Just below the surface of the clouds above the jets sits every passenger waiting to live in a fury of turbulence, the time i smile most. I’ve been benched like a burnt out class b wide receiver waiting for some stories from the stars out tonite in rural michigan. The clouds solemnly swear under oath to bury the hatchet convoluted in a he said/cumulonimbus said argument that i’ve been trying to break up since i’d been daydreaming about her on a quilt. A spare tire by the treeline. A spare, tired heart in a beat up way. beating. it beats.

If you ask the willful, they don’t always reply right away when you’re out here. In a subconscious picnic of memories hog-tied in wicker. I’m waiting for nobody that knows I’m here to appear over a hill running like little house on the prairie to apologize for no reason. The world doesn’t owe me anything, but debt is wheat, easily swayed. One minute, I don’t know it very well. Easily swayed to anchors.

Anchors my love, anchors.
And dirt.