if I walk for a while
I can get out of the city,
the chaotic place
echoing from the causality
of all of the wire skeletons
and every silhouetted structure
painted against the sky.
the night burns a brighter dark
than the shadows of skyscrapers,
and the architecture is an oily black
droning a metallic buzz
that sticks to the road
and the people that cross it
with cars and shoes
so they remember where they are;
drop their inspiration
down storm drains and gutters
and forget the words
they worked so hard to find again,
searching their closets and dressers
for eloquence they can't remember
tucking carefully under their pillows
just the night before
or was it a month?

I can keep going for hours
watching mile signs pass--
reading them with no reason:
mile 337, 338, 339--
feeling the road beneath my feet
writhe like snakes in its unevenness
and turn to dirt and pebbles
that keep pace with my steps,
******* into boulders
that roll slowly forward--
but I leave them behind
in whirling eddies and clouds of dust
kicked up by my trudging
and the sighs of wind.

the signs are becoming infrequent.
they skip numbers now as I pass -
surely 764 doesn't come after 749 -
I can't see the old buildings anymore
and all of the buzzing people
are safe in sound, far away
too far from the mile 764 sign
to hear my heaving breath
or my beating heart,
but I can hear them both.
the last mile sign is scratched off,
the number on it replaced by silver:
crisscrosses and a crude, scrawling zero.
below the mile sign is nothing -
a steep drop ends the ground,
swallows the snowball boulders
and signals my rest.

here I sit and dangle my legs;
I lean against mile zero
and stare into whatever it is
stretching out forever before me.
this is where the storm drains empty
and all of the inspiration pours out,
I've decided, like surging rainwater.
beyond the last mile is an ocean,
troubled, violent waters in the distance
but almost mirror-like at the shoreline,
so far under my feet
I can barely see it.

is this a dream?
one grows tired of dreams
and yearns for sleep.
the boulders groan forward,
hurling themselves one by one
off the edge to the water--
they fall quietly and are no more.
I want to follow them.
I close my eyes,
push off of the sign,
fall quietly as a rock.
for a moment I am open,
****** into beauty and inspiration,
my lovely splurge of hyperactive thought
and then I wake up,
return to the city that buzzes
with useless words
and lost musings.
my shoes are where I left them.
I decide to slip them on -
I know if I walk for a while
I can get out of here -
one grows tired of sleep
and yearns for dreams.

the tides are impossible these days
moving in and out of focus,
leaning and falling back from shore
clawing the ground as they're pulled.
they sift through the rocks
like a child looking for shells
or burying his feet
as deep as he can in the gravel's warmness
before the cold comes for his ankles.
the water moves faster than before--
now that the moon's in an ice chest
shedding dust and gravity
somewhere in a ship far from shore--
and the men who caught it
have hopelessly lost their way,
victims of an all-too-sudden high tide
and violent, rushing winds.

it turns out it didn't take much
to take the silvered old rock down.
moonlight is spun like a web
down in pillars to the ground and water,
sticking to sea spray and the clouds,
suspending in the air.
a couple of fishermen caught it
while filled half-and-half
with sleep and moonshine.
they said it wandered near the edge
of the cliff where night meets the day
and when they threw the net up
the moon's web got twisted, tangled in rope
and pulled it right down with them.

some light floats on.
broken strands of silk take to the air,
still attached to the ground and water,
though the connection's cut at the other end.
they're waving away today, in the sky,
like a luminous greeting:
hello, or goodbye.
people watching onshore say it's pretty
to see the moonlight like this--
they say it looks like a field of tall grass
pushed sideways and whirling,
carrying fireflies and ladybugs away
from the overgrown--
and they feel like the insects
buried deep in their own glowing forest,
talking to the sea and moonlight with waves.

ouranos is pulling a thread
in and out of the pinhole stars
as earth slips it's orbit -
atlas dreams of endless oceans, waves
and his planet sleeps on driftwood,
careening quietly from its perch,
boundless in its fleeing fall
from tired shoulders and arms.
the planet sifts through stardust
and it's occupants rifle through reason,
fiddle with contrition.
what information was misread -
who's to blame for the falling sky?

