some moon slunk through stifled air
as, upon stone and soil, a piece of
humanity trembled on. cold starlight.

dried out, under the streetlights where
my footsteps oughta be. standing and
slaughtering my hopes, never knew
near enough                                
                         ­    i guess i'll survive

nothing lost for all small collection,
he dug nails into palm. the sound of
asphalt will make him sick, in time. not
that he isn't already. just doesn't know it.
just doesn't know who he is, if anything.

my excuses bear down, sharp
teeth in the kitchen, asleep, aside
drunk& disfigured i, contorting amidst
these dreams. waking up bleeding.

waking in the morning, sunlight
screaming through, ocean roar silent;
to stand up and start moving, without
making a sound, through the same
ideals. the same patterns.

*i am held at the throat, at the fingertips
of this rend, of my own heart.

and so, the process began: a
sweet little trace, across the road.

held open a wound just to
catch a minute of movement. nothing
transcendent. wouldn't have
wanted to lose touch so
soon. still, with stoic fate
up on high, with strings tied
to first-knuckle joints. some
opportune fortune, stealing
glances at loss of traction.

trembling aside, lack of sleep
aside, rhetorical fervour lain,
now, out in fields. i didn't
have to swear, up-down-left
-right, to untold ideology;
to hold joy, in wavering palms.

all yet, in an ocean not unlike sleep.

this minute yields to the same
fallacy, the well-wrought plan-
those with no
splinter in the work fine enough to
sink in to. sequence of sweet ideals;
series of increasing differences,
mounting, ebbed tide, mumbled
sentiment. petals that don't unfold.

out amongst the reflections of mid-
afternoon, i sit and will likely
keep waiting for something that
never comes, on the off-chance
that you'll come
home.