I've lost time counting headlights and lamplights and streetlights and stars. I've literally lost time. Each day I wake up, and watch the evening drift by in a sunset, I fall asleep and watch the moonlight sail away on a sunrise.


It was an empty promise, these lights all around. It was an empty promise, that buzzed with the current a few thousand volts. Lights...pale and broken bulbs bleeding gasses and lies. But I guess in the dishonesty of some idea so pure, I found the dream that Teslas lightning tipped fingers yearned for,


A quest of solid gold that conducted an orchestra of thunder. And so lights couldn't be a lie anymore,


They could only be a dream, a dream never fully realized so long as the frozen dead fingers of liars past held their grip. Edisons overgrown yellow tinged finger nails, piercing through the veil of misty electric sparks,


Yet here i am


The light bulb is over MY head now! And my brainstorm is an F4 hurricane, my bolts like guillotines for your greedy fingers!


Because this is the generation of new light, of new thunder and new mayhem.
Of illumination!


A new generation carrying torches, casting out our light bulbs and our lamp posts. Forcing fire into Mason jars and using flames like they were new again.


No no no
…
Not Mason jars. Pull those ******* light bulbs from the headlights and lamplights and streetlights, fill those ******* with gunpowder and unstable explosive mixtures and make stars, *******!


Make flames that burn brighter than Edison's unholy lies, that tear down the dome and bring the skies falling!


Watch everything we've built, watch corruption and lies and racism and false superiority come hissing out of the cracks, trying to save themselves from the building pressure,


Trying to claw their red boney fingers from the fire but they can't. Because they are the fire,


And we will all watch as they burn like they always wanted to. Their voices shining past all of the glory their burning visage may grant, their bodies becoming one with the chaos that is our country.


And then we will have nothing left but ashes. No more eagles. Only the right and left wings of a Phoenix,


Risen from our ash and tears, flying into the sky to become the sun...To shine like nothing ever seen by our eyes so used to a false light.


Because it's time we became the sun. It's time we chose a real light to follow, not a halogen tube spewing gas over sickly bodies. No more light bulbs to only last a few weeks. Were tired of artificial light...Tired of breathing oxygen made in a lab…


Maybe it's because we've lost so much time under buzzing broken bulbs, under boot heels and tyrannical ideation. We've lost so much time staring into TV lights and camera flashes that we've only been able to wait for someone real to step into frame...


We've lost so much time counting headlights and lamplights and streetlights and stars. Counting the minutes till a new hero appears...I'm ready to be the light.

Candle flicker

Keeps mosquitos away

The wind is picking up

No sound to be heard but paper crumpling rustle of aspens

A **** seagull squaks; only here 

This is desert living

Desert loving

We have a porch

It kind of feels like heaven

Just the moon and lamplights

And pajamas with no undergarments 
Citronella smell

Dry breeze

Skin no longer chapped

Weathered from my initiation 

During the apex of summer when I read outside at midnight

o, good lord of the streets
where a phantasmagoric sensurround

banishes the scream of youth –

a carburetor snarl taken
   as unction of name. was it

your name that you whispered to my ear,
   him dearth in the quietus.

first to go is grace,
  what soon follows is bravery. a makeshift moon
of course, hanging by the earlobe of

her; I’ve been wanting to bite to break skin
   her truly frightened symmetry
of a  storm which is an  onus of  pain -

o, good lord
     help me weave way later
     when I’m down on my contrabass.
Scout Albano tonight’s a dark
   expanse of    regret

resonating a deep and hollow throb.
    women on flay, cigars in mouths chucked
like busy streets on a noontime sun, the soot clambers
   the billboards and their frozen, extant smiles

      wring out the poison and drain:
    we have no imposed god, an announcement to ear
  shot into the flay of the bone that persistently
      aches - like some unreal drumming of squalors.
            
         we are ruined with echoes of many names that haunt us
  with their gaping mouths
              in   frightful  angles,    but

when we’re drunk, Marc,
   this will all be over.

It’s been four months since the sun last shown.
Since I last said goodnight.
The stars twinkle,
And the lamplights are an illusion.

