Stalling out, giving into the metal and the taste of it ,

giving up to it, the acidity.

Missing out, and it all just started.

Were already looking ahead,

were already punctuated.

Thousands of miles ahead, at best.

Calling out and then forgetting about it, at best.

we cant do that but

I ‘m still beaming ,

I’m still blinking, at best.

We are doing it more often now,

We are missing it more often now, ( I do)

maybe we should, on purpose.

Maybe we can do it without looking now, ( I do)

maybe we are right where we wanna be, ( I am )

maybe we can compromise,

compromise on missing it,

on purpose.

Letting it all come to me

all at once

or learning the patterns of short currents,

the habits of short whispers,

It will still get here, still come in clearly, across the board.

still bounce off the backboard if we let it.

We know the voice, can picture them too.

We can still decipher it, hear it better than anyone else. always.

but where we left our sunglasses ,

when we waited for the pause, better than anyone. always

We are not so sure.

We push ourselves,

but we are not so sure, of anything.

Roll up your sleeves, because of nothing,

in spite of nothing,

drag and drop, always.

Taking chances, now.

Nothing is tumbling; these tactics are obvious.

Nothing is tumbling now,

but then everything is always

but the room is definitely smaller, with pleasure.

Everything will get some water,

a stream, an email, with a fresh new approach.

With nothing else to go off of, starting off fresh, or

with nothing, eventually.

with civility, eventually.

Don’t be so bleak.

Fill up your ears with it and the groundwater from the aquifers and the aqueducts,

the rest of the noise will do the rest,

the river will run through it , finally.

in a trance, certainly.

Patch it together from so many other songs and some of those noises,

obscure it in oil and vitamins, whatever is left, cordially.

and flesh and dry eyes, and mispronunciations ,

with dry eyes,

we pan towards the execution, exactly.

Make it feel obscure, and the camera and your feet will shake,

make it feel really feel obscure.

when nothing shakes, clearly.

Back towards the light,

a skill borrowed and bled ,

with spaces and waves in between, to fill-in the gaps, like hydraulic cement.

Hydraulic me, coming and going, bricks and other pieces falling away from me ,

like hot asphalt being poured , and then cured.

like vining plants climbing and erasing the fence, and suddenly were cured.

Throwing it all at the walls to see what sticks, fighting to climb those same walls all the time.

what with all the vines and shit you’ve thrown at it, preventing you from getting a good grip, but not preventing sentences from being too long,

having too many thoughts, going off script, etc. etc.

We are not sure where to go , which song to play next, where to put your ( our?) hands,

how to deal with this headache. or where you left your gloves.

Which hand we should run through our hair,

because it matters, and well always chase it,

feel it,

get lost in it, ( our hair, the hair)

what matters… ( if your still reading)

what matters.

A ringing in the ears , in the trees,

and that still light from

the still tree,

still I feel it ,

the screaming and the burning

Still, we are.

Still we try to be .

Clinging to everything , to the stop signs and the ones indicating speed,

trying to find the cupholder with the cup,

at the very last second,

Everything spilling everywhere , as a result .

Real live cobwebs, spindly and dedicated; clinging to everything and everywhere

all over your lap now , spiders and silk and everything in that cup spilled everywhere.

This is the last time I’ll mention spiders for awhile.

Beholden to cataclysms , waning now / a split decision to come / a toast.

to me // and to that drop in pressure. ( cheers)

and to the spillage! ( cheers)

Deprived and deserted I am , by that precise drop in pressure.

Really precise in pressure,

Really precious drops in pressure,

really precious ones, man.

End of a saga

between the canyons,

echoing off the walls.

threatening to blow the lid off,

blow the whole thing up.

Its off, and so are you;

are we; are they.

Its the end of an era,

the first look back,

a glance inside,

between the laurels, where the horses gallop deftly in between seasons.

and leap, over my head, and yours,

out into winter.

out into that sweet, sweet wild

out into a different direction entirely ,

to where they aren’t any horses any more,

Out where there are just some good ideas, a few at least — roaming around.

Accompanied by a ringing numbness in your fingertips,

and everything itching all at once,

but not in a poison ivy kind of way

out to where there are no more horses/ and no more blocks,

and no more poison ivy,

but ill miss it none the less.

feels like I can see a cat

where there is not a cat, only slower.

Hasn’t been a cat in a long time,,,,

but the cramps are forming in the base of my legs, in my calf’s,

and they have been for a long time,

about half full, with my feet up up up.

, only slower.

Just slow,

So slow.

A reading , palms read; palms trees, / psalms

revelations ; an open book.

A paradigm.

Unsure if we are forcing it

or even starting it the right way to begin with. so

the end.

Skin from the lip on my tongue now, on the tip of my tongue,

on the verge,

we’ve only been focused on injuries lately.

Instead of being flawless, instead of using the word “and”

instead of just being ourselves.

Weaving our way through, capsizing on the way, by the way.

Only stopping to take a drink when the screen goes blank and all those eyes everywhere watch you try to dance,

You see your breath just as soon as you get up off your hands and knees,

crawling out from under it,

They watch you struggle to reset, struggle to rewind, struggle to really dance and to grow.

when they are all gone,,,

ctrl alt del,

circa,

et al,

etc. etc,

Running parallel to my veins,

cosmically, and coincidentally adjacent to that broken bone,

perpendicular to the room down the hall,

standing on the outside, from the outside.

the typography,; the topography

all of its a mess,

directionless and loose,

When I trip over the carpet trying to get there , right out of the gate.

to find out where that howling is coming from,

when we trip over the carpet just trying to get there,

to get somewhere,

to get anywhere,

to just get past the gate.

Still trying to figure out where that howling is coming from,

This lack of feeling before we plummet into that beige void,

a spirited campaign for a re-run if there ever was one,

one that brought us to tears,

if there ever was one.