halfway between sleep and the beach,
thoughts drift to needs unfulfilled
made greater by perfect words and better timing.
nontraditional in the conventional way,
confusion raging through my veins faster than white cells multiply.
the space between the stone and the setting, cage.
the space between the canal and the mountains, distance.
bruised and beaten, no beauty on the outside.
mirrors **** the soul out so they've been covered and crossed.
taped the stories together like a storybook from another life.
watch death come to me with the first bit of scotch.
Greendale wasn't perfect but the steps up don't equate to those that we take
down that self-destructive path that leads home.
rumors from a past, littered with truth. scared of mixing that with this, oil and water.
a child's tornado, just add food coloring to match the mood.
eternal corruption may be the curse of this path i've chosen
no time to look back, no reason to question.
paths crossed like oregon trail.
only i'm the indian and you're the settler -
small pox is coming to wipe me out.
spineless because i can't do this on my own.
tried too much,
can't do it all anymore,
done it all before.
stand tall on my own, crumbling, because these bones are old.
a ghost dance with the past, no desire to two-step.
need to go west, start afresh, fall for something new.
cold feet, wrapped in layers. intimidated by possibilities.
hope for the future in strange ways, engulfed by rancid news.
curious of the other side; how about them apples.
eyes waiting, legit heart hurt, unreasonable.
muttering words you'll never hear for my own well being.
twenty-two legs, twelve eyes, pulsating like a flame.
separation of heart and mind because there's no other way.
in over mind control, never had control over the yellows and red,
seeping in between the blinds.
this is paradise.

i don't know where i am anymore.
or better yet, why i am (here).
writing upside down in a bible is a
cardinal sin.
even when committed unintentionally.
always supposed to be aware of
the sword's surroundings.
not hide, not skew, not disguise.
this is the only way the bible works,
fulfills it's obligation.
and i can't even get that right.
so distracted from an undetermined purpose.
thought i found my way once
and i gave so much there was nothing left
except an empty bottle of whiskey.
trying so hard to stand on my own two,
but there's nowhere to stand when
you're flailing about in the sea -
atlantic with a riptide.
watching the light show in the sky,
electricity dancing through the clouds -
knowing even lightning has the thunder.
and i'll always be alone
with my whiskey.
the one thing i should steer clear of.
so many bad choices
on repeat.

unable to immediately locate my yellow sketchbook
suddenly aware a piece of my soul
of my heart
is missing.
and i can only rationalize two scenarios:
- i have temporarily misplaced it
- the light bulb stealing ***** stole that, too.
the second can't be true
because i feel whole,
just a little lost.
like those light bulbs she stole when i pulled out,
when i left the desert,
like those light bulbs were lighting my way
and now, here at the Gulf i must
rely
on the sun and the moon to guide me.
i'm not the best at relying,
trusting,
forgiving.
and that's so much of my existence here.
the sand shifts under my feet.
and i struggle for footing on higher ground.
but i lost my internal light long before she stole
my light bulbs.
and when i find my yellow sketch book
i can begin to piece me back together,
word by word.

supposed to apologize for all the times i've hurt you,
all the evil things i've said and done
over the five years we've not been together enough.
yet another thing we don't agree on, though -
what was wrong and what was right.
and politics, music, where and why to stay.
stuck in my gypsy ways and never been so stubborn.
clinging to my ideologies like the idols you see on sundays
while i watch football and hold rap church.
not sure what love is in the way you see it,
watched too many disney movies to believe in it.
some of my favorite things are make-believe
and sometimes i think you can't be mine
because you're too real.
i can feel your pulse in my hand and fall asleep to your heartbeat
as it slows from racing after chasing pleasure.
i can still smell you on my bed
and hear you in my head with those silly words.
i know in my heart and in my mind the only thing left
to do
is to let you go.
you don't fit in my plan -
the only plan i've felt confident and sane about -
but it kills me because you've always been my foundation -
my rock -
and this sand i dance on is shifty at best.
but you'll never be free enough to let go
and i'll never be carefree enough to not hear the regret.
i know we could do it,
you and me.
but the hurdles are greater than a few heartfelt and honest
words laced in breakdown.
but know that i'm sorry.
and that i miss you.

can't reach my tea.
bought from a florida store,
sent to the desert,
carried back to florida.
what i drink is directly proportional to what i put out,
what i get from me.
gallons of diet coke once fueled an unforgiving relationship with a desk.
a sea of coffee once brought me closer to white lines.
i floated down a river of whiskey only to be shipwrecked
in the desert.
but tea.
tea has always been good to me.
hot and loose, the way my temper runs.
it's like the more i drink
the more calm i stay.
maybe because i'm too busy running to go ***
and waiting for the next cup to be the perfect temperature.
and seeped, infused to a tasty equilibrium
to notice
everything is spinning out of control.
and, like my tea, i've been so many places
with not one to call home,
to call my own.

lucky in a way that makes me grateful for small things that would generally go unnoticed -
like a closed fence gate.
actively trying not to take things for granted,
knowing it's impossible to appreciate it all equally.
a cup of tea and cuddling with puppy,
an afternoon well spent
while flirting with the past.
hoping, kind of, that this time as we rewind
won't be as tragic as the last dozen times.
maybe it's better to burn down the house,
start over again.
my heart is safe in the ice box -
no harm, no foul.
it's the little things,
like how you kiss my shoulder,
that remind me to stand on guard.
keep my fence gate closed and watch the cars on the road.
fuel for the fire,
all those words i'd love to take back,
those words i wish you didn't say.
put my headphones on and turn you down,
turn away and keep walking.
head up, back straight,
down the path i make.
wandering alone through Desolation,
seeing the big picture,
focused on the details.

my horoscope suggested making amends.
tired of replaying the same story in my head but unable to let go,
the words i need are lost in embarrassment -
stuck between hating myself and loving you.
it's the car crash i call my life and you're the star.
i don't want you to hate me,
i don't want you to love me,
i don't want you to remember me,
i am terrified you'll forget me.
never what you needed, always what you wanted.
when i don't think about it,
you creep up on me and the feeling of your skin brushing mine
makes my hair stand on end.
unsatisfying.
addicting.
i don't know how to apologize for pushing you away.
i know there's no going back
and know that leaving again is inevitable;
the date is circled on the calendar.
now just to figure out how to keep above water
with this weight on my shoulders.