Sometimes, I can pretend that it’s the same.
Sometimes, I remember that the sun is also a star.
The stars I see now are just a bit further away;
They don’t shine as bright.

I want to get on a rocket ship
And fly far far away.
I want to forget about this sun and its tragedy.
I will find a new sun

The new sun will shine brighter.
The flowers will grow taller.
The world it shines on will be more beautiful.
I will say good morning again.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Leitch.  Have you had a busy day?”

     Grey eyes peered over wireframe spectacles and gazed upon a vision that lifted the corners of his mouth.  “Yes, quite.  Thank you for asking.  So lovely to see you again, my dear.”

     As she entered the tailor’s shop and lithely traced her fingers across yards of brightly colored silk, and muted finely woven wool, her companion quietly assembled outside the entrance door.  He had selected a prime location adjacent to the neighboring baker’s store.  At that hour, the wafting mixed aromas of warm cookies, cakes, baguettes and shepherd’s bread would lure workers of the day from their homeward paths for just a bit of something to fill their evening meals, or add a little nuance to the setting of the sun.

     “And you as well, kind Sir.  I do adore observing the mastery in the magic of your finery.”

     “Well now, what a lovely thing to say.  And I adore listening to you as well.  But no more of that ‘Sir’ business.  You must call me ‘Arthur,’ as I have said before.”

     “Ah, then no more of that ‘dear’ business.  You must call me ‘Kathy,’ and we shall both listen to more lovely sounds that will soon fill this room.”

     At that moment, when the tailor’s eyes began to sparkle, Kathy’s companion began to strum a well-seasoned lute as he sang a refrain from an old Yorkshire ballad:

          Are you going to Scarborough Fair?
          Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
          Remember me to one who lives there
          For once she was a true love of mine

Then slowly, a crowd began to gather, one-by-one and in twos and threes, of those emerging from the bakery or simply passing by, as lamplights began to glow against the evening sky.    

          Tell her to make me a cambric shirt
          Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
          Without a seam or needlework
          Then she shall be a true love of mine

Entwined within the strumming, individual notes came alive and danced their way across the frets and fingerboard to leap and float about the crowd.  In time with the rhythm and the melody, pence and schillings soon found their way into the instrument’s open case, sounding light percussive accompaniment and applause.

     And then as though entranced, Kathy twirled about the tailor’s shop and took the tailor’s hand, to lead him out into the square and join the merry band.  She smiled a wondrous look, with eyes closed to the scene around her, as she gazed upon the vision within her, and her sweet voice shared its verse:

          Tell him to find me an acre of land
          Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
          Between the salt water and the sea sand
          Then he shall be a true love of mine

Then Kathy gave a laugh or two, and raised her arms to the incandescent night, as a blackbird perched itself atop the crescent moon, resting in the palms of her hands.

Like it or not, each place holds a memory
I may not have played on these streets
But cemented beneath the building lamplights is my first real kiss--
Israeli-flavored, textured like tabouleh--
These shuttered storefront windows are not my version of Brooklyn at nighttime
But I know what it is to turn this dark corner coming home--
Tired from dancing, completely alone--
This rooftop terrace is not mine, not where I crafted a hip adolescence
But it is where I built bases for potluck communities--
Here my love of human connection was crafted, then bourne.
My current apartment is still not really mine--
Belonging, as it does, to the landlords creaking the floorboards above me, their parrot, and their cat--
But it is where boys first slept over, where first I was marked by someone
Leaving their toothbrush, their territorial imprint behind.
I guess I'm saying--
We don't choose which memories get locked in where,
Nor have we any say when they happen or why
We can choose to rage against the imperfection of their sense of timing or location-
As I so often do-
Or we step onto a street of acceptance that these are our Lives, and our experiences
Will happen at their will, where they will, when they will,
And despite their imperfections, we are along for the ride.

