I live to dream
Up here where the writers can share their time in imagined peace,
Duly thought out greatnesses, and the squeezing in
and about
and around
in rampantly quiet fondness, sometimes (often) of one another.
Spending infinities, tireless hours, slaving in their castles in the sky,
-composing
Constructing life from billions and trillions of words
that happen on small forms of paper that slip and toss themselves like dumb flounders,
Sometimes to the ground,
Spiraling slowly to their deaths,
15,000,000 feet below.
…

The abused dreamlings are meant like rain to slick and refresh the ancient, strained making of
a typewritten play,
teaming with the brilliance of enamoring flytraps, teething, eager to consume you and make you seed,
a story
continuing from now and forever,
as it were,
crushed up into passing word,
gyrating on the systems of (wr)etched meaning,
crafted in the hot,
rusty, moaning gears that power such
our upward descent into a dense and bitter (sweet) Sky.

Every day I scramble trying to find out what it is exactly you want me to do,
You don't tell me anything, so I wonder what's left that I haven't done that could
Finally make peace with the way things are now,
And I try this,
That,
And all the other things, but not a thing ever changes.
Sometimes I think the only thing I haven't tried yet is dying.
And if I could die in the spot, I would.
But I'm usually pretty busy, so.

Take everything to
a grain of sand,
And you will bury
yourself in time.

Deserter.
                _ _ 
          / Bird _ in\ the hand,
Snake /of a feat\her,
  Sa/nd b/low\i/ng in the evershiftin
win/d.\  \  _'_     /
  I'\m only empty pockets now,
M/y heart is full of sin.  
  \
./.
/\