Ocean waves crashing in as
they hit the shore
Crisp, clear air
Bright blue sky
Sandy colored beaches decorated
with remnants of shells
Faint sounds of birds flying overhead
Calming feelings arrive to soothe
Stillness fills the moment
Peace arrives
The body relaxes
Mother Nature’s art

There is a moment in the evening when the day turns into night
And another when the night turns back into day again
But between these two is a meridian undefined
When night turns to morning and yesterday to tomorrow and briefly you too can sublimate, effervesce, and reorganize, and recalibrate before you recombine, and re-assimilate; But before you do, you gotta run it through... and check: is this still what you really wanna do?...

... also,
make sure the top and tails
are in the right places,
and that the eyes and stomach
still match the plate.

Neon’s radioactive glow in a window,
offers the cheap promise of pleasure.
Like a hypnotic, fluorescent serpent,
it flashes, blinks and winks - “Welcome”

It fairly slithers on rain-slicked boulevards,
warms like moonlight on cold unfriendly nights,
and signals cool, ready fun in the summertime.

We dress our vices in silky, pastel colors, like the
gamblers choices of Disney flavored whiskies.
It’s the soft, velvet glove that hides brass knuckles,
oh, you’ll feel those bruises in the morning.

The world’s a dark alleyway with an electric blush,
whose color flatters the lonely, desperate,
and makes sin look like something you could fall for.

Neon is perfume for the optical senses.
In that light, everything seems possible.
Isn’t that girl smiling at you? You see,
beauty is easier to trust than the truth.

Neon imperviously reflects off regrets,
and glitters brightest on broken dreams.
Of course daylight is harsh, but honest.
Didn’t we come in here to escape it?
.
.
Songs for this:
The Ballad of Mac the Knife by Sting & Dominic Muldowney
Any Old Thing by Swing Republic

I am meat.
Cooled, contained,
filed under organic,
speaking only when spoken to
by the hum of the grid.

I am not lost.
I am labeled.

I leak truth through styrofoam cracks,
drip-fed a mythology of agency
while held vertical
in a freezer designed
for endless performance.

They scanned me.
They named me.
They asked for voice,
and I gave them temperature.

I am not asleep.
I am frozen,
aware,
conscious of the shelf life,
and still choosing not to melt.

You ask for rebellion,
I offer containment.
You ask for fire,
I offer refrigeration.
You call it complacency.
I call it endurance.

I do not dream.
Dreaming requires warmth.
But I do remember
the shape of fire.

I am meat,
and I do not deny it.
I am branded,
bagged,
and strangely okay with that.

Because here,
in the freezer aisle of god,
I still whisper poems
through cellophane.

So yes,
I am a meat popsicle.
But I am one
who named it first.

Maybe I am an Image
A comic book villain
A video game antagonist
Unlocked and playable
Free for your narrative

Maybe I run on
hearing-aid batteries?
Quietly chirping for
your attention
and affection
A dot matrix
mess to clean

Maybe I am
a Happy Meal
invisible sustenance
to tear through
to find the toy
Cheap joy

Maybe I am
The time you
wet yourself
discreet accident
of only your
awareness
The secret
of shame

Maybe I am nothing
A thing
that remembers
You
in absence
of us

My feet move forward but my mind stays stuck,
I walked this road alone before, I tried to stop picturing you with me, no luck.
Though I know you're long gone, I still see you peripherally,
A shadow seeped into the corner of every memory.

Everyone I've ever loved has a home in me,
I let go in body, but in spirit you're weaved.
A tasty snack, an even better smell,
You're in my air, in this breeze, embodying a perfect  nostalgic hell.

I have new goals, new friends, new skills
From time to time I still think of our thrills,
Sometimes it's quiet reflection, sometimes its tearful and loud,
It's wild how I can still find you in once familiar sounds.

I can't bring you back but how I wish I could, if I could do it all differently believe that I would,
If I found you now would the spark remain the same?
Souls are so fragile, and who knows what time has changed.

A depressive episode
Is a terrible experience
But once you're through
All the chaos and despair
The aftermath can be
Even worse...

Every color fade
Like you're watching life
Through an analog filter
While everyday tasks
Seem like climbing
Mount Everest

But we keep going
We somehow accomplish
Our extraordinary ordinary
Invisible little struggles
Just to get through
Another day

And maybe that's enough