The mist curled around the street,
Lamplights flickering in and out,
The birds soon were awake.
The wind had crashed, high and mighty,
But then all was still:
The mist faded slowly away;
I watched, taking each blow.
Bruises merged together pain soon forgotten.
Then from the dream; she reappeared
Stepping forward from every direction,
Thin and beautiful as before,
Your eyes brightened and head heightened,
You step quickly towards her.
The life that had left, to you returned.
She held your hand and held you tight
You smiled back, eyes squeezed tightly shut;
She pushed you away unwrapping herself.
And, once more, you were let go
As she picked out another heart,
But in you, her hook still caught
Rusted and ******, you took no notice
Her hold too strong and unyielding
But still she stood at a distance.
You waited there.  Until she called
It hurt you that she was gone,
Your heart left torn and raw,
The iron hooks pulling taught.
In and out of your vision she danced,
Around you she twirled,
Growing dizzy you knelt on the ground.
Down, I reached, and picked you up
Still, she kept on dancing,
She left whispering—she
She so righteous must not let go,
But managed to fall to temptation.
Her desire to please yet another
And yet, the vain hook still attached,
If only low confidence would grow
And dreams that lie would quickly fade,
But fast reminders coat the minefield.
You want the dream that is her love:
She held the key to you, hers the power.
Of course she never completely left
She stood tall but wanted you there
She needed you; she would not give
It hurt to see, to know it wrong
There came time when there was nothing,
Then you fell, you became hers, hers always,
Terrible, real and dead: I watched
And saw and heard all that passed
With one small hand she moved
And stuck inside you
Hook upon hook.  The pull you felt
You felt it, with longing passion.
You looked and saw with eyes of a child,
Knowing the lie but pretending to believe:
I gag and retch in disgusted sadness,
I set down and gather my breath
Your hands caress; you cling to her
Hers is a hand you will never let go:
You let her lean when she needed,
Only, now you exhausted her care
Her life many times you saved:
And she stood tall again and smiling,
But when yours was a life worth saving,
Where was she, if not by your side
You she scorned, but perhaps for good reason
I stepped over, and I reached down
By each hand I pulled you up
Your care for her, was all to see
I cared for you, as you did me
But our friendship did not last
Because it will always be she
Who carries the hooks in her hands
That will claim your priority.
And that is how it will always be.

We haunted the boulevard in silence,
lamplights dull in the night of June,
eyes wide like walking disasters
our lights died inside of us too soon.
Our bones they ached with every footstep,
somber skeletons stained with broken flesh
monuments to the scar tissue,
that’s all that we had left.

You cried then started laughing,
but I could hear the pain inside your chest
as you couldn’t remember the last time that you had slept,
slept in your own bed.
And you said “I miss home, wherever that is.”
I wish I could’ve told you it was inside your heart,
we were a long way from there now,
but at least we could’ve had a place to start.
But where do you start when picking up the pieces?
When there’s oh so many shards?

And oh the shards they no longer fit together,
worn away by what they are. And what they are,
are just phantoms of who they used to be, our fathers, our idols,
they threw our lives across the lawns of the houses
we’ve lived in since the day that we were born.

The same hands that raised us couldn’t tame us,
I’m sorry we weren’t born to be like them
they’re our fathers, not by circumstance,
but just like everybody else,
even our parents leave us in the end.
But without them we wouldn’t be here,
I wouldn’t get to hear you laugh,
I wouldn’t get to see the warmth in your tragic eyes
or even hold you in my arms.

And I would trade a thousand lives
just to spend this moment with you,
dying on the boulevard in the dull lamplights
of this night in June.

One air-conditioned summer evening,
When the waking lamplights
Buzzed and sighed to life and
Yellowed the cooling stones
In the street beside our home,
You asked me a foolish question.
"Do we have a lasting relationship?"
No.
No, my love, we have nothing
Of the sort. No roses or chocolates
Or love-letters have ever outlasted
The final rasping, dusty cull that must
All mortal, fleeting things befall.
No whispered words, like golden
Birds on the morning wires can
Ever aspire to live beyond their
Breath. Each serenade fades with
Death. So shall our love,
When we go to worms, be gone.
But do not cry, my whispered love,
For though I cannot hold you past
The expiration of my arms,
You, too, will be the dullest dust:
Insensitive to my absent charms.

