So i heard you got tracks after doing a train.
I bet you kept it to yourself and it got out just the same.
You parked your car where you lost it.
But the cops ran the plates…. And now you’re looking
At the kinda time you stole from your face.

You look like every mile that ever had it out for you.
You’re in the valley where you lost your kids
But kept the *****….
You wear the same thing every day
Like a cloak and a smile -
So you’re invisible to Angels
Until they Fall.

How’s That ?

I hate my life
Hate my choices

What am I to do?

reach back in time, try to find
a place where I truely belonged
out of all the places I've been
how many have really felt like home?

crazy, dazed; hazy late tomorrows
find myself regretting it all
and trying to numb all of my sorrows

in retrospect, most of my life has been a lie
so I retreat in cowardice, to hide the wounds
everpresent in my heart, for if one real scar where to emerge
I can't imagine what they would say

what would the point be? I'm a hypocrite, a liar
a shapeshifting bulldozer, running from myself
toward something less painful, destroying all in my wake

and when I arrive it's like the saying, the grass is always greener
tends to set me straight
it's unpalatable, what's on my plate

for every time I open myself to the pain,
it seems monsters, vampires, and ghosts
reach for the softest spots
and pull me back to a place
where I can't breath
can't see

and I'm really so tired
have you tried? oh I've been trying
it may all seem but a lie
but in my mind, I'm giving all I have to offer
I just don't believe any of it is good enough.

and sometimes you push it in my face,
I'm dangerous like this,
I don't want to hurt anyone
much less return to a place where I'm so cold
abandoned
afraid

because there; everything I could possibly be
falls away, and what's left of me is just what remains in your memory
It's not me, it's not the same, I'd love to be there
love you give you all the love trapped
beneath the layers of ice
that have frozen my soul, my mind
behind illusions everpresent,
where my life means nothing
and love is just an illusion; like everything else
It's not alright
I'm not ok

I'm truly sorry
I can't keep putting up a fight
I'm tormented, truly
in my mind, in my dreams, I've seen you there
and I'm terrified by what you may see
inside of me.

I've tried to keep it hidden,
but you keep pushing and pushing
and if one day you see me for all that I am
you will run away.. because

I am not who you think I am,

You can live a lie. But then you can’t be you.
Hard to simplify a box. Or a simple truth.
You could live
to die.
But that’s nothing
new.
Time had a plan...
Before you were
You.

I can push up daisies but I’m too lazy to off myself.
Safe bet i’ll double-down
on nothing less… I’m sure
Oblivion can wait.
But if not… tough ****.
I know a guy that knows a guy…
Can make -
a straight jacket
Fit.

There’s a whalesong with a note, no whale can hit
Like a pinata’ in a hurricane. A swing and a miss.
There’s the impossible and then there’s the way it IS.

There’s
you and a bat -
That came with a Belfry.
You're ringing
the Bell
Or cracking the
**** thing!

II

You might be lost
but I found you…
so let’s put a pin
in that.

For now -
I’d like to know,
how many butterflies -
Have ever asked you not to
Laugh?

My flagon of Ganymede, a frothy pontoon
Of ephemerals, flanking the dry-docked galleon
Of my youth. At once, prodigious and minute.
Like a fob on a club. Run aground and marooned.
Like a bald spot on stilts.
The Sea has resigned. And all Sirens departed…
Save a nameless nymph etching her song
Into the marrow of a length of bone -
Shaped like an orphaned
Hammer.

A scrimshaw calliope of petroglyphs
As garrulous as a Cauliflower
On a bed of velvet
As black
As an unborn
Sun.

The mug stains leapfrog a linoleum asphalt countertop, sunbathing in the breakfast nook.
A magazine proofreads a hole in a bagel. Scanning for clues to the whereabouts
Of a Jewish heart. Beads of Oolong tea archipelago from a resting kettle
All the way to the 'good ' China. A cup on a pearl, laying flat… ear to the ground.
Listening to the stories only Formica can tell. Deciphering the steam
Rising from a steep. Curling whiskers into omens, embroidered upon a shaft of light
Heaven sent. Postage dew. Gilding quaint luxuries, tucked in a cozy roost
Smelling of oak musk and slow roasted dreams, evaporating before memory may lay claim
To the riddles of Morpheus. There’s an aire of Return.  
It molts in the bacon fats hovering in the strata unique to kitchen islands lousy with active volcanoes that shuffle in stocking feet and terry cloth bathrobes. Restless and foggy minded.
Looking for the keys. And...
Chewing a thumbnail. Staring out the window. Where there used to be a car in the driveway. But the officer flagged a taxi. Explains the migraine, like a Vulcan; stoically flipping switches in a fuse box wired to a vague recollection of a soiree.
All the while holding a pitchfork and today's horoscope.
For irony and street cred.

{ But out of cream cheese. }

Concurrently... This part of the house still has the rustic naivete of a celibate beatnik picking teeth with a signature pen presenting an Hawaiian girl with a vanishing skirt; blinking in and out of Vaud-villainy, like Erwin Schrödinger’s Cat. A kind of hole in a barge with an ornate cubby; loitering with sugar cubes and a bendy plastic fern.
Like the foyer to a room, still under construction.
      A busy little metaphor, lounging around the east wing of a humble abode… like news clippings in a mason jar… it’s superfluous handle threading a ceramic eye.
Like a stainless steel joke under a refrigerator magnet, pinned to a plate in your forehead. As any lamp-shade with ambition.  
      Playing to a rough Cloud, hung over an ashtray; that has seen Better Days - envy the baroque occlusion of monotony and routine, merging a hangover - into morning traffic. Replete with modest gains.
And Horizons that stab bleary eyes that would know a gypsy
By the weight of her purse…
     When the day begins, it gains a foothold by the spine of an overdue book, reclining adjacent runcible spoons and antique kitche. As a bathroom light squeaks between a door and a frame.
As ancillary and precise as a beacon for a blindfold.

Like turpentine palming a brick. And Wagner.

In the halls of the universals, whosoever we are -
We are not equipped. We emerge from mothers, tumbling ever forward into hordes of wane and bucolic meadows, thrashing in the kiln of Time. We soar amongst ourselves… in the pitch. In the dark.
Our totems are twigs and twine.
We hold the moon accountable, but not for madness.
She holds the key to the shadow, and we wants it.
But haven’t any angels to approve. So we haunts it.
Like songbirds with eyes of stone.
Perched on the lip of an urn.

There are
So many things
Broken.

Chipped paint
on weathered windows,
overlooking sullen grey sky
look inside
now choose,

Face it,
or Hide.