I don't have recurring dreams, but... right..., my dreams... recurring themes. And, if in-them, I've a ... "love-interest?" ... they've taken many shapes. The one, and-one-and-one more, who've shown up more than once, I could cough up, cry-out-over, and name. Only three come, through the old haunts, of my odd-head's hallway, Round-and-round-and-round trip. [redact] At least here, I dated her. In real-life, as-opposed, to the annals of [page 6] more depths-delusional. Did wrong [redact]. couldn't believe she was "glad I came." Care enough, to care. She couldn't-care-less. Middle-ground, Grey-areas, and misinterpretations make my skin crawl. Excepting another-day-in-April,

[big
redact]

and maybe if I sing it better this time she'll seeeeeeeeeeeeeee... "wait, Kay, Cee, and Ell?" I've noticed too, and it's cute, but a fluke. Not some-hidden-meaning. "Got a subconscious, on me," Freud couldn't pursue.

Silly, and I didn't mean to be serious, but you're starting to get a grip-on-it. The feelings may fade, but the drip-drop flow of dreams adds to the direness of my dilemma. Alas, around when she's leaving us-all, in Natick, [page 7] I began-becoming acquainted with another-animal-lover. "Any port in the storm?" Any pill, and a razorblade. "A penchant, for an interesting existence!" Next-door, the slowly-nailed-coffin! Where people are abandoning their unloved pets! She mentions Bertrand Russell, in-the-line to buy, more jet fuel.

 "(sung)Way down in the hoooooooooooooole..."

...

I invite you every-which-where, to hang with whoever, because, if "not-the-bother" came not-with, neither would have I. 

                                             [page 3] I invite you every-which-where,
                                              ­ to hang with whoever, because,
                                             if "not-the-bother" came, not-with,
                                               neither would-have-I.

I could show you that rock, I just found, and be sure you'd see the lion's-face in it, too, and if not, not so-say, as a saving throw (for my sanity). A welcomed throw, at that. But, merely, a prediction. An-[Dad just startled me, by design, kicking down my bedroom door. This wasn't left in as some song-for-sympathy, but a solid,  and tangible-manifesting of a shared assumption: that this planet won't pity us, even for an instant.]

Projected predictions probably-not-preferred. They aped me, in April, when I accidentally abandoned discretion, and made you [page 4] aware of my more-amorous intentions. [I made that too wordy, for my reached-for tone.] Regardless, I don't misread your messages, rather, I'm quite sure you've sent zero. Real appreciative of those rapid minutes, relived, wrapped-up in last April, that I got to hold you, and reel, and ring-in, your ear, right-next-to-it.

I know, it "isn't-like-that," But I hope it wasn't awkward. And that hug, that wasn't-awkward-hug, well, no, it wasn't weird for me, alsotooeither---it's always... just, a little-too-tough, to let go of you, leaving me. I can't even remember, the lie I allotted, to attempt an escape. From my outcry of "awkward hugs!" as I hid, you still made an anxiety, into an awesome-day. "Even-if," you wouldn't have-shown, [page 5] had today not been paid. And---wait, no, you know I don't mean-it-that-way. [I'm sorry. I think about you reading this, and my writing will ramble. Maybe, when re-written, post-forced-revision, and transcribed. Maybe I'll annex all these tiny annotations. Maybe I'll never regret the exhibition, if I never air-it-out.]
...

[page 1] I already regret writing this to you. I already regret sharing this with you. I've already told you, before, but I'm bursting---I'm skidding, like my brakes are busted--- bottling-it-all, inside. And, a wise man once told me, "If it's eating you up, you should ink it, all-out." I just wish I could remember whose words those were.

Sometimes, when I'm searching the Rolodex, for the right-scene, you've been around, to remind me. [Almost-like, you'd read along.] You tell me, you assume "I'm always awake," and, I would only elaborate: with-fear, my dear, for falling asleep would draw you back, to my dreams.

See, and I've said this (to much poorer souls than yours), [page 2] before I allow my ambitions the axiom, certainty must surround the word "love" like an aura. My so-flawed system of authentication, of authority, in my own-hearted matters, starts and ends with my dreaming. Only three romances have recurred. Randomness is much more regular. Rarely do my dreams speak with structure, or in-a-story. That real random. [The reason I'm a poet?] Flying symbols, from "seven hells," heavens, or highways. If you left the top-down, or had a bad-day.

[Relax, Flagstaff]

sighs

[Ready, again?]

Ready.

...

In an attempt to walk the path I had
Beaten bone dry with the
Soles of the sneakers I wore for years 
And years
I was stopped by
Overgrowth and foliage

It used to be mine
But time had claimed it for herself
In an attempt to put me in my place
Daring me to not relish in what
Used to make me who I am

In fighting my way through
The bushes and leaves, I was
Forced to surrender to the
Simple fact:
I have changed.

