If ever I was accusatory
it's only because I too am guilty.
I try at symmetry
only to end up inadequate.
One who cannot amount to their own ideals
cannot know a single thing.
However certain I am of decay,
I still forget faster than memory would allow me to retain
motes of dust scattered across my library
that were once skin,
places I had been,
not one returning from departure.
No postcards
save for my disintegrated cells who speak only
of transformation.
Hushed in dim light,
scattered across oceans of words whispering,
You're already dead you naive little star.

Riding shotgun
in the span of seconds
we pass insurance ads,
company logos,
and beer billboards,
reading,
act natural, serve flow, live fearless.
I think maybe in this instance
everything I see may be tugging my thoughts around
just for me.
Or at least
some kind of sentence
that exists
in the space between moments
and myself.
It may not be true
but *******
who cares
it feels so right
to be intimate
with the entire world.

You will forget everything you know
the lean legged woman, gone
as soon as a cup of coffee
or an ****** thought
hot becoming cold
like the body keeping you here
The monster made whole
by a mirror
Even this gets forgotten
despite how often we are reminded, then
shrink from every moment
to grow into what comes next
I do not want to be certain
however sure I am
of a bare bodied thought
I wrestle with words
my language becoming limbs
that reach for tactile friction
on fingertips to remember that
even now, we are dying.

I've read that people re-write their memory repeatedly,
until we've floated down so far from the moment
we can only think of our pruning hands.
Tiny hills of flesh soaked through from a river of touching
and going.
I am still here.
I kept you whole by building theme parks over
bad decisions.
A carousel of nights where we'd slip away
to try each other on.
Some sudden frisson
roller coaster rolling me closer to
knuckled blood, white bone, holding your hand
during the free fall we were too embarrassed to be afraid of,
but rode it three times just to be sure we had a grip.
I cannot hold it all so I thought to carry just the goodness.
Me a hungry thief with my arms full in an orchard of peaches,
that you gave
like someone who had never been kissed.
Your eyes were so bright and new I swear sailors must have seen you coming
over the horizon at dawn on the last day at sea.
Their skin wet with the voyage as they slide down
to find earth underfoot and look back over an ocean
only to whisper under a hushed northwesterly,
"Finally."

Who is this that wakes each morning
a bit like binary.
Am I on or off today?
When living for tomorrow,
it's tough to be keeping time.
A lay away life
that's not mine.
A billion year itch that has somewhere to be.
Right THERE.
Termites in my wooden spine
buckling under the day,
like floorboards under my feet,
squealing with tomorrow
comparable to rings on a tree.  
A back breaks so you may know my calloused age
layered with the things I say.
It's no secret
my branches are blushing.
Sweet sunshine I'll save you
so soon we'll rake the sugar around me
and lose it all to my leaves
for the sake of where I sleep.
I am tired of tomorrow
this thing with no release.
In the backwards country roads of my mind
I know I am already there.
But on the tip of my tongue
I teeter upon
some see-saw child's play
of knowing better
but doing worse.
It's an intimate sense of hurt
that can't be contained in these words.

I've seen the look of presidents who know they are wrong
but still believe in charisma over honesty.
We want to be charmed apparently.
That or somebody has a gun pointed to his wife’s head.
Would you **** for a loved one?
There is no romance in pushing the button that drops the bomb,
it’s all in the explosion, mangled flesh
and the outcry that is content to exist in social media.
Sit kids down with dominoes
so they may grow up to know how to fall
into some actual form of impactfulness.
Until then, the children will grow up impotent,
with all that they believe true in the world to be contained in gossip.
We are almost onto something.
We know it to exist only through reading between the lines
of countries and cages.
Who built this?
Who lives here?
Who put clutter into the wide open?
Freedom is the space of sense
but where I live if you looked up that word
you’d see a rabbit pulled from a hat
screaming that nothing is moved by tradition.
If thought is language
then I’m concerned for all the smoke and mirrors
in my dictionary.
I’ve never met a Webster
but I know people who could make you rethink your education.
Make you wonder if ideals
are places you exist at the moment
ideas come to pass in action.
Then a space must have the air to move.
I want to breath,
approach the world when I inhale
and it to know me upon release.
To be reminded of this exchange every time I speak.
A fire sale of all I love
I am burning all the price tags off everything.
I am the emotion behind the sinewy meat
in the arms singing hammer fall
at a Berlin wall
full of vandalism.

A new morning where my dreams suggest yesterday still isn't dead.

I have a new capacity for ******. I can’t put my finger on it.

We were fighting for the resistance, at the edge of the world.

Upon waking I forgot what it was that I would **** for.

We were running.

Put down anyone who tried to stop us.

We got away,

then found myself alone in bed.

Having just been a lover who fought a retreat

I want nothing to do with mediocrity today.