I met her in an alley
behind an alley
a sub-alley if you will
down the street from my apartment on Westwood
and 6th street. Unusually cool for spring, asphalt glowing green
beneath lamplights.

She was digging through piles of broken bottles,
discarded kitchenware, and palm fronds.
Her attention shifted suddenly, as if I were the prize.
Grasped my hand
her skin drawn taut exposing raw bone beneath
“Why? Why is it so far away?
truck drivers, the bed where I watched my father die
report cards, Here. why?”

“Sometimes things just aren’t as beautiful as they should be.”

We sat down on the curb,
amongst the grasshoppers
and did not speak for quite some time.

I am not sure how to save you this time, scared chickadee,
running away from home at the first sign of an angry mother or the
inherent need for some fresh air.
now, the path back escapes you and all the lamplights are beginning to turn on.

is this the freedom they speak of?
you hope not, but it seems like it is.

I looked for you in all the alleyways and down every dumpster,
we just found the skin you shed throughout instead.
if you were my lizard, I would leash you,
but alas, you belong to the sewers now, the earth floor and that big lake.

and I could never put you back together, Humpty Dumpty,
though I will never stop trying,
collecting every piece hoping to recreate anything that would remotely resemble you.

Curbside with a loose *****,    
Can't spot any itch, I brought my list,
Bloodshot eyes belong to the illicit,
And this ****** knows his ****!

Inject, snort or light,
Whatever takes to make the climb,
More of myth than vagrant,
I had an appetite but was far from fried,  

Of plight and the antichrist
Judith's accomplice,
I’ve bartered martyrs for fixes,

Never a thief, money always came to me,
Never dropped to my knees to please,
That doesn’t mean I am decent being,

A ****** on the rise,
In infancy I opened my eyes,  
In my youth I chose to ride in fictitious skies,
****** not fried,
A mind abused when a thirst thrived,

Curbside with the socially derived,
Deviants dwelling under lamplights,
  
The bloodshot eyes of paranoia’s plight,  
To escape I'd die, but miss the high,
Beelzebub's waiting for me to arrive,  
My toxic mentally,
Has this bloodshot belligerent,
Absent of Providence,
Lusting at the fingertips,
Indulging beneath hips,

Not fried but ****** prime,
Extorting my existence,
Curbside strolls,
To tighten a ***** I loosened.

Lying in my bed, my mind begins to stir
Glowing lamplights of reminiscence

I can still remember all the moments
In my life
That defined me
Shaped my being

I still can picture them
And I treasure them
Bright jewels in the dust
Not all good, still none bad

I can still see the lights shining, thoughts rushing
Through my head

I wish you were with me
I'm falling apart
I love you, even after what you did.

(theinkthatspeaks.blogspot.com)

Life is no place for fools like me
Because there are no other fools like me
Cloudy nights wearing purple and grey cumulous
Softly comforting in their silent beauty
Puffy explosions of midnight joy
Quiet ponds reflecting the quiet night
There is safety in the solitude
Wonder in the shifting clouds
I choose this over the hustling daytime
I love this over the breakneck bar scene
Dimly lit lamplights breaking through the dark sky
Giving me just enough glow to read by
And when the evening gives up its sounds
The singing crickets and other chirping things
It’s like a beautiful painting, breathtaking
I choose this over the mangled masses
The mauling throng of throbbing crowds
Rushing and rushing pushing and shoving
Just to get to the next spot
A competition for the best jobs
Keep what you can and leave me the night
I am not a competitor in your gladiatorial bouts
Leave me the silence and I will take it as a gift
Leave me the night and see how my spirit is uplifted

It is the soul of the night that devours me. Hours spent in silence frightens, enlightens, and bores me. Nature spins in all her soft cool glory. Little pools of water lit by lamplights. Cold fences swing in and out in time to the shifting masses of shift workers. Trucks come and go at random intervals. I am tired, so deep in the fatigue that I require crippling amounts of caffeine. I am a stimulant fiend. Barely functioning as me, more like a specter of me. I watch the world from my comfy shack, letting it spin me back. Dipping in the solace of solitude, I search the universe for truth. Eyes cast everywhere, mind running wild, I ask the night for answers. Its silence says, find it yourself.

