It is a four way intersection
With no street lights.

An unlit cigarette

It is a car
with no headlights
No taillights
No signals at all

It is a hearth
with no fire.
It is no television

It is a chruch
with no windows.
An unlit candle

It is a stage
with no spotlight
It is a rave
with no lazers

It is an uncharged cell phone
It is never having a cell phone

It is crowding to watch an aura boreailois
With nothing in the sky
It is starless nights

It is a storm
With no lightning
It is a ship sailing to land in a storm
With no light house to guide them.

It is naked and safe
It is surrounded by dark
Surrounded by snow
Surrounded by spirits

It is grey eyes
that don't look back
they look through you
Into the light.

I Have Given The Kids At Family Christmas, Explosives.

I told them,
"Keep these in your pockets and don't tell your parents you have them until you get home.
If you throw it at the ground it will explode and make a loud noise!
Suprise your parents with them, and tell them
Nick gave it to you".
Then I went to their parents,

"I Have Given Your Children Explosives".
"Wait, WHAT?"

"I have told your children to hide explosives from you until they get home, and to then suprise you with them.
Act scared".
I handed them their own explosives.

"These are for revenge".

One little girl came out while I briefed the adults,
"I just heard that".
I gave her three more explosives.

"These are for staying quiet.
You're on the adult team now.
When you get home,
scare your brother".

N: "No...
wait,
is a bank account,
the baggy underneath my mattress?
'cause that has an old sandwich in it."

M: "No,
a bank account is
where you put your money in a thing,
and people watch the thing,
and you gain interest at a really, really,
really slow rate."

N: "So what you're saying,
is a bank is a
*******.
I put my money in her,
and at a really, really,
really slow rate
I get interested in her
and people watch her,
with my money.

A bank is a *******.
I think I get it.

Yes,
I have one of those."

Miles of indigo ocean floss the urchins from its rocky teeth
cracked, aged, sturdy

like our captain
unwavered by the changing tides
wrinkles deep in his eyes
skin dry from the salt of the blue.

The ship a knotty brown, pointed like a tri-corn hat. Roguishly handsome like it could Woo the sea.

Our captain sang stories
of the ship's past lives before its soul
settled into our vessel.
His adventures hearing mermaids
Lured under to their beauty.
Most men be tranced by their call
lost forever in their seaweed chains,
not this Stone-hearted Charmer.
With swiftness of a thief
his smirk toss the sirens under his thumb.

Johnny Two Leg sticks his knife into the lid of a large barrel
prys it open.

Maggots wriggle under the dark of it's planks.
Rot cotton forming in their crevasses.

"Another day another barrel" Johnny sigh to himself
lid clanking against the deck.

This will be the crew's rations.

Sing songing men with their plenty red wenches toss back tankards on board.
Their song isn't flashy,
not even practiced,
they just want their tales to be heard.
A chorus, or chant repeats between stories.
Some simpler, some scary, some tall.
Each member of crew taking turns with their voice boxes, scratching the black liquor walls.

Johnny Two Leg plunks the barrel center of the crowd
a loud cheering erupts.
The poor boy who was staged on a chair belting limerick of his most recent love affair has his stool politely kicked, knocking him prone,
causing a nearby member
or four to laugh.

"If a man is a song, is he really dead?"
booms our captain through the bustle. touching Johnny Two Legs back,
giving a smile as he walk past.

We form a line as he hand us vials from the barrel

thumb the frosty glass
pop cork unleashing purple mist tendrils that spiral round like a serpent's tail

look to our captain in devotion
who holds his vial out proud.
Johnny Two Leg stands prouder,
glowing for the captain.
The poor boy stand bright eyed, clutching.
Together we swig back the poison

give our souls to the next vessel
be it castle, sword, or ship.
They'll sing about us
of hearts calloused harder than oceans teeth
voices louder than the reddest haired *****
passion hotter than the fires of hell.

When their lungs grow tired of our song, remind them
'fore we faired the sea under their new flag
we breathed oceans of wisdom
devout to this Knotty Tri-corn Rogue.
May his story never die.

Up here at the top of the world, I stare into the horizon.
a building under construction in plain view.

Next to me,
A homeless man throws an empty bottle at some hard hats.
Screaming nonsense at them like he owns them.

Beside him,
A dog prances around, stopping only to **** on the brown grass.
covering up the **** that was left by some other dog earlier on.

the sun sets.
a film student points and clicks his camera at his model.
The model stares longingly into the horizon

At night,
Rebels, stumble out of the wilderness giggling and coughing.
smelling like skunk and sweat.
Almost stumbleing off the rocks.

I sit alone at the top of the world,
Trying to find my own way to escape.

I stand up and walk to the end of the cliff.
I scream nonsense at the black, but nobody hears me.
I ******* the precipice; but nothing is covered up.
I stare gloomily off into the horizon, but all I see is the building under construction.
I inhale smoke, but I don't feel any different.

I can't escape like the homeless man does,
or the dog, or the film student, or the rebel. they found their ways and Those ways belong to them.

I need to find my own way to escape. My top of the world.