While washing tarnished hands;
The waters run black, spiraling down
An even darker abyss.
Call it a drain.
Fitting for the moment just
Before the tub empties
And the dejected gargle rings out.
All hope and sense of a future drained;
Never to escape the tomb that is this earth.
Dirt and rock; rock that fuel fire
Paves the way to opportunity
But not worth the blood it takes
To retrieve it.

Whose folly? Whose fault?
We are now stunted, brought to
A sudden and violent halt.
Brings to mind one of many
Bad clichés about eggs;
Numerical or transportation.

Is that how they felt?
Cracked, spilling themselves
But still not able to stain
The black gold, the treasure’s of the deep.
Not caved in, but bottoms up
Digging deep enough to reverse gravity

Calling out;
“That was our livelihood
          those where their lives
   neither will return, neither could survive.”

Perched on a shelf surrounded by its products;
the multitude of moments, caught and hung
on hooks. A black eye, engulfing all that comes into focus.
The series of mechanisms transform life into stills with a single
mechanical shriek, a flash, and the exposure to light.

Seizing the world through an optic lens: a reflection
of the concrete embedded onto 35mm film.
The amnesic lag, from op to development lets
time for nostalgia to set in, and each image
invokes a myriad of memories.

But behind the automation, there is the
overwhelming urge to contour time.
To trap it in a wooden frame and exhibit
it like a trophy. All the while unaware that
moments cannot be captured for currency.
There are times when I see the world
through the apparatus of a camera.
But the shutter speed is set for too long
and everything develops into a blur.

Best enjoyed
listening to the B-side of Tom Wait’s

Heart Attack and Vine

The needle pierces the old dusty vinyl; cue anticipation.
An amalgamation of artificial nostalgia and the feeling like
someone carved a six-inch valley in the middle of your skull.

A Gravelgarglingchainsmokeingdevil (God when he’s drunk)
spilling guts at thirty-three revolutions per minute.
And with each screaming note there is not violence, but the
sensational. Tell me about jersey girls and china white.
All I want to do is ride upfront. Light cigarette off of cigarette
and fail in attempts to pronounce the place names (shu•be•na•
cadie, Ko•uchi•bou•guac (when I was a kid I though it was Capital A)).

Maybe real music is found within silhouettes of silence. Standing
on the marsh flats gazing up at the abyss. The stars reign down
over the tide that is coming in the bay and the ice,
cracks and echoes with a natural reverb. I think
I am creature driven and derided by vanity.
Or maybe its just time to flip the record.

I wish inspiration could be injected
intravenously, without delay. That
I could wrap a rubber band around
   my arm and pull it tight with my
teeth. Then give myself several swi-
ft slaps with my middle and index
fingers to the inside crook of my arm
to pop the vein. Then without look-
ing, (because I am afraid of needles)
slowly insert the thin metal spear in
my skin and puncture the vein. Draw
back a bit of blood and watch it mix
with my concoction. Then voila: ins-
   tant inspiration.

        If only I could buy words by the bot-
tle, so I could guzzle them down by
the quart. And they could mix and
swirl, swash and stir, with all my
other ****** fluids. They could seep
into my veins, via my stomach lining,
and warm my body with a toxic glow.
The words would blur my vision, mu-
ddy my senses, and stumble my step.  
Then, after I consume more words th-
an I can handle, I would projectile vo-
mit and spew the words all over the
page. Then the next morning I could
rearrange the words into something
   remotely coherent.

But there is no such luck.

Instead I have to go toe-to-toe with
each word, each syllable, with the
utmost precision and vigilance.
And let me tell you, these word “St-
ing like a butterfly and float like a
bee”. I give a left jab, a right hook,
a shot to the kidneys, but it does
no good. Most of the time I am on
   my heels; forced to be on the defense
But of course I take a hit, or twenty-
two. Until I am punch drunk,
and everything is brilliant to me.

Cubic zirconium eyes, and a tip toe too far
that I'm tittering on the cusp of something
that is even remotely coherent.
I've been repeating sentences in my head,
over and over again so I'm not to forget it.
This waltz with reality is getting tiring,
and my wits are too dull to cut this rug.
I believe that there is an old saying about that
but I could be confused with something other then words.
I never did like the number seven
masquerading as cylindrical. Never the less,
there is just three more steps, and
a skipped heart beat, and then, and only
then I can finally come to my conclusion.