Nocturnal , cool June ravishing in the flickers of gas lamplights
Quiet country lanes with familiar friends , Southern engines
tumble over the tracks bound for New Orleans
Barn Owls sing to Apricot horizons , the audible strain of methodic hardwood Rockers
Cicadas , Field Crickets and Katydids stir romantic hearts
Piedmont , Fall line hamlets lie at rest till morning*  ....

Beyond the shanty town of Midtendrift, where the moneylenders ply their trade among the aimless and avaristic, lie the ice prairies of Ensomfelt. The region is a barren wasteland whose boundaries are flanked to the west by the bottomless crevasse of Issorg and to the east by Lake Hjertestorm.

Those who come to wander this no-man’s-land may find that they disappear from the earth for a time - from themselves, and from the memory of others. Relying only on intuition to guide them, they pass this way unseen, their weary feet making shallow graves in the freshly fallen snow.

The rocky outcrop at Engeldrøm marks the gateway to the in-countries. Nestled beneath the foothills of Mount Håp, this is the place to which souls lost to the world of ego and ambition return to take up their torch and remember.

During the long northern winter, the sky above Håp is an expanse of indigo ocean punctuated with an infinity of lamplights. Among these lanterns which float free of the earth, the North Star shines the brightest. It is here that you will find your journey’s end and a treasure trove of truth, forged in fire and sealed in ice.

Hey you over there, yes you,
The one that turned your head at my opening line,
You’re the cause of it all,
As you look back to what you were doing before,
I must’ve said the wrong thing,
To cause you to look away,
Ignoring my plea,
Changing the subject from my insanity,
I know it is rude that I’m not looking at you,
Looking away,
But I am, yes I am, speaking to you,
You’re the most expansively fragile thing,
The reason I call out and howl,
Making all of us in here to toil under lamplights,
Searching and making buffoons out of ourselves,
Just for the chance to let you know,
We’re real and you’re listening.

1:28am and fingernails gripping deep enough to draw blood
I take a breath and make my choice
Clothes, shoes, keys
I leave myself at the door,
and step into the pause
The standstill blanket of cold deep dark
And its fresh and chilling embrace
My private escape
My eyes adjust to the night as I walk along the ritual path
The sounds of my shoes are all that fills the gaping maw of silent sky
Un-perceived, I disappear
The sidewalk bends and curves with the ever-moving moon
Around corners
Through neighborhoods
The shifting trees make curious shapes at the edge of my eye
2:12am and my wandering begins to take its toll
My legs ache and tire and ask for rest,
yet my mind still buzzes and stirs with painful contemplation
It isn’t yet time to turn back
3:01am and all at once I feel the gentle tug of sleep as I begin to circle back
Finally finding familiar streets and cul de sacs that seem like strangers in the flickering florescent lamplights
Left, right, and left again
I return to the door, and I dread what lies behind it
But want as I might to stay, it is time once more for me to shoulder myself
3:20am and calm again, my questions quelled
I wrap myself in the reminder of the silent chill of un-being
And as I breathe the first slow breaths of peace,
The sweetness of slumber meets me in between

