We made nests in clocks
that Summer the electricity died.
Stars rose out of the ether for the first time in centuries.

Autumn rolled in
but it only grew hotter.
We climbed on rooftops to escape the heat of our homes
and saw the silhouettes of strangers follow.

Winter choked the freeways, the subways, the old ways.
Rust fell on us like rain.
We danced in the belly of an abandoned ship
cheeks burning with mirth.

By Spring
the plants had withered
and the animals had slept until their bodies devoured their souls.
We sat on the town hall as the sun engulfed the sky
Thankful for such a beautiful life.

Where do you go when you can't go home and you don't know the backroads well enough to absentmindedly navigate your way out of your mind?
Can someone show me a map with a route that has the most frequent red lights and stop signs?
What does it mean when it aches to see that every green light you approach won't turn gold?
How does it feel to loathe the silence between you and yourself?
It feels like this.
It feels like flipping an hour glass over and over but the sand is stuck to the top
Like the digital clock on the dash is always seventeen minutes faster at each tick and turn of the tiny green digits
Like the four note church bell chimes at the cemetery forever
Like the CD is scratched and keeps skipping but it only repeats the same line over and over

Home is wherever I'm with you
Home is wherever I'm with you
Home is wherever I'm with you
Home is wherever I'm with you

Like the CD is 80 minutes of the same song straight
Like everyone sings about home or going there or asking to be taken there or defining what it is to them but you still can't find where it is for you.


Like the gas tank is full but the battery is dead
Like the sharp curves of the asphalt just take you in circles and you can't find the exit to the roundabout
Like there are no curves and the road goes on forever and all you get are green lights blinding you but all you can ******* see is red

Split bone
Sick beneath my skin
Dosed with death

Nobody ******* cared
Doctor came with a casket
And sold me my own bed

I slept til my tongue rotted through my teeth
And all names became foreign streets

Well the dogs begin to bark, disembodied
on the cemetery hill. Gravestones are silhouettes,
furniture in the night. From here you can see the housing estate,
constellations of halogen bulbs and bicycle reflectors.
All is still but my mind and the sound of the dogs in the distance.

A lofted branch, a hanging thread:
when did the rope-swing become a noose?
We came down from the trees
to burn them to the ground.
A thousand signals pass overhead. Unintelligible.
Unseen. The homeless leave ****-bottles of cheap cider
and backwater in the flower bins

but no one has seen them do it.
A chapel reflects the distant street-lights, unmoving,
so that only the trees share my discourse with living.
The dogs have shut up. The signals continue.
I lost my way again on the cemetery hill.
Scars have become medals.
My heart refuses to still.

Walked away from the world, save for luscious green
and cigarette smoke, I wonder what makes her ***;
what makes him stare mockingly over his glass
when I tell him that the system is broke.

Walked away from the world with an acoustic guitar
and notes like foundation, pressed to the corners of the walls;
the inside of my skull.

I cannot find my way out.

Walked away from the world, save for stubborn breath
and stubborn weeds poking out of the concrete in the streets;
what makes them break out for the sunlight,
what makes me crave for retreat?

Walked away from the world without a direction,
notebooks of freedom, seasonal depression;
the fork in my tongue.

I cannot find my way out.

I know about the night you drank all of that beer under the moon
And that people were singing or bleeding or something,
But you had a fist full of blonde hair and a bear cub in your lap
So you didn't notice anyway

I know how nothing can come between you and the animal secrets,
But everything is and will always be blood, ***, and a very high fever
Freeze dried and cracking, your hands run empty in the drunken court room
It's happening again, but this time - numb

I'm sorry I can't get anything out of my mouth without it sounding like I'm sorry. Even my "I love you"'s sound like apologies when I'm trying to confess it as though the feeling hasn't been rotting inside my chest for the past few months. I'm sorry that the welcome mat looks like an entry prohibited sign, I promise if you squint your eyes enough it looks a little more inviting. I'm sorry I'm always the first one out of bed in the morning, I've never been good at making people feel like I'm going to stay and I'm not going to allow you to get used to me in the sheets with you. I'm sorry that I flinch when you don't pour enough ***** in my glass, but I'd rather be numb by the last sip than the third serving. I'm sorry if I keep cutting the conversation short, your voice reminds me of him and it rings in my ears like the sound of someone telling you they don't want you anymore; and well, that's what he did. I'm sorry the bag under my eyes keep revealing my lack of sleep, but I've never been good at being alone in the dark and it's hard for me to find the courage and ask you to stay the night. I'm sorry I keep saying I'm sorry; I've  been weighed down with guilt for every pain I've ever felt and I'm just hoping that maybe you'll see why I write poems that can't be read out loud.

Autumn's hedges weep blood again, the eternal mystery of red leaves confounding reason, protecting and surrounding us either in gentle beauty or concealed sorrows we never knew.  Theories of our own existences are proved certainties only by the imprecision of tears as we've lived.  Rage the year. The dead season, still, nears; we too, should paint it anew in bold color and embrace it without fear.