"I think I ****** that one up,"
he said to the ghosts in the room.

We get where you're coming from

I wish I would've been looking up when the moon fell on my head.
(How rare to find a crater with these exact dimensions?)
I think I can hear an ocean's longing for the echo of a lost tide,
like a billion and one tiny grains swirling through my insides.

We get where you're coming from

No you don't.

A swift crack to the head and suddenly I'm off my feet again.
A bit of paranoia settling in.
A lingering sense of regret over things unsaid.
Things I might want to give to friends just in case I never see them again.

A quick jab to the ribs and suddenly I'm taking it all in.
Seeing the importance of it.
The implications of knowing where to begin.
Beginning again after everything else has come to an end.

A clenched jaw with fingernails digging in.
A slip of the tongue that should've been bitten off.
A song sung while lying in a field thirty yards from the bar.
A poster hung from the walls of the place where we used to live.
A bit of bone sticking out from a sawed-off limb.

A fist hits me in the stomach and suddenly I can stomach anything.
The twists and turns and cigarette burns and the lessons twice learned but never accepted.

This is how it starts.

Watching people watch football is like watching a competitive sport of its own.
A kind of histrionical show-down of who can be the most obnoxious;
Who can really drive home the fact that they want this particular group of color-coded men to win more than the other,
with egregious displays of enthusiasm being the most popular mode.

In a parallel world, some of these folks could make decent actors.

My brother, for instance, reminds me of a young Leo:
He yells and shouts but never quite manages to sell me on it.

My uncle's more like a Michael Caine. Calmly sharing reassuring statistics and factoids throughout the game.

Meanwhile, my father's much more stoic. If he has any real interest in who's winning, he doesn't show it.

I've seen this behavior on display in other venues
(the workplace, concerts, church,)
but it definitely seems to be the most pronounced with sports.

"You're on the precipice of something, and soon you'll be left with nothing but memories and time."
"Sounds like a recipe for disaster."
"Sound's like it'd go good with some wine."

Get to the car and run for your lives.
Hit the deck and call it.
Slippery when wet;
this floor's too dry for me to mop it.

Let's get together and be lonely.
I'd feel a lot better if you'd just hold me,
I mean lonelier.
It'd trigger that mental state where I'm floating six feet away from the scene,
where I can see everything with the added bonus of not having to experience what I'm feeling.

Let's be lonely together, only,
I'd feel a lot better if you uttered a phrase that ended with "forever."
It'd make it easier to remember that I'm not the type to stick around,
and I could really use a good reason to leave right now.

Win or lose,
you're bound to lose some friends,
and even though memories may be like little movies in your head that you can play over and over again,
the truth of the matter is:
They've already ended.

I know how to grab your attention,
but I'm not sure how to keep it,
so I'll keep this as shallow as I can before diving into the deep end.

I know how to bob and weave,
but I'm not sure what I believe in.
Something to do with the conservation of energy, I think;
expending it in a dream-like series of experiences before eventually going back to being a part of Everything.

I know how to cut a rug,
but . . . well actually I don't think I know what that means.
Hang on while I look it up:

13 minus 27 is 38.
Took the east-bound train to Missouri by mistake.
Halfway between the station and my home-state I got decapitated by a snowflake the size of a plate.

Twilight sprinkles tinkling in the fog.
Swirling eddies in a shot of egg nog.
Snowmen wearing blonde wigs with broomstick arms.

What the hell,
it's Christmas.

I'm going to come back to this one and write it when I'm sober/have a free moment. I just don't want to forget it while it's in my head. I'm just posting this now as a sort-of mental post-it note.

There's a formula that can keep me going indefinitely.
They say immortality's nothing but a myth,
but I've got the recipe.
It was passed down to me as an ancient family secret:

"Three strips is never enough."

That's what the voices in my head told me every time I set out to make some kind of statement in an antiquated form that would most likely be overlooked by every one of my friends.

But with beer and vanity and pigheaded persistence,
I managed to ignore them.

Tonight I'm on that metal horse.
Meta-force.
Went to the bar and met some ******.
**** was talked and shots were poured.
Drank 'em up then got real bored.
Lectured til I heard some snores.
Went back to the bar and got some more.

Diseased without a hope of cure.
Your face is like an emery board,
and your hair is like a handful of snakes curling round a Sycamore.

Throw it up! Down on the floor!
Two more steps and I'm out the door.
Don't compare me to your paramour.
I don't want to know the score.

Baited hook, shiny lure.
Fighting thoughts that can't be ignored,
but I'm not sure what I'm fishing for;

All you'll get are metaphors.

Quick and in short order,
we slid back to our separate sides of the border.
But it didn't feel that way at the time.
Every second an eternity spent drawing the line.

Who drew first?
I couldn't say.
I ran through my entire playbook on the very first day.
From there on out I was making it up as I went,
and you went along - every now and then -
until the last of our words were spent.

A penny for your thoughts?
I'll give you two cents.
(With my heart in my throat after every text message sent.)

Now all I've got are handful of songs I find too hard to listen to anymore,
and a nagging guilty conscience.

Everyone loves a low-born story,
as opposed to the thematically villainous silver spoon -
unless of course they give up too soon,
and let themselves be consumed by the rest.

*Could've been someone,
maybe even one of the best.

A flock of birds.
A group of geese.
A gander at a stranger gathering of winged things.

Don't clip mine 'cause I'm running out of time,
and I've got promises to keep and miles to fly.

Just trying to escape the Frost.

I'll try my hardest to refrain from mounting this phony high pony and preach to you,
and to keep from using ******* rhymes and fancy lines that do little more than convolute the truth,
but the fact remains that there's a certain amount of irony inherent in all things,
and I can see it clearly raging inside of you.

Blah blah blah.
These and other platitudes.
You're struggling and you're sad and you're lost and confused.

Don't you realize that you're just climbing up and sliding down the eternal staircase that the rest of us have already grown accustomed to?

Of course not,
and that's why you're smart.
Giving up on the race before it even starts.

What do you want?
No, really.
Out of life,
out of love,  
with hell below and the stars above,
where exactly are you aiming for?

You don't even know,
and somehow,
that's what makes it beautiful.

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.