I want a cello bow for my bass.
it's 4:11, I can hear the rain whistling
in the grooves of everything
all that I can see is being rained on
I sighed to you and immediately regretted it and
didn't want you to notice me
the way the stones stay wet as if to sharpen a knife
but it's not scary
when I (wake) I know I will be tired
but it will be soft.

Between asleep and awake, dear:
what I write now is it's own lovely prose
When theologians lit candles and wrote in the darkness growing
Something hidden behind the day's normal light glowing
and edging its way in the drone of the elongated shadowfield tinted magenta by the summer light
Something important isn't right
I stay up longer and longer and my eyes grow wearier and darker
I sit silently or when I lie I toss and turn like the surface of the sea
And the things around me shimmer and crackle
And I hear them coming, coming for me.

it'd be nice to sleep so soundly
that nothing would make me stir
quiet like the quietest forest mushroom
i sit here anxious at night and watch the trees grow and touch eachother
the aspens sense one another
i look at the lofty world and watch it reel through my window clouds passing by
it's so peaceful the way fungi advance politely in the basement
i sit here in my bedroom watching trees grow
someday i'll
leave this thing behind
it will beautifully swarm with ants
it will be too late, i'll be in the stars

i am not home
(oh, I know You’re Me)
only the Best words come out when I am half asleep
but the best memories never seem to come back.

I love you for all the things you didn’t do.
And you blamed me for everything I took from you
But maybe you did, and maybe I didn’t too

And now all I see is someone else and feel my hands get all fuzzy
snow piles up in the subway
Tthe man stared at me, I don’t have anything to say

There is a line I cannot cross so I leave for a while
And I feel strange, I feel forgetful
and I feel uncomfortable.
i am not real

Double moons above the reservoir, a photograph inside my head
I think about it this morning before I go off to sleep
And rise again, and do not remember it
Until the early morning when it comes round again

Double moons above the trees in a low pressure green
A clear night that couldn’t be photographed once but twice
It was a drive-by shooting, a hit-and-run
I captured a hot ripe moon in stressful motion

The two conversations, young and hanging heavy
Limp sentences not bent by fog, only by motion
Two animals breathing and beating in the stolid window night
They mocked me and yet told me to feel at ease
That duality is unnatural, but okay.

What's the opposite of haunted?
I left work today and saw a ghost in the afternoon light in a vacant classroom
It filled the room like a soft voice in silence does
Like something was just born, or something was close to dying
It was strange not seeing a bed or a curtain in there;
Only the strange blinds, the reflective wood floors and drawing benches stacked like stones
The avenues and streets fileted out beyond the dusty windows like a sarcophagus in a museum
I wanted to enter but willingly decided not to
Because if I did I was afraid for that moment I spent breathing at the threshold
That I would never leave again.

I'll walk on Sunday and see all the faces;
And think of how strange it is to be having one
And pairs of eyes, and pairs of legs walking amongst each other, taking it for granted
I'll look down and watch their feet move like swinging boats by the sea
And dogs which move like thin cloth in the breeze, fur that isn't all there
And poles moving past me
It's too bright to not squint nor walk upright
Nor speak without stopping. So I don't bother.
I'll see pairs of eyes stare at each other and then take a kiss;
take it like it never existed before, and think this will never happen to me
And the rose for granted, red and tainted with a different species of dementia meant for dainty things
I will never experience that rose not on my own
But I'll pick them myself, I will harvest them on my own accord
And push my fingers into their stems
And taste them and wonder, if this is what love tastes like
If this is the crux, what it amounts to
And how normal it is, and how indifferent
I will walk by and pretend to be nonchalant
But my interest in red still lingers.