Contain feelings. hold back words.
let everything go but yourself.

These are times of doubt.
these are the times when lions come out.
These are the moments we hold and gracefully let go.
each thought a brittle snowflake, a delicate "*******" as I hold the door like a gentleman.

i know now what i did not know then. i know then whAT I DO NOW.

ENDLESS REASONING.

COUNTING DOWN.

COUNTING REASONS ON COUNTLESS FINGERS.

THEY NEVER SEEM TO END.

one.
        Two.
                  Th3ee.


                                   I am the owner of this apocalypse.  

                 I will never tell you what you do is not what you do best.

             I love you, so ******* much there are few words to express.

things swings tuck eventually finger dead ******* new forget beneath middle sweet
****
doubt
knees
essence
life
time
nerves
chickens
orphan
s­traighten
plead
thirsty
vine
harder
club
sun
willingly
serpent
ca­rd
pity
shows
twisted
bare
brew
whispered
amazing
crystal
knuckle­s
invisible
oil
monkey
foretold
tragedys
leeve
grace
snail
tether­ed
bambi
creepy
gasoline clucking ****** mph roadkill kong impotency god-**** 66 hear dis-array pre-payed skeletal embed colorful momentum ultimate donkey deer screeches unknowingly realization grounds wrinkle irony misleading formation golf clenching telemarketeers structure thoughts fall place beauty grow pray smell coming arm repeat broken ear art restless beat lost yell concrete know like want breath hold hands tangled way ****** long truth comes mind sand rest heavens smashed known yellow tire scales spoke toy says road hell linger swinging takes caught purpose stretch unforgiving chest embrace mud wind rock bunch shell curse birds tar lines glance ankles.

Hell ****.

Yell Help.

Get in.

or get out.

It is 11:34, Spell Hell
upside down.

Burn.

Burn.

Smell Skin?

Smell Blood?

Smell fLESH?

Argue all you want *******.

THIS IS NO TIME TO REPENT.

you are in 11:34.

no words.
complete silence with a subtle sound of emotion through grunting and the clearing of throat.
the elegance of sign language is the cursive of hands.

no goat will gloat at the dexterity of hooves
although he may try to train an idea worth expressing
with an empty utter and no milk.
no truth.

It started with opening my eyes and looking straight ahead.
eventually I turned said head to the left.
(this happens to be the direction my ***** know lives)
then I look to the right and my sense of direction begins.

I learn about forward and backward and the perception of depth.
I percieve things far away that i long for, gain understanding of inevitable death
With both eyes now open my world starts to scale out of hand,
I learn the earth is round.
I am not the only man roaming these lands there are many others like me
treading slowly, roaming with half eaten buffalo screaming "A gods utter profound."

i see the sun rise in the east.
I see the sun dive daily to its death in the west.
I hear the wind coming from the south and take a deap breath.
I scream, "bring it on *******!" head north and rest.


With one eye open I flick my finger to the death of perception.
goodbye and goodnight my dear sense of direction.

the formation of truth.
the unforgiving grounds on which we were brew.
the crystal in the sand before the shell.
the card up your sleeve that is the ultimate "*******"
foretold beneath serpent scales, invisible while well spoke,
you unwillingly embrace your new colorful toy, your new found hell clenching every wrinkle while impotency screeches.

like it or not it is the essence of "All"

the sweet something whispered into your ear.
the sweet something of things you don't want to hear.

the things we long to forget.
the things that linger and have purpose and unknowingly embed.
the ******* creepy snail that eventually shows itself beneath the mud.
the ******* ****** that takes a lifetime and once it comes you will never forget.

These yellow lines are stuck on repeat.  
Tar, oil and the smell of gasoline.  
Skeletal structure smashed into concrete.
Dead birds, dead deer and the orphan bambi.

The road is known for the art of tragedy.

The beauty in roadkill is not lost on me.

Hold the moment. Then gracefully let go.
Do not interpret the broken clock as a sign of growth.

Let us re-visit the specifics the details the nuances the subtle gestures the sounds and heavy breathing the pain the situation the flames the tornado of lies and lightning of truth.

I am the un-becoming beckoning of lost relevance, a nostalgic tick embedded deep in the epidermis.

I am this.

You're all a bunch of god-**** chickens clucking in the wind.

you swing from a swing. you swing from a vine. you let momentum take you. without a glance behind.
your caught up, tangled in dis-array. stuck between a rock and an even harder place.
your thoughts are misleading your nerves full of doubt. your mind tethered restless and swinging broken golf clubs at a way out.
If your knees could only hold the doubt you now know,
you would plead pity and pray..
Eventually coming to the realization that there is no pre-payed amazing grace.

You beat your chest with bare hands and ****** knuckles. yell **** and curse at twisted ankles.
After you tire, grow thirsty and out of breath
You straighten your *******, fall to your knees and stretch your arm toward the heavens and rest.

"I AM A MONKEY" and my ******* says "WHAT OF IT?"