time moves through amber and sap,
too slow to count with blinking digital numbers
or those in ardent analog.
why do the clocks' hands have icy fingers?
glaciers call the seconds years
and so "time" is no more -
the sun cannot thaw the hands
that push the past away
and pull the future to articulate itself.
the present is collateral to the two
in their eternal twirl through non-being.
the duet becomes a triad
and the triad: a singularity,
but it is not a violent transition -
no, it's edges are soft.
they are soft.
the mind calms at this softness.

you who floats in my psyche:
be wary of this place--
this ocean is uneasy
and it will swallow up your ship
in little seconds,
spit up the boards and drown the sails,
drag your crew to the ground,
their breath to the sky,
and you to shore
somewhere you don't know
where you'll build a new ship,
pack more rope
and stronger sails.
not every thought you'll brave
is deep enough to sink anchors into
and you'll quickly run aground,
but some will stretch down too far
and you'll run out of rope
before the metal strikes sand.
find a place you like up there
and hold fast to the ground if you can--
double check your mooring
before you fall to sleep
or hang a hammock up high
and float somewhere new;
watch unfamiliar clouds
laze above your perch
and listen for storms

this modern nation is a quick read,
a stolen glance at a cue card -
a political pitch to the preoccupied
and a script for the social-scene-complacent -
cues are confused for cures
but you can't fix what's damaging itself
with every mindless media post;
sound the laugh track
and drown the issues.
criticize the bare human face,
watch, revere the irreverent -
celebrities paint a new mask,
become a vaudevillian magazine ad
and we can't stand ourselves as we are;
copy plastic faces, calm the nerves.
maybe it's vanity
or maybe it's a way to ignore
the person wearing the mask
because the blank face underneath
the oil-paint faux beauty
reminds us too much of what we've become;
only the faceless need to paint one on.
spin the truth so it tastes sweet
and acquiesce, swallow it down,
take it with a dose of the relatable
and some self-medicated doubt
while the paper we crave digs our graves.
it's all fake but it's safe
so we accept our reality,
overjoyed that we hide so well together.
but the youth thrives on boundaries
like they're fences that need jumping
and they get caught up in this world
that doesn't hesitate
to spit hatred at the innocent
and dismantle plans for peace.
too young, they're painting new faces,
facing the famed like they're gods,
shaping themselves in the image they see.
classic literature is laid to rot
in the corner of a room
lit only by a computer screen
and all we do is watch,
watch the flies collect,
follow the moths and maggots,
drawn to light and the smell of decay.

I wish I could play the piano
or something else lovely like that
so I could come home every night
and play the keys that make you cry
before we sat down to eat--
I'd set the table
and you'd wipe your eyes

we'd eat quietly,
conversing through scraping forks,
porcelain against metal
and sidelong smiles between bites--
words are overrated anyway
and what's there to say?--
I'd watch the strays you missed,
liquid tragedy crawling down your cheeks
drawing mascara highways
and I'd imagine driving on one of them,
hydroplaning dangerously close to your skin
as a piano plays somewhere up high--
I suppose I'd need a boat instead

I wish I could paint landscapes
or something else beautiful like that
so I could travel to the mountains
on rainy weekends
and bring them back for you
I'd hang one on our wall
you'd watch the birds' still circling
high above the snowy peak
right before you fall asleep on the couch

I'd spend my weekdays
pulling stars from the sky
with old paintbrushes and older canvas
while I wait for the moon to fall into the lake
so I can swim in and take it home
I'd show up on our front porch steps
all sodden smiles and dripping clothes
holding it under my arm
and you'd let me track water in
all the way to the bedroom
so I could hang it above the headboard
where it'd stay for simple nostalgia
"remember when we caught the moon?"

"death wears the mantle of absurdity"

- and alight the cord
to see the inward lamp glow again
watch the room unroll
like eyelids opening,
let it fill the space.
the walls are bare and pale as bone
and the ceiling has been pried off,
like a cardboard box cut at the top,
and the sky: a mirror above it.
the light reaches towards the mirror
and there's no reflection -
the lamp has short arms,
clumsy fingers like a child
and cannot keep the sky
but for the stars reaching back
through pin-pricked holes.

