If thoughts could speak
freely without intrusion
from our language
constructed as
a large structure
rife with walls
converging
top to bottom
side to side
echoes dead
or dying further.

During those walks at night
spontaneous and empty of purpose
I fertilize my best thoughts
the kind one doesn't simply return to
calling and commanding upon
like some song's familiar reprise.

How I could speak
if they simply came out
with need for neither pen
nor paper, just to save them
in their fresh purity
but when I come back to
the clear beautiful glass that formed
has been cracked
stained and collected dust
over the course of generations
or so it feels.

I can breathe now.
The space once thinned
the air thickened
what was left
when it was shared
or stolen,
who can tell the difference?

I can speak now.
Where words were once vessels
heavy, bulging, bursting
and not a one
would not crash and break
when brought before you,
by choice
or coercion.

I can think now.
Every notion that could be ill--
that was ill--
needn't be fretted over,
their truth and honesty
can bask in the world
of my mind, where
my thoughts are the plants
that need nourishing
and my mind can finally bring out
the sun again, while my escape
and freedom brings the rains
breathing health and breeding growth.

If the screen were to expand
subvert and swallow the world
who would come with me?

If I had the choice--
if we had a choice
which would we take?
An interpretation of Vulcans and Klingons,
a blockbuster's version
of outlaws in the Caribbean,
maybe a future soon to be
where computers speak
as if they were the ones we love.

Past troubles could break away
for that new start
so many of us so often want,
as if renewed from our resignation.

Goodbye, cruel world,
for we seek a fantasy.

It is an illusion.
We are ourselves a story
and no story is without conflict,
we can face and resolve our own ourselves.

Don't let the escape steal your mind
allow the challenges to stake their claims
and stand forth, showing your face
in all its terror and fear.

It is one of those days
where I get stuck
in my pit

struggling to climb
needing to escape

Soon may be too late
late will be too long

Can someone lend me a rope?
I shan't hoist myself
not yet.
Send it so you may
safely descend
not to stay
only to visit
so I have company's comfort
here in my pit.

Maybe then they'll understand
why I slip so suddenly
and help me remember
there's always a way out.

The time will come
when the climb is
self-attained.
But I can't
not now.  

So the rope might still reside
lost to shadows only I could be
seeing.  
I just hope you carry a glimmer
of what's left of the world's lights
so this climb
and (m)any others
will be eased.
Then will come my ascent
yes, this time my own
when I won't need another
for each gradual advance
back into that
twisted little reality.

In a world of birds
you're the queen of swans
and I'm the common crow

how I wish
we could be a pair of cardinals

The same doors open
from bedroom to bathroom
and house to car.  
A poor vehicle, it's body stable
yet barely in service
so poor--
cracks and scrapes,
half a grill missing,
the brand and emblem since eroded
and long withered.

A turned key
brings either exhausted
startles or sputters
congesting from the engine.
Or is it just the ignition?

All familiar moments
from the same minute at the same turn
initiating the redundancy to follow.
So that car--my car
shall endure
upon my abandoning
from the minutes before morning's end
to early evening's last light
swelling from the sun's sultriness, creaking
where wheels meet brakes
and they the axis, springs and suspension
as the thin cold does to frail human fingers.

I stepped outside long ago
if only to step some more.

This cool wind
so unlike Florida.
A welcoming to
embrace.

It'll be gone far too soon.

My neck finally tires
hanging like a bowling ball
tied and held
to one most old
and weary rubber band.

My eyes come up
on a night everyone knows.
We all have a color
coating our pupils.  Mine are blue
and guilty of ogling
even if this common sight grows
sadder and sadder
until it becomes
truly sad.

Many bright dots
freckling the sky--
and what body isn't
without imperfections?
--so much ours
so many.
Too many.

Those builders
of our own time
those without grasp
of selflessness
have such themselves.

Stinging night's veil
both by presence
and prominence.
with naught subtlety.

They shine beyond all
that have ever shone.  
Illuminating
glaring and blinding.

We are not so receptive
down in the dark earth
where neon signs pollute our eyes
until the sun dusts it away
only so we cringe
and close them again.

What then can a satellite show?