The screen is lit.
A pixelated wildfire.
Next to it, a 1TB HDD
hisses, then eases
into a subtle hum.
There is a pencil
inside the Best Buy
advertisement; bookmarking
the electronics section;
two 4K HD televisions
are circled.
The cellphone lays
on it's belly; it's
no side sleeper.
There is a nearby
pulse, lime-green;
the internet
heart beat;
the door into
a different world
that seems recognizable,
sounds familiar;
the most known
unknown.
The screen stays lit.
Words readable
at first glance; countless
forms of languages;
copy-paste micro-transactions.
Left,
        Center,
                     Right,
alignments.
And the keyboard
is like a child
being tucked
in a silver blanket.


The fingers of God,
any god,

dances.

What if,
by the time I am forty
all I have are black curtains
preventing sunlight
from coming in;
or a full-time job
on a minimum wage?

What if I lose all
my possession in a fire
caused by a cigarette
I didn't put out properly;
what if all my files
were wiped out
due to faulty hardrive?

Would love still show
it's face around these parts?
Or would love walk
around wounded, looking
to score a fix?

Does redemption
exist for a man
with guilt-ridden fists?

A man with nothing to lose,

and nothing to gain

once the world ends.

What if by the time I'm fifty,
all the progress I made
regresses, and the house
I built collapses,

and every detail

I kissed with *****,

chapped lips,

loses it's preciousness?

If I don't let go of the past now,

it only repeats itself over

and over in the present.

The current state of events

is last year's confession.

There are scribbles on the walls
that I did not leave; I arrived
here with no name, and not
a penny in my pocket.

But the woman at the door
looked friendly and that
was all I needed.

There were
creases in her face
that reminded me
of the folds in my
elder sister's belly.

I used to lay
my head there
when the troubles
of living outweighed
the troubles of thinking.

Now that I am here
I know not what else to do.

The sun is a bright
flashing reminder
of how sick I am, and
how much sicker I
am yet to become.

The clouds are as
futile as my memories
of childhood; everyone
I ever loved is a lonely
stone on the ocean floor.

I do my best to make sense
of the scribbles; I trace over
the etched markings with
the two good fingers of
my right hand.

I don't stop until my eyes
open and the fog clears;

I see a path the creatures
before me have taken; a path
that resembles the wires
hidden in vessels
between the arm and the hand.

A main artery.

The one I should have taken
long ago.

If this is complete,
utter darkness, then
finally, I am safe;

free from
courage and will.

There is a knock at my door
that suddenly gets louder and louder
until I become one
with the walls, and no longer
hear them.

It didn't take long to find
a place I could call home.

It was the searching that was torture.

The future is
a conversation among
old friends; and the present,
a familiar beer in the hand
attached to an outstretched arm
riddled with scars;
a taste of loneliness so
golden and hoppy

Home is always far
away, much like the
sun when it's rising
and falling; a throbbing
orange-red pulse
in the endless
blanket of blue

Let's fall in love,
the moon says
to her wounds;

and they do,
but it doesn't last long

Happiness cleanses
the soul of it's tiny
tortures;

and somewhere
in the distance a brown
baby coos for his
blank faced mother.

So you got the lips,
the tongue, the tadpoles
that slide, sliver, and slip
into wet crevices, the
insatiable lust, that kind
of desire that spreads
wildfires; the one, two,
southern pawed knock out
kiss, and right hook that brings
me back in; you got
the moves, your motions
like neon flashing arrows
scattered all over the dance floor;
they remind me of shards of glass
glistening beneath the burning
sun; O' how I ache
for the day I get to hold you
in these skinny arms;
beating on and on with
a worn out heart
steady and abiding;
a minimum wage soul
that rages and rages
until it can't take no more
and settles like the pedals
of honey scented flowers
where I thought I called you mine
and you were, for that one
fine day,

'till I opened my mind
and set you free;

O' how you happily
flew away.

It wouldn't hurt,
you know; if you fell
in love with a person
much younger than you

and if it doesn't get that far
to hell with it, you did
your best behind prison bars

You could at least
try to kiss the lips
of the same ***, or get
lost in the ambiguity
of a polygamous marriage

Maybe take a day off from
work and tell all your
family and friends
that you were born
an asexual, furry fan
looking for honest companionship

That'll hit 'em
right in the kisser;
leave their egos
bruised, burned,
and running back
to the arms of tradition

Perhaps you'll
never learn to love
and accept yourself;

Perhaps you'll
stay in a bad relationship
with no way out;

It wouldn't hurt
to cheat, lie, and steal
from your spouse;

It's not like you started
the fire in the first place.