somewhere else just because.
This is what it looks like. This is how it walks:
like a quarter machine capsule on a pair of chopstick legs.
Cup it to your ear and you can hear the ocean lying.
Lie down on the sand and you can hear the mollusks dying.
A storm is just a bunch of sad clouds collectively crying.
This is the part where you float away.

I've never had the most solid sense of direction.
I've this bad habit of getting lost;
first in thought and then, well,
literally.

But I've written things this whole time,
and every line is an arrow so that I can find my way back.
Back to some kind of bliss.
A state of mind that I can no longer feel,
but I know that I miss.

But isn't there a part in that story where the bread crumbs have been eaten by birds?

I can't remember.

"I can't say," he said.
His whole body shaking.
"I can't. I uh. Oh, ****. Ah,"
while his teeth pulled out of their sockets.
His whole frame dissolving to pieces.
Eyes popping like squeezed grapes.

"Time," said some giant with his hand full of dust,
"is just slipping away," said his echo, as he clutched at what was lost.

"I'm sick of clichés," she said, after reading what he'd written.
"'I'm sorry,' he said, said he, before curling into a ball and weeping,"
which were the last words he ever said to her,
while hers to him were:
"I'm leaving."

If this train went off the rails just as I was saying, "I love you,"
and the clanging noise caused you to hear, "I'm so far above you," instead, would you then go on to die regretting every previously treasured moment of our lives that we'd collectively spent on the off-chance that I'd been a pretentious ***** the whole time?

If I went broke before you could cash the check that I wrote in order to fix your broken childhood home - the one that your parents still live in and stand to lose if this check doesn't clear - because of some completely unpredictable market fluctuation/bank identity theft error,
would you hold me accountable for it?

If you counted every syllable in every sentence that I spoke on your half-birthday and it didn't add up to your age divided by one-third of the time it takes for your ruling planet to circumnavigate the solar system, would you then find our relationship to be some kind of gross horror?

If I walked away right now, while you were in the middle of asking me some ridiculous out-of-context question with no consequence, would you think it's because of some kind of insecurity or cowardice?

*******.
Holy ******* ohmygod where the **** have you been my whole life?
Good gorgeous holy God.
Is this really happening?
Do you really exist?
Do you mean to say that you really actually genuinely exist?
This is incredible!

How have you been here this whole time and I've just had no idea?
This whole time!?
It hardly seems fair,
but I don't even care anymore;
It doesn't matter.
It doesn't matter because you're here now.

Turns out that life was only pretending to be cruel and unjust and ugly before.
Turns out that it was all just the the set-up to the biggest and greatest revelation that anyone in the history of the world has ever experienced.
Turns out that every disgrace, every bad choice, every ache and pain endured was all worthwhile;
For your face.
Your voice.
Your smile.

The perspective that paints things in a positive light
is the one that most often escapes me,
though I chase it through chasms and tunnels and towers and trees.
I swing through a perceived collective consciousness in a desperate attempt to grasp what's most relevant; missing nearly every branch.
Trying to convince myself that I'm not a solipsist.

If you were me, then I'd be you, and I'd choose to do the same things that I'm doing now, which I guess isn't all too surprising.
All things considered.

Twenty times two is twenty-two;
I've got all of five years on you.
Please paint me in a hue that pleases your palatte.
I hope you brought enough blue.

If I were here,
before I got here,
then I swear I arrived on accident.
I think I'll leave before you get me to believe that this is all just a concraxodent.

"It was bound to happen eventually,"
said the high-flying object
from the ground.
"Something so full of holes can't stay afloat forever,"
said the sunken boat
made of Swiss cheese.
"Save me! Save me,"
said the dead man.

To climb is to fall.
In time, the ladder bends.
The hand reaches too far and grabs
a fistful of nothing.

I'm having a devil of a time trying to define the stars around your eyes,
but hey, I'm not a cosmetologist.
I just thought maybelline we could dream about pretty things,
and make up lines that coincide with our collided fantasies.
With puffed up lips and fluffy language as safeguards against sudden incites,
tonight we'll finally smash our parts together if only to discover that we don't even like each other -
not even a little bit.

is that one day you might miss it.

Two cents anyone? I've got two cents here for sale.
I'll sell you two cents for one cent,
now have we got a deal?

If that's not enough, then you can have them for free.
They've just been burning a hole in my pocket, no but really.

Still you're not interested? Well you drive a hard bargain.
I'll pay you to take them, now that's what I'm offerin'.

Two bucks and two cents, that makes $2.02.
Just listen to me for a second,
hey now just won't you?

I miss being a kid
and strolling through rows of books in a quiet library -
scanning titled spines and waiting for some divine revelation;
a serendipitous instance of the sudden realization that
this is the one, I can feel it!

Slipping it out of its place on the shelf slowly,
as if it were a sacred and fragile thing.
Reading the dust jacket and thinking:
Yes! This is it!

Opening it slowly, (is it weird to say something about savoring its scent?) and reading a few scattered sentences, enthralled, before closing it quickly and clutching it close;
head scanning left to right to make sure the coast is clear.

*No one must know that I've found it.
They all thought I was nuts. They called me crazy,
but I knew it'd all work out if I continued to believe.
I've finally found the most magical book in the whole wide world;
the one that's been written
just.
for.
me.

Only instead of staying up all night talking on the phone,
I spend it writing to strangers.

We're here'd,
we're weird.
Get used to it . . .