Laying back in the tall grass
in the place I was born.
The shape my body makes
is a heavy sadness.
I sigh as if it made
the weight leave my body.

The sky is always bluer in the mountains,
that’s something to be learned with age.
To be ten years old and to hear that
childhood is archetypically
the best years of your life.
To be ten years old and to not realize
the freedom there is in that.

As if clouds could hear thoughts,
they cover the sky from time to time
just so I forget about my narcissistic thinking.

I close my eyes.
The grass feels like a sea of threads.
I’m in a constant state of waiting
for the needles to ***** me.
I am certain they will arrive,
but I do not move.
Laying on the ground
will never keep me grounded.

Laying back in the tall grass
I feel smaller.
I have failed, I have thrived.
The answers to my questions hover over this field
but the wind is too quick to pull them away
and I know where they are.
But the hard ground
is starting to feel comfortable now.

I return home the same way the waves return to the ocean:
after breaking.

beside the river of words the youngsters stare,
a battle of emotion with no due resolution,
as their own bodies hover on the water’s hair
with nothing but themselves to spare the confusion.

opposite the river of words the elder glare—
the crocodiles they see are no illusion.
they know the young see the beasts there,
and mirror themselves in them with no solution.

the young ignore the elders’ bridge in the air.
their biased perspective is nothing but pollution.
the young are dead in the water—drowned in despair for the older would not accept the nearing revolution.

“Who am I when I’m alone?”
Hm. I flinched at the question.
I was surprised. Not sure if
surprised at the question,
or at the answer. Probably
at the lack of the answer.
Who am I when I’m alone?
Who am I most of the time?
Am I different? Am I the same?
Who am I, at all?
I realized I took too long to answer.
I guess that answers for me.
Anyway, I still said,
“I’m somewhere between
the sea bottom and the surface.
I’m not something, I’m at something—
here and there,
halfway or beneath,
at some point or not there at all.

I’m a place,
and I am my favorite place.”

I’m a lot of metaphors
I'm the subjective side of them
I'm the illusion and the almost real
I'm the part that itches
I'm halfway through the end
And then I never leave
I make wonders—
I make you wonder
Which part of this metaphor
I am

When I was a kid
We’d sing nah nah nah
When I was a kid
We’d ignore the law
When I was a kid
We had no plan
When I was a kid
I was a better man

I dance alone
And I sing alone
I’d lose it all
For a broken bone

A broken bone
Or for broken discs
I’d break my bones
With soft whisks