Heading down the ninety-nine
Keeping in imagined lines
Phasing out of trying times
Blurring open space
Heading north to Sacramento
West to San Francisco
Anywhere you go I’ll go
Anywhere you want to be I’ll be there, too.
Fading down the ninety-nine
Pretending we all feel fine
Ignoring toyotas in the sky
Wanting sunlight on our skin
Heading south down to L.A.
East to any other state
Anywhere you go I will be
Anywhere you want I will go there, too.
You know all those different types of telephones:
Home phones, office phones, and cell phones, too?
Well they all work two ways: yours and mine.
So why is it that you’re always the one
Who gets to listen to my messages?
Telephones are just homegrown conspiracies
Hatched by others to make you think you’re close to me.
And all the words you say that you think are giving me pleasure,
Well I hate to tell you
But they’re not.
Tired for one last night eyes closing
And for the last day given all that I could want, a memory.
Flightless with the illusion of flight, wind bending across my face,
A white stripe playing across the radio all to grey to black.
A meal, I love you, comfortable and the kitchen in the evening,
Where it was more real to me there than anywhere else.
My list of things to do tomorrow growing without worry
Even if it means my ghosts will always be incomplete,
I will have to be okay with that I made it what I could.
If I sleep and don’t wake up tomorrow I made it what I could.
There is a list on one hand that reads:
Breathe, wake up, left then right (repeat).
When I look at other people, the only thing I realize
Is that my hands are empty.
I am seven empty bottles and the feeling
That I haven’t been sober in twenty-four hours.
With the patterns on the rug all of the time,
With blues and yellows and brighter colors,
No matter what I’d choose nothing but your smile;
Warmth inside and teeth like shiny glass
Where there’s room enough for me.
It’s been one month since I’ve started over,
two years from the initial breakup of pangaea,
and even though I’ve been doing things wrong,
in the morning I always find myself breathing.
(Why am I not invincible yet?
I still let doubt and indecision lead me down twisted alleys
that I don’t ever want to see again. Why am I the only one who feels like this?)
, , there is no more time to waste asking these questions
when you realize that everyone has cracks they are covering for
with their eyes or speech or faith.
from this moment forward I will write however I want
i found music in a cummings poem once
and at night when i think about it really hard
i can make my handwriting beautiful
i am certain of nothing in my life but music
A relationship that shows like glass and feels like movement
how can what is growing inside me not be inside you, too?
I’ve been silent and gone for a year, calling into question
every interaction, every syllable of speech, odd phrase,
and questions of want and right.
Have we not hands, , are we not now bold?
Wear the blueprints of your palms proudly.
When I have chromatic visions of your body neath these eyelids
I want to move forward until I’m lying next to you.
More to the point, I want the space between us to not exist and
I want to be able to hear you breathe when I’m dreaming.
Come to me when you’re covered in mud,
splattered with blood and impressions of other’s hands
from your neck down.
Whether you’re tattered or beaten or just tired
come to me when you’re stable or bleak,
I’ll tell you I haven’t seen you in two months and
I’m worried you haven’t noticed.