I stopped living on that
Dirt ground
And sitting on those four rocks
That divided your house and mine
To catch my breath
And decide my next move

The downcast shadows of the trees
Recanted to me the stories of
My former jubilation
And versed me in the
Games I had missed

I traced the stars with my cigarette
To find the meaning they'd hid from me
Since birth dropped me on this rock
To learn all they had to teach

I thought I knew when I
Jumped the puddles in the road
And the cracks in the sidewalk
To avoid broken
 backs and
Accidental swims

Exhaustion on my heels
I began my ascent to the
Canopy, holding the answer to my
Long-drawn inquisition.
Discovery drove me to this new creed:
I am stronger than my scars
Give me credit for.

I understood my dryness in a 
Fit of introspection and
Cold sweats and
Warm shivers,
My sobriety, my closest familiar

So I buttoned down the boxes that
Help me get to sleep
And said a few words about the friend
I used to keep at the
Edge of those woods
Back when growing up seemed easy
And nothing seemed too hard

When he and I had first met
It was different.
A shared love of music, in general,
Of course,
And a dead dog, he couldn’t forget about.

We were both afraid of the walls.
Couldn’t be kept
Inside them, without
Metallic assistance.
I didn’t, and don’t.
“Keep in touch.”

A fluorescent barrage of
Bright blows to the body.
Overwhelmed, under-appreciated, and
At this point,
Unemployed.
Could you please
Allow the lights
A chance to let up,
A little?
I feel punch-drunk.

And, ultimately, exhausted,
From searching faces
For more faces.
Rapid-fire sighs, and
Ever-tired eyes.
Maybe the occasional metaphor.
“Irrelevance is an impala.
Or at least I think it is.”

He used to break up discussions,
By way of the occasional
Canine-inspired anecdote.
They kept telling him,
“It is unhealthy to want for love.”
His Honesty kept telling me
“They’re ******* wrong.”

Am I just a city boy?
In a city setting?
With city dreams? And rural motivation?
With pitchfork in hand,
And Pitchfork on screen.
Cigarette. Dangling.
Torch extinguished.
Working wonders, under no lights at all?

Well, I saw him today.
He was with two other people, both shorter than him
But all three smiling.
He seemed to have forgotten something.
You can’t bring your new dog
Into the mall.
I wasn’t going to tell
Him that.

[page 10]
Regal lions, turned house-felines,
in the cave, with so-loved-Dan. 
Thank goodness for the better ones. Thank
goodness for my friends. 

Often, only reasons to stand 
up, withholding coughs and stretching.
Even if you can't interpret all my 
fourth-dimension etchings. 
[page 11]
Sought to state the timeline, as
I'm not strung-on-the-plan. 
And, almost, every human, with
a Facebook, has a band.

There'll always be peripheries 
and, people on the side-
lines, and people craving
air-time, and people, deserving that time. 

All-white eyes, fall back, in
waste-of-times, and
beer-soaked-pasts. For
the amount they seem to
smile, you would be
thinking, "this could last."

[page 1] And it was soon after, that the weekend had ended, and I drove home, only-sort-of-alone. Unclean, happy, not the type-to-convert. I don't mean to end the evening by evening the score. "Better than no one," but beating the billboard, and the broad-side-of-the-barn, and the *****. 

You stole from my sewn lips the secret sentiments, which would scare you. You would have been more than welcome to have just asked. Which is probably why I didn't just ask, after, I mean, [redacted line] I hope someday you see this, hope they read it to you, over me, cold. I want you to know that I am a *******-great-friend. I'm there on those days that you don't 
[page 2] pretend. But I have faith (I have no evidence for faith's power, just a lot-of-it). There'll be space, here, for you, in the end. 

I'll look at you, last night, like I looked to enable. With two-eyes, and no movement, your addiction poking at poisonous salvation. You caught the wordless-stick, so, and subsequently set fire to yourself. This sharing of cigarettes was seen by the Absent-Folk. Jarring, I gathered. "At least," I had thought. 

At least, at that point, he, stood-up, stumbled away. "*******." Am I sure? No? "No." Neither bad blood, nor enough time-spent-forgetting my bleeding, my beaurocracy, or your backpacking abroad. I mumble, and I'm bumbling now, but before... I bet... that boy's been broken. And his riled-up "Ryan!" rang my [page 3] soul. My ever-loving soul! My non-existent, unconvincing, numbed-and-listless, inner-business! And on the porch, in the mourning, I wished him, dishonest, and shaved off his ***** hair. 