the imagery whispers
quietly in neutrals,
bone white and starlight alike
speaking back and forth
on the folly of the universe outside
and how it only seems to exist for decay.
they do not laugh at the absurdity;
they feel as if they are the same,
living reflections of the stars' cycles -
life for the purpose of death,
death for the purpose of perpetuation -
and when their story ends
the inward lamp burns it's course to expiration,
but this is not the end.
you need to reach -

what lie spawns from this murk,
muttering, slithering, telling us
that we may banish our troubles
if only we turn our eyes from them? -
that simply playing the actor's role
for a world that suits the histrionic
can change who we are?
projections of detachment
through routine ignorance
will not fool the world we inhabit -
can not fool those who know us best -
for they both know what cripples our minds.
the beast named doubt had sticky fingers,
made away with all our self-assurance
one day when we weren't guarding it too close.
we pretend we were too clever for it's ruse,
say we saw right through, kept intact -
we say it strong, with faux confidence:
paper-thin, the clearest falsehood.
we are the ones with impurities
striking our skin at ugly angles,
cracks in the resolve we chase after
that turn to cliffs we cling to
for the smallest thought
we can fight what ails us
by simply taking shelter in ourselves
and turning the lights out.

I speak to the world.
it talks back, but not in the same way--
it tells me to watch
all the little movements--
my eyes drink in slowly
the ceiling fan
it's shadow reconstruction
spinning on the wall
I listen as this life speaks.
creaking floor underfoot
it's words are lost on my heels
they do not understand.
bedroom window to the street
I can barely see through
the curtains are drawn closed.

this world shows me sense--
it swallows me whole.

night turns in the sky
like a restless sleeper
so I am awake
cool air greets me
from the idling fan
and the floor whines.
I cannot see the back yard.
cannot hear, feel the world
through the distractions--
these cardboard walls
the paper sky
my mannequin skin--
a projection of the time blinks,
red numbers resting on a black shelf,
in spite of my confines.
11:31 PM
I can not move it back.
11:32 PM

so the house turns to ash,
the old boards to embers and smoke,
aged and grey, tasting the air after arson -
billowing from burning carpets and curtains
and drifting from windows, doors cast open.
the book-page butterflies spill out
from shelves and cabinets
on black-stained breeze
while pieces of flare stuck in mirrors
think, give light conversation
about the past to the opposite wall -
to old paint peeling off
so delicately as to be a flower
in its likeness of a gasp,
crying instinct - impulse:
a single bloom born to a gesturing wind
which whistles under new petals
singed, wearing wallpaper patterns
packed dark with little bicycle men
wearing top hats and suit jackets
and women all done up in dresses,
dancing like flames.

I found her sitting,
sunk into a broken recliner--
the one in the back room
with the tired arms; old arms worn down,
frayed like miniature tassels on the ends--
her legs were pulled under her
like they always are
when her thoughts are heavy
and she can't stand the cold

her suitcase lied open
not far from the doorway
where I'd come in
clothes leaked from the inside--
puddled on the floor around it--
and I had to watch my step
as I walked farther in to see her

she didn't say anything
when I came in
her eyes were unfocused,
staring at the opposite wall
where she'd given up earlier
trying to hang a picture up
the nail was already driven
shallowly into the tan
it was the sole decoration of the room--
not much to look at--
but she stared at it like it was the painting
lying face-up on the ground next to her
like it was enough of a respite
from the blank wall
maybe she saw something I didn't
in what wasn't there
some simplistic beauty, maybe
but I couldn't see it
all I saw were tired hands

she was the one who picked it--
that soft tan staining the walls--
she said it looked like morning coffee
when the lights were off
and it made her feel like she was home
back where the walls were paper-thin
and the backyard trees grew tall

she didn't ever drink coffee
but she liked the idea of it
liked waking up to the smell
and watching it pour
but she never liked the taste
I was close to her
close enough to smell the drink in the air
she held a mug in one hand
let it rest on her leg as she stared
and it wasn't missing a drop

I drew nearer and looked
at what leaned against the chair--
the picture was of a forest
and a village buried between trunks--
she told me about the place once
but she didn't remember painting it
she was sure she'd been there
sometime in a dream
and she'd met all of the people
read them like poetry
promised to keep them close
and forgot them all promptly
when she woke up

she led her gaze from the nail,
her sleepy eyes focusing
when I reached her
her hands were like ice under mine
and she spoke softly to me,
slowly through languid pauses
about packing up to visit the forest again--
about how she wished it would snow
and how wonderful the trees would look
if they were painted white
instead of green