Sometimes they crash down and the waves take me with them.
Like a tsunami, it’s unexpected.
You usually know the signs, but once it starts, there’s no changing it.
There’s no going back, it’s not a choice.
It’s just a deadly fight against nature and water and time...
I always come up for air before it’s too late, but with my eyes closed, I don’t know up from down.
Am I plunging into the depths or rising towards the horizon?
I don’t know...
I’m just swimming.

I got dem B-Side blues,
perforated shoes
of my own design,
off color flag of mine.
I got dem prescriptions,
I'm passively shunned
by the typical,
like it matters at all.
I got dat bizarre brain,
patterns I contain
automatically
run 'crash.exe'.
I got dat problem child
run rampant wild
here within my ranks -
what deserves thanks?
Nothing at all.
And everything.
I know this well, now.

My heart reads like a letter .

Convincing my lips
to Speak like a widow who lost her husband in a terrible accident .

“It’s like burning everything around us to keep the cold at bay. To keep the warmth in our tones , to keep that comfort between us there.
To prove that what he had was more than a feeling. But I didn’t know that the smoke that came from those flames would slowly be the death of us.”

“It’s like we were fighting for our lives while in a car that’s flipped 50 times. Who could’ve known this would happen. All we could do is watch it unfold.”

“And I know that I should forgive him but ... he stopped fighting first.
I know the circumstances were against us but I just don’t know what to do with this sudden end.

He should have stayed even just a little longer .
Why wasn’t the love that we had stronger ?

you made a playlist
of songs about
car crashes

not because you
want to die
but because
your mind
does

Tarac (for Stone and Kurosawa)
We busted our *****
To get up there
Over a kilometre high
Where the warplanes live
And die a violent death
Meeting their end up above
On towering lonely slopes
As did Lt Stone and Sgt Kurosawa
On the same day seventy six years ago
To the day we went there
As others before had
For we had a job to do
The missing answer to find
To locate the remains of a lost pilot
Named Stone from America
Who flew a Curtiss P-40 Warhawk
In mortal battle with his nemesis
Kurosawa from Japan
With his Nakajima Ki-27 Nate
Both died that day
February 9 1942
And both haunt those inclines
One is angry and lost
One found wants to go home
One likes Hello Kitty
But not the one you think
For my drink tumbler fell
And the guide missed it
It stopped where Stone said
And there we dug dugdug
And found his airplane
Or what was once his warplane
In pieces that were scrap
But had meaning to our group
For it was this plane
That brought us here
Many hours of climbing
Swearing and sweating
To touch the clouds
And be where both hit
At what cost?
Two planes smashed
Two pilots dead
The American protecting Villamor
The Philippines' best pilot
Who flew his biplane
A Boeing Stearman
On a recon mission
The same type that flies today
With **** English wing walkers
From Clark in Bataan
The same field Kurosawa flew from
Yes synchronicity is here
Eagle Has Landed style
What does this mean now?
In 2018 right now
Is it the pilots' ghosts
Or God or fate or karma
That brought me here
To Tarac Ridge to look
To try to find Stone's bones?
When so many have looked
And failed to find him
Did we really find Lt Stone?
So he's no longer MIA
And captive here
This beautiful mountain side
Where the sky and sea become one
Where Bataan and Corregidor
Are visible
The old battlefields
Where hell occurred
Where there are more MIAs
From both sides
Both pilots hunted here
And both became the prey
Paying the ultimate cost
Bent metal and broken bones
Telling a story
Their story
If you listen
You will hear it...

The lights stretch back for miles, hollow stares
all trained toward the twisted, shattered steel,
waved on in pairs and threes like visitation lines
at ******'s speed, slow enough for a glimpse,
high enough for everyone to get a turn.
The night turns every shade of paint black,
each window to a tinted mourner's veil,
glass shards strewn by an uncaring hand
to scintillate like starlight in the glare,
sirens wailing away like the bereaved.

The biting touch of the glass saunters
The curves of my skin.
A macabre melody surges
Through the hollows of my bones,
As my body is made a puppet,
Dancing to the discordant memories.

The webbing of the belt is lead
Against my gossamer chest.
Suspended in the air,
My limbs dangle like a sacrifice
To the shards below.

My vocal chords bleed
With each ghoulish plea from my lips
Until strong hands find my torso,
And I rise
Into the sickly light of day.

The cool air of the night is a pleasant foil
To the heat of the brackish liquid
Which caresses my cheeks.
My mangled laugh mars the stillness
As I remember the abyss
That welcomed me before
I nearly met the cold embrace
With such a finality.

Falling for you was so effortless,
that my heart is still bruised from the crashing halt.