This is the time
when wakeful day is covered in a sheet of drowsy twilight,
and air
is cool
but not cold.

The lights are dim, but not dark
and the sounds are quiet
but not silent.

I can feel my mind fall drowsy
caught in the muting mist of gentle energy,
and dimly blinking electricity.

I become a raindrop within a horde of raindrops
a hundred miles above the ground;
a plastic bag caught in some exhaled breeze
that floats about without a sound.

My own ego clings to me, like a friend without companion
it seems afraid to be abandoned,
so I have speaks with it awhile.

I learn a list of all transgression, and preach long sermons to the night.
Is it listening?
I'm long gone, and would not know it otherwise.
It's beginning to turn to darkness,
and I have too much on my mind.

I don't really know
if I did I wouldn't write it down
if I knew I would... I would
know
What's the back of this mind doing?
Throwing up spaces of random places
and memories from crusty corners
crumbling as they move into sight.

eh, ferk it... I'm going to bed.

I remember how
I miss this time of night.
When the lights are stretched,
all the world looks black and white.

There are winds that don't blow, but cling
and sounds that don't break, but fall
and voices that don't call out, but trickle along.

I smell the murmur of cars as they sift through the dark
and I catch flying shadows
as they chase shadows that hide
in the silence for warmth.

This time of night I remember
there are things that listen without hearing
and there are things that whisper
without speaking.

It is cold, but only to the touch.
It is dark, but only to the reader.
It is quiet, but only to the sleeper.

It is the death of day
and it is dignified
ever deeper.

I love you like the apple
that transgresses from a tree.
It is pulled downward
and away
from calm familiarity.
Into the abyss of earth it crashes,
and is bruised.

And as the skin of all my mirth, will then decay
it shall infuse
with the origin of its origin
the birth by which its birthed,
and thus the end of its beginning,
and there forever stay.

So I shall count my loss as winning,
and ne'er again the two confuse.

She soldiers on
with a limp
from an old gunshot wound
that put a stammer in her soul.

She hesitates upon standing,
and often winces at an over-hastened step.
Stairs are her nightmare, as is most anything up.
Like being trapped
in a cage made of rubber bands
she is limited, but can force her way
in some direction.

She wont tell you how she got it
nor even where it really is.
The thigh, the hip, the gut; as is anyone's guess.

My money's on somewhere else.

She is dissolved in some solution
made with three parts carbolic acid
two parts toothsome regret
one part
pure concentrated time.

If I could pick her up and carry her
I would
but she
would scream, and kick, and holler
I know. So I'll let her limp
It's her way.

I don't mean to be trigger happy.

Blue is not sure where to find the propeller.
The motor boat sent to scotch the shimmer. The waves
break inside a jar, and the little pieces are swept up by the wind and made into mist.

The Jar is shaken, the titanic sinks,
and the seagulls peck at our eyes.
Covered in barnacles, the new-found fish men
wander onto the sand and get coated,
as in cornmeal,
ready to fry.

Infatuated and floundering
they wander
to water again.
Drinking death hand over fist,
they ring themselves out with simply a twist.
The fish flap their fins so forcefully;
trying to
be flying to
a sea called the sky.

With a crumbled-ed crust they say, “motherboat or bust”,
but the navigation of aviation is a compilation of great frustration
for fishes whose function
is on boats, wrapped up
in those silly greatcoats.
Yet they made it, or so they claim, and with only one flounder or flunder who had made a blunder to blame.

If only old skipper had been a bit quicker, he wouldn't have had such a queer story to claim.

Welcome to me too.
Thanks for coming in high-altitude, if you're really into them.
There are new-tutorials, and I'm not going to need one.
Why not do the news? I love plain and simple.
Free-market sloping losses will do this;
because of bipartisan politics.
Luyendyk news is crowded by Audi's and by partisan politics;
I don't like my partisan politics.
Star tutorials are tutorial-soon.
This is a new tutorial for my into being given to the jury
in tutorial.

People present their uh dreams,
and a jury room is like love;
a little atmosphere me in a circle,
meaning we are (he is) related to the moon .

I'm the serving the Newburgh tutorial right now
around this one:
The new green play I'm into.
This one’s just a little on the Brumbies
cuz glass needs it to learn.
I am the circus mom pursuing your doom;
a mistaken rampant around jug-glass John,
inputting the bar’s shiny leading to the bottom-thanked step.
Number one is singing your doom on.

Be an unloaded nerd, like a dump truck dumping dirt into our hearts
while holding the whole lamar,
and perfecting the bar starting with p.
Put on the range
near the whole ecosystem in a in a bubble.
Second thing you gotta do is earn it,
you do this, but we plan to our dirt up to nine innings.
love things American
like me
in the new godliness.

99 dramas trapped under so now I'm a real utah zombie,
and lines,