Untitled

Is this

and that’s

all there is

before the thought becomes fleeting

like the next

and the day after,

the clichéd story your mind perhaps

upon

this future mystery of a happening

you've already started remembering

Is this

all we have to look for

forward to

wondering if this brain cell’s

thought creative nerd

to put forth on the edge

on the confrontational

abyss of a blank page

is enough

thorough

fair and still

contradictory enough

to ride the grind

of someone else’s nerve

We wonder

Is this all there is

because we could have

sworn there was more

than this

to offer and accept and worship and appreciate and cherish and love and adorn

with tiny boxes of truth

on every branch

of something or someone

but we watch and wonder

Is this what I was ever trying to say

It just wound round into

this something of something

spilt on the page

A little dialogue of soul tribes

trying to call a little bit of themselves home.

I want to physically ****** my life

I want to take my life out with a ******

I want to tear it apart with my teeth,

gnaw at it with forgiveness blood

on my cheekbones

I want to hold it between my fangs

and sniff at it with my liver

I want to grapple it perfect,

and inhale the bitter bite

of its wild corpsey stench

And then, I want to nurse it’s beauty

and unwholelyness.

There is more. There has to be more.

More than when you

haven’t finished your question

and the answer is

I haven’t even finished my beer yet

you wonder

what was the question

that you heard

You want to hike through golden gate park and do some shrooms?

Have you ever climbed monkey bars at midnight?

Why are giraffes so tall?

And it all shovel pours into the question

Is there some flux capacitor continuum

where time is enough

where time for me isn't separate

where time for me is always

enough?

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