Picture on the outside
Static on the inside

Our dreams are just stardust,
Just handfuls of stardust
Slipping through our fingers
But leaving glitter behind

Our potential is a sea
Vast and bottomless and blue
Just one stroke after another, and
You'll find yourself someplace new

I wish the world would stop turning
For a while, for a moment or two
And we could breathe and smell the flowers
And pretend all our dreams came true

Shallow trenches flooded with ink,
paths worn in paper,
pull me from the brink.

Background chatter and grey noise fills our head,
ten minutes a day respite,
or I'll end up dead.

Static rain ice cold on my skin,
but it's dry at twilight,
in the ghost town within.

The paint warped upon sight, like tears
Over time falling silently to the decayed
Cycle below. I felt its bleak wine pealing's
Upon my fingers And tasted its age.

The aroma of so many  memories of what
Was before of all that touched upon its
Brass holdings and It screamed in defiance
Shut so many times, now unending closure.

It wanted to be open to the world not
Subjugated in locked form. Its motions
Were static locked in an unending cycle
Of nothing. It was tearing flakes upon the floor.

It wanted to creak upon the breeze to feel
The wind to scratch at its rings of now slain
Of forgotten time. its creaks are its needing
To be open to the world once again.

Sixty degrees on solstice day.
An incubator.

If we go to the beach we can find all the bones of the dead animals
that are supposed to be buried in the snow
and throw them in the lake.
We can dip our heads in the cold water
to wash away these nasty thoughts
growing on our brains like bacteria in the warm weather,
send them into the lake with the bones and the souls of the dead animals
that are supposed to be buried in the snow.

The supercharged atmosphere
zaps my fingers when I open the car door.
Static electricity.

If I collect all that ecstatic magic
I'll let you hold it in your hands
in a jar
and we can watch it dance.
A hundred million fireflies
that should have died on the lips of
December.

Static, the stage was set
slowness had conquered

Furious fast pleaded mercy
but the sluggery had won

Dry was the sun
No wind did turn
trees were sleeping
chaos had out run

Dawdling present was lived
hurry was boxed in coffin
complaisance recovered
as again the slowness had won



Manisha

The silence greets me
after a deep slumber
filled with hallucinations.
It envelopes me in its
chilly, thin arms.
I am deafened,
defeated.

The silence is a companion,
a ghost in this city.
It's never really gone,
but only hidden
in a mess of noise and decibels.

The silence screams the loudest
when I'm alone with my thoughts.
It taunts me,
telling me I have no friends.
It doesn't realize that
it has become my friend.

The silence is awake.
It never rested.
It just clothed itself
in cries and screams.
I no longer wear earplugs.
I still hear it
when it takes its robes off.

If you're keeping watch,
then I'll trade you shifts now.
I've been awake for hours. Almost light out.
Sleep is the distant, departed pal who
                                   never comes around.
'Cuz I've got a skull
that's filled up with dead ends,
false starts and last tries and lost friends.
I'll be awake so I guess it's useless
                                    standing guard for me.

Who's standing guard for me?

Ran out of cards to play.
Folded at the table
          this apartment stays small.
The ceiling's falling in
                                              again;
all that I can say is that
           it's alright
   though these nights
       will close tight
'round my neck, it's what I'm expecting these days.


When you change your mind,
you know where to find me:
locked up inside or on dim streets,
out after drinks and sifting through memories
                                   I just can't let go.
The sounds of the night
are drowned out by your voice--
--circles my head like halos of streetlights
outside the liquor store on the corner
                                    where they know my name.

Just don't forget my name.

Game's up, my hand is laid.
Folded at the table
          this neighborhood stays small.
Sidewalks' destinations
                                              are the
same. All I can say is that:
           it's alright
    though these nights
        will close tight
'round my neck, it's all I know anyway.

The food had no flavor to it.
There must've been a spice somewhere
But all it did was sting her tongue.

There's noise, talking and television
And dog snores that she can't tune out
Even if it all blends together
Incoherently.

There's static in her brain,
On her palate,
In her ears.

And all the while she's screaming
While sitting silent in her chair.
Screaming in third person.
Screaming pretty words
Like a diary entry,
Saying, "O me, O my!
Look at these woes!"

Scorning those who build crosses to bear
When she's in the assembly line.
Hypocritical martyrdom.
Closet elitist.

Walking contradiction in every way.