it's a terrible feeling
when you pace back and forth down a street with no lamplights
the cars on the highways aren't moving or stuck in traffic
they levitate home as its 8:30
and it's time for quiet
it's time for peace
however I hear the music erupting from the radios
"A mans been shot"
and the world goes silent
"A black mans been shot"
and for 3 minutes I hear pens and needles hitting the curb of the road
the homeless man accompanying my transparent presence whispers the words
"it's only a game of cat and mouse"
and
"no one is dead. no one is alive."
and
"what are we truly when we're running from both?"
and the clock starts to tick
but no longer for him
and my eyes stare at a locked phone screen that displays the numbers
the last few digits
all his life succumbed to 8:30
how precious a moment
how raw is history at a time such as
the streets are still quiet
now the radios play a quiet melody something like
"he was only a ****"
maybe even
"he was holding a gun"
perhaps
"his life wasn't worth it"
and it's upsetting knowing things are going to end
that you have to watch them grind to a stop and can't change it
because from birth all your life ever was
was a break peddle slowly bringing you to a crash you could only anticipate
you pulled all the right cards, took every class, and pushed down on that break
but you're the one that died
"A mans been shot"
it's 8:31
"A black mans been shot"
it's starting to rain
the droplets cover skyscrapers that reached a higher peak in their life then you ever would
it's starting to rain again
this time the clouds are my eyes
and the shock has passed
I see a cat hide in a box in an alley
the homeless man stays put and let's the water fill his mouth
everyone and everything is cold
the paper from today with the headline "America the Land of the Free"
makes my stomach twist
the black ink bleeds down the paper till the words are undetectable
till the memory of life fades and it's moments like these where I slip into a waking coma where my body moves further past buildings but my minds stopped working when the news smashed into the forefront of my brain
the yellow lights in windows turn off
everyone's going to sleep
it's 8:32
in one minute the noise will emit from bars and night clubs like a parade to commemorate life
"It could have been us so we must celebrate"
but it wasn't going to be us
we haven't been preparing ourself for this moment
we weren't born in handcuffs
the night lights will soon begin
and the city will come alive "once more"
only to break at the sound of another tragedy
but the arrows pointing me to tired neighborhoods tell me I'm where I'm suppose to be
funny how the blood still stains the street even with the rain
how the bullet left a dent on the sidewalk where he looked up at the stars
I lay down on that very sidewalk
I look at the stars
I remember there are none and close my eyes to envision a world filled with stars
it's 8:33
"A black mans been shot.
In other news...
we're all still alive."

Sometimes the nights up here sink into my bones.
There was no quiet in Cali, not really. Even as the apartments and small homes slept, there were the haggard and homeless on the streets. The lamplights never went off, and security made rounds around the gates and shopping center. All rounded off neatly with the late-night patrons of the 24hr Walgreen's.
I was one of them.
No, there's a peace to the PNW. The fog that blankets everything, keeping the night sweet, secluded. Somewhat lonely.
(I would hate to not have a friend up here)
There's a way the stillness of the hours after midnight sink into me.
Surrounded by trees, grass, dirt. Bugs and owls and coyotes.
The earth breathes here, the night is a living entity.
It breathes me in, and though I may be at odds with the nights up here
Sometimes
Sometimes, we are at peace. A peaceful understanding.
As I sit, and let it wash away who I was and who I am.

The night is as empty as always.
The moon is hiding behind the clouds,
The stars are showing such a hideous smile
And the lamplights were turned on, illuminating this boring road.

Many people are crossing the street, enjoying the night walk.
Their faces are painted with a bright smile,
As if they were trying to hide their sadness.
They would laugh and make a joke,
In order to not to show just how empty and lonely they are.

Their scars are very visible.
One does not have to take off their clothes to show them.
Just take a close look at their eyes.
Empty, sad, and lonely.
Those are the best words,
To describe a broken person.

This bipolar late winter weather
is so confusing that the birds
return as quickly as the flowers
that try to bloom early.

The sun merges with the horizon.
Until, orange rays give way
to light blue.
Then that hue
gives into a darker view.

At night the lamplights
wear rainbow halos
that signify
the function of
my tired eyes.

While all other trees
are bereft of leaves
the conifers confer
their prickly beauty upon me;
Scratching my skin
only as fiercely
as I press in
to their personal space.

Always moving forward
and off at an awkward angle
I pursue the white light
half of the moon
that makes a Cheshire grin.
The high school windows
across the street
reflect strange distortions
back at me
as I walk the parking lot
watching the darker shade
within my shadow.
I slink up onto
the sidewalk
that is a gray portrait
of its pock marked past.

At last, I come in from the outside
losing what’s left of the bright night
and nature’s musical life.
I walk the sterile colorless corridors
that cut and cross to nowhere,
while my spirit yearns
to return to
the outside world I was
just describing for you.

The lamplights
That keep cities safe at night
Are the same
To invert
The skies viewed from above.

Each city a constellation,
A sign,
Seen from afar, inert,
Seen close up, alive,
But there is no gradual transition:
One has to choose how to see it.