And on that porch, 'round 9 A.M., the band was packing up. Personally? "People-watchin'." Probably should check that they're actually... even... there. Probably should hear the percussionist explain rhythm, again. I can't tell if it's in seven-eight or three-four. I'll scoop up all your passion, as it spills out through the doors. Not isolated, all-four! Volume-set. Vicariously, sailing very... south (towards New Orleans, again) leaves in the river, collected for the raft, stacked neatly in the Pile. Vitamins, from the Oldest-Living-star, absorbed through skin, and eardrums.

[page 4] Stuck on the surprise of "****-function?" More surprised the ****-function wasn't ******? "No?" Not-even-sort-of. Not even worth it, with most of my words! "Oh, not including you. You let your ears be lopped-off, by my lamenting. You look like a love I could lose to a friend. I enjoy the loss, for a cause, since, if you're always right, you can never be wrong."

And in my acknowledgement
of my ignorance I become
more powerful than I'd ever 
need be poetic.

Not that my mistress numbered amongst my lamentings. Alas, "merely-explaining." 

"Oi, navigate!" Alas, "it's implicit." Therein's your mistake. [page 5] Implicit implies! I'll sooner strip-search a subject for intentions, ulterior motives remaining unmentioned (inspired, I'd reckon, by the pills I shouldn't chew, and the jokes I should stop making). My unfocused inertia interferes with my ability to infer. 

And if you're still here, you're fantastic. And I find you fascinating. And, I found, you were following. My sorries were useless, imagined-kindred-lies. I'm sorry I had to go and "color it pink." But, I'll copy this page down for you, if you'd save it? The buffer'd seemed beautous up'till I blew it. Shouldn't inquire after you, should I? If I'm still thinking on it, should I ink-it-all out? What was your name, after all? 

[page 6] Was it really an accident, "or'd work seem like hell?" [I've been checking out apartments down there myself.] My shell was left-stinking-up the old Durango. But any newly-blazed-trail leads me "back to the 'co." A larger, sturdy, empty, circle-home, with an unidentifiable paint job, and thrusters that are supposedly-designed to fall back towards earth, and incinerate *(CAUTION: FALLING FIRE). *
"I'm pretty sure that verse is... It's just awesome." One of my best? "It's just awesome!" Okay! I'll remember, to remind you, that I've said the ****-I-say, spent, sped, speeding, smoked-out, and smoking-you-up. Spreading myself thin, like Communion-wafers and sticky, like reunions. 
[page 7] Saying you're glad I came, saying you're glad I came, saying you're glad I came. 

Someone snuck up with a secret. I'd seen nothing-not-standard. Even, in your snatching a spider, from my hands, and moving toward mundane mockeries, meandering, and making-my-year with a yawn. Simultaneously, I heard a sharp hiss, as someone had slowly let the air out of innocence. Somehow, rendering me speechless. Well, without respect to the "Whoa!!!" Spit's still not-red-yet. "Skeletal." Said-right. I suppose if I think hard, you'd screamed adjacently. I suppose I've never suggested a co-operative cackling. You're with it, right? You're with it, you're with me, and "you're my people." You're going to have a good time. You should know, I should've too, but attitude's [page 8] a fiction. An answer-tricked, alive, unknown. 

As a species we suffer, from seeing something done, and wanting nothing else. I'm on page eight, and ready, perenially-crushed into next-generation-dirt, but there, nonetheless. 

Well, "either way," even without you, even with her, even-in-spite-of-her, always because of him. "Always loved him, almost-******-her." Wish: I'd kissed Larry, too. Wish: she'd never married you. Wishing-dry, and diamond-winged, cursed voice, bumped up some orange change to the counter, and then off of it. More expensive than I'd have guessed. Self-consumed and best-dressed. Not rushing in, but wondering, about my-time-left. "And if death squashed potential, was it ******, or theft?" Only [page 9] if---I can look, and---wait, I have enough left, yeah, here. "Thanks, I got you back when I get some-of-my-own." Very sweet-air-tonight. "Mad, I missed the show." All good vibes.

[page 10]
Regal lions, turned house-felines,
in the cave, with so-loved-Dan. 
Thank goodness for the better ones. Thank
goodness for my friends. 

Often, only reasons to stand 
up, withholding coughs and stretching.
Even if you can't interpret all my 
fourth-dimension etchings. 
[page 11]
Sought to state the timeline, as
I'm not strung-on-the-plan. 
And, almost, every human, with
a Facebook, has a band.

There'll always be peripheries 
and, people on the side-
lines, and people craving
air-time, and people, deserving that time. 

All-white eyes, fall back, in 
waste-of-times, and
beer-soaked-pasts. For
the amount they seem to 
smile, you would be 
thinking, "this could last."

[page 12]
"Alas," this feels like the end. I feel like I'm leaving them. Slowly. Silently. The Shadow, to whom Paul'd refer, trying to stitch-himself to my town-skipping, sans-sunlight.