A blank slate;;; a horizon

through my eyes, at my fingertips, we’ve come this far.

Cast our nets in the right direction and let the fish slip through our hands,

challenged like we’ve never been.

Despite the curiosity and how close we get, and the chain of custody,

and the sheer lack of command,

well have to open it up, and drown it out.

Burn it down,

to the foundation, to the roots; in one ear and out the other,,

up until liftoff.

While we have fish on the brain,

in all aspects, always.

To the heart of this sickness,

we are the osprey,

flying straight towards the stars,

empty handed, a quarter of the time.

Up and under,

indecipherable, but at the same time, warm on my throat.

My watch is probably fast,

was probably fast.

We don’t know what’s been said or misspelled,

but we still pass the dragons, we’re still taking chances;

but they are not dragons and they do not take chances.

Still warm on my throat,

all of it.

still written in the sand; made wholly for the big screen.

all of it.

Spread out, the cheers and the crops; the pesticides; the phalanx. the fall.

Nothing in common but stepping on the the same cracks and wearing the same stripes,

the same jackets,

soaking it all up just the same , the same .

despite the silence.

the same.

Turns out, the crawling was just a reflection ,

I thought it was always two people,

thought it had always been,

but it was only ever one,

Had been one crawling

running on. flooding. one.

The entire time.

The one that changes with me , follows me, floods ME

like a shadow,

like me,

the same,

The entire time.

, just shy of 1000.

When they breathe,

they the lights

in their incandescence.

They show their gills, typing running fast,

and breathing underwater.

The thief,

that thief,

guided by that same incandescence,

instead by candles,

incensed and numb,

numb, but still, a thief.

Still being picked up by far away microphones;

picking , and poking.

Still running , stumbling feet crunching over broken glass and

river rocks, arms are full Marcus. Arms are FULL.

No idea what’s louder, or what’s more poetic,

what more could be , make me?

make me. A THief.

Rarely is it loud enough,

Am I , positive or negative, BC or AD-

charged and letting the current hit me and run through me,

chasing after the boat that’s already left.

Ignoring everything else headed straight for me.

and I am left on the dock, fully charged, but aloof, too.

Set to drift anyways, but I was aiming for a different direction,

not for paradise necessarily, and it feels like the end,

set to a soundtrack of some kind, and that would explain the microphone,

set to a pit in my stomach; to the core;

my core.

my core.

set to a certain romance, but still fully charged , happening now in broad daylight,

in the cheap seats.

it usually follows at night,

follows me, sparkling,

BC or AD – in broad daylight.

my core.

my core.

my core.

In order to save the music

where we left off; mispronunciations abound,

on an island, dipping my feet into the water,

through those blue waves, all these months later.

When we were rabid and bruised,

when we were rabid and bruised, back in March.

Written in cursive, and I think we’ve been here before.

black and blue waves,

and left on the cutting room floor.

I think we’ve been here before, back in March.

Too old for stripes,

and growing out and away from all of that

away from that tree, away from all those mistakes, and the weeds,

away from hell on earth,

Away from any tree, away from all the apparitions.

Too old for stripes,

too old for those glowing eyes at night,,,,

Too old for any semblance of a singing voice as well ,

or singing, probably .

For what its worth, we did warm it up,

we pressed the wrong button, stroked the wrong key,

visited the wrong minor league park,

no one was playing,

but the grass was there , laid out for us.

and the time flew by us, flies by.

Swept away by us, and the managers, and the fireworks at the end of the night.

and we fought to get our hands on it ,

to hold onto the granules that blew in from the enormous wind,

The label says low fat but I don’t think its really low fat,

The skies say fireworks but I don’t think its really firework’s.

just like I don’t think these are the major leagues,

I don’t think these chalk lines line up,

and this is what I am coming to grips with now,

coming to blows with it, feeling for the clouds.

There’s a lot of baseball recently,

and this is what I am coming to grips with despite enduring longer pauses from just about everyone,

If I can even get it out, that is.

despite always having to slow down, despite my excitement

regardless of the speed, or speech, or anything special, at all.

These are not yet the major leagues, not quite.

If I can even get it out, any of it, that is.

Just north of the flowers,

feeling for my words that feel out of my pocket,

out of my mouth, like broken teeth and i saw them too, escaping me

like broken teeth.

Everyone else as they fell and scattered away like baby spiders, like broken teeth.

Dragging my fingers through the empty air, through my empty mouth.

Then slightly , gently across empty concrete ,

then over the petals and flowers of the potted plant, stroking it like a sleeping dog, feeling for something, reaching for anything.

instead finding only that painted porcelain pot,

the collar of that sleeping dog; an industrial complex.

All of the the bell (s) that goes along with it,

careful to not break anything , or destroy something, and still were coming up short,

were still focusing on the backs of spiders’

and all the young that goes along with it , and the bell (s) , the angel (s).

this one is on my tongue and I’m finding the keyboard soundly, suddenly , sending it into shock and me with it

This is a longer one,

I can feel it around my neck and through my ears and its all too loud,

ticking like a clock, findings words, any word, the perfect one,

with the bells,

with the angels , just north of the flowers.

Well maintain well past when we should ; and the past itself too.

outlast the crescendo, take all those victories in stride.

Even the ones built in water , written in shorthand,

smelling too, of shortbread.

We’ve never been here before.

The ones where we are nothing , were nothing.

Even our fingers are floating , just hovering above the keyboard,

expanding like a balloon, like a t-shirt filled up up with air and surrounded by water in a pool

tucked into shorts,

after a cannonball, for instance.

tripping over landlines ,

falling right off the page, after that cannonball.

Ready to burst, and we let it go too soon,

inevitably drifting up towards the powerlines,

and subsequently falling right off the

page.