When we learned to fly
We saw the world shrink, far away,
Deform,
And these lights,
Small, lost points
Like islands surrounded by darkness
To remind us
We are made of vacuum
More than of matter.

These islands,
Where everything happens
Are our reflex:
Packs on the surface,
We only go deep
Where there is richness,
We shine to those who see us from above
At the same proportion we are invisible.

We are cities,
We are light,
We are vacuum.
A the same time.
Indiscernible,
Inseparable.

I sit, I wish
    for the glistening moon pools
          to sprinkle down my way.
                 Dreamy starry sky,
                    and the soft combing breeze
                      sings sweet lullabies
                    to the indigo trees.
              Sing the same to me,
           and I'll go where you go;
            river so wide,
          wider's my window!

           Now dance as you've done
        so many times before;
      embrace the morning sun's
       broad rays on your shore.
                                                         Far banks shall appear
                                                 with the coming of April,
                                               and strike out I will
                                            through the dusty rock passes
                                       through mountains of yellow
                                      and bridges of gold -- until
                                          I gain the city of friends,
                                             lamplights and streetlights
                                                    ­   and buslights and doors
                                                           ­       will be closed.

                                                        ­Gone, then, are the wishes
                                                 and wonders and wants,
                                      the things that I hoped for
                              a long time ago.

                     The trill of the strings
                           (my only respite
                                from keen madness
                                      or a tantō
                                      to wish me goodnight)
                                 rises on palm-tops,
                            floats in cool grasses,
                       gives purpose my soul.
                                  So much peace I find
                                     in warm charming moonlight....

                             Tomorrow, concern may put your course
                                       on a laxed and lumberous way,
                                  great river of the dying day,
                          but as long as my will goes on,
           and the wonderful will of the Maker,
     those fleet-footed brigands
won't catch me, for I am
      faster than they are.

...Calming storm,
     you stirrer and squeezer,
       present most of the time that I need you:
                Set my mind,
                   for all its vain attempts;
               make me relent,
                 and I won't deceive you.
                        Till then, I'll be leaving you soon,
                            but know my April blush
                               is the same color as in June,
                              and the fabric of all that I hope for
                            is the cloth of the comforting moon.

The dark
Night water
That ripples
And reflects
The moon
And highway
Lamplights
Looks like
Small strands
Of infinity’s
Reflected hair

I am tired
stretched
in wretched
stress
and social agony.

So, I close my eyes,
lie still to see
the night find
its calming darkness.

Till,

the bright lamplights
make me restless,
while I was trying to rest
in the late evening.

Instead, the white knife
lightning strikes
leaves me barely breathing,
halfway up and leaving
as my chest starts heaving
from the stress I have been
perceiving.

There is no sleeping,
only more frustration
as I lay awake
in an elevated state
of social anxiety.

The silence assaults me
It spreads with the wind
My nostrils flaring
And my strides,
the only audible thing,
the sound of the asphalt
connecting with shoes
and the breathing of my heart
slowing my pace,
no one around
the darkness ensues
only lamplights
to shine the scene
but I running
waiting for dawn
to make the world rise.

i met you when i was nineteen,
you like to tell different versions of this story:
we were in a parking lot, i found you at the subway, no, no it was during the last performance at a festival, we locked eyes and-
all i remembered were your shoelaces
how you laced the string through all the wrong holes
and the funny way how
we never look for
our vices till we're in
too deep.


"out there," i once said over the phone "must be a god for all the sad and willing *******-"


i was your favourite passenger when
you were drunk
at the steering wheel.
it was worth it for how
you always sped a little too fast
talked a little too loud
finally opened up that stubborn, lonely
heart.
the lane we're on doesn't have a name
look- how the lamplights
lurch forward;
up the alleyway, down the steps-
where are we going darling?
where are we going?



neither of us are doing okay.
you're running hard and fast and with those
loose laces,
i'm nineteen again and can't let go of
a bad thing, ****-
Hold my hand.
so it's sunlight. so it's suicide.
till the very end,
don't let go. don't let go.