It's all about the late night shows, & spending time with the bro's.
Getting high as a kite, then crashing at night.
Making memories that last, because soon this will only be the past.
-m.n.

You are least likely to find a bell in my lungs.
You are least likely to find a ring on the top of apartment building.
You are least likely to find a wedding in my hand bag.
You are least likely to find love in my toes.
You are least likely to find a rose in infertile soil.
You are least likely to find a worm in an oven.
You are least likely to find an day in a night.
A week in a weekend.
A month in a fortnight.
A decade in a week.  
You are least likely to find life in my rope.

all i remember
cold sunless days
could you be
my absentee sun?
seeing life through
a pane of forever-
rained on glass
rotate past my worries
bring only
brightly lit daydreams
to this encroaching overcast.

I've heard numerous tales of the apocalypse,
each one depicting scenes
of crowds embodying all that is violence
and blood marking the territory
of the beast known as hopelessness.
They'll send chills through your body
as they detail corpses with unsatisfiable cravings
and rows upon rows of windows
with only dust and vacancy behind.

But in all the accounts of the cacophony,
never will you hear about
how softly the door clicked behind him.

When the screams are chronicled,
never once do they mention
the ones ensnared by my pillow
or even the ones that festered and died
within my very throat.
Expositions of the end of the world
will always fail to broach the benumbing air
that invaded this house that day
and the absolute silence
save for the hitching of my breath.
And while these stories may include
the monstrous shudders of the earth itself,
the trembling of my hands will always be more prominent.

the dream
the body
has
again
in which
the dream’s
body
seizes

with presence, the nerve

end’s
wake