We found the end wasn’t quite as clear.

We found the end , about as clear as sand dunes in the distance.

Before silver and gold; and as clear as what preceded both of those.

Preceding torture and preceding the wind, too.

Two separate things thing entirely; two desperately lonely things.

given the chance to be on the right side,
I turned my Judas ear towards the noise,

to the spaces,

to the traffic; to the apostles .

It’s not clear who or what’s left,

the pages torn out of this particular mystery novel,

right before the end .

We are fading to black quicker than I thought, and the sound isn’t quite as clear now.

I am afraid I wont get it right; all the static and the stories I cant get out the right way,

all the spare parts,

all sounding the same, lately.

We found it right before we finished, at dawn, we did it.

We found the answer.

I am plural.

before the sun came up,

many spaces apart……

I am plural.

none of those stories though,

before any more good ideas, before any answers.

I am poetic.

I can type without looking, at certain points,

even when its dark and

and I came up with the end without looking because it sounded similar,

I came up with something,

before I could see anything else in front of me,

or by reading ahead to the last page, by reading anything.

so there’s that ,

there’s always that

That streak of light

pouring all over my feet,

oil all over my feet,

all over the stars,

and into thin air.

All over what I really wanted to say.

Through the window,

out of that window.

It isn’t cracked; and it never was or will be.

All that tar and the sap and the light all must have seeped in from somewhere,

the roots, those snakes; too.

from another open window,

from yet another crashing wave.

That’s what what really held it all up

t hose trees , all that low hanging fruit,

and the beating sun

no more shade,

or tethering anything .

come back,

and that beating sun.

come back.

Stories are told quickly and mistakes are definitely made,

and I am always last on the scene, constantly.

The last one to the crash site.

The one to to the phenomenon.

I’ll still use the same channels and frequent the same channels.

The same faces of as all of those statues and scarabs ,

and dial the same numbers.

Those same soft numbers that we’ll never, ever forget.

Hoisted up with and by winches and propped as to be not understood all those these years later,

discovered, and buried,

discovered, then, buried.

Out of the corner of your mouth, ,

it comers ,

it screams

but all we wanted was more open windows,

I understand this and can articulate this now,

I have a semblance of a jaw now,

despite the circumference and everything it took to get there,

it could be more,

all at once,

it could be more,,,,,

with additional contributors and ghost writers and semicolons, too.

Jack the ripper

and a laugh track, and viper,

it could be more…

on repeat too,

with the proper spacing, probably,

it was jack the ripper,

it landed center, middle, maybe .

it landed a little to the left, maybe

and it feels GREAT coming out of the barrel,,,,,

as it leaves my hand,

as those stiches abrade my fingers as I attempt what’s left of a curveball.

bullseye.

strike three.

(Despite the spacing ) ( Long pause)

worry about me,,,,,

bullseye.

Getting comfortable ,

after the break, and amongst pillows; amongst angels,

amongst friends, and monuments, and angels .

I’m telekinetic

Where We are in real time,,,,,,,

We are living during the the commercial break; the compound fracture,

the sequel,

growing up and into the sequoia,

we have to ask ourselves where we are

and if we can even feel it,

and if its even still worth it .

worth the spacing, or the repercussions.

Worth outlasting the commercials and all the waiting around

all the salt and the fat to make the feature film really worth the wait,

worth it just watching the clouds speed by faster than they ever have before, when we look up,

when anyone looks up,

getting more comfortable than they ever have before, with thier head tiled and mouth ajar,

ready to catch water; and angels

ready to catch all the counterpunches ready to to absorb EVERYTHING ,

even the angels .

The perfect amount of of rocks,

turned sideways and other ways, only missing the rivers from which they came,

and all that non native pruning that has been done,

with so many borders,

is at least sufficient for this audience,

sufficient for this cry for help.

It feels better between both ears, to be sure,

more succinct,

more collaborative,

and somehow still sufficient for this audience.

Despite what the reviews say,

that’s more than just a blank stare,

what’s more than blank stare?

To keep our eye on the ball?

and we almost missed out own chair when we took a seat,

just now.

But we still sank in.

We are sunk.

we are.

just now.

Not sitting still,

Pacing mostly,

getting so comfortable , and then pulling the blanket over all of me ,

because I am uncomfortable,

I am cold,

I have this memorized .

I have this italicized .

I am clever.

I am good,, for now

but there is nothing worse then these racing words

and the sound of my own voice,

while the other ear takes in everything else.

The doctor is in the other room,

to take it in all the rest,

this tidal wave,

all that control,

this masterpiece , and whatever is left.

Am I just bending words?

missing it and scaring me,

All of it does,

All at once.

Working from the very end , from far, far

behind.

We are not even sure who is supposed to be working concession

or the scoreboard, even.

My hands and my head and my fingers feel wet,

and were talking about nothing important , WERE JUST TRYING TO KEEP SCORE

Were just talking about what’s north of the flowers,

we have to talk about this ,

and waiting for the big swing,

we have to.

Waiting on what’s down there below ready to grab my wet, flailing fishy hands,

or my vulnerable fishy ankles,

what or who is ready to take a close one.

or to lean into it, whatever it is.

Whatever is north of that,

whatever is north of me .

Don’t forget the night and

don’t stretch your fingers too far, keep them close,

in a fist,

to you,

for you.

Not dead,

not quite yet,

out of batteries though,

and shelf space too.

But there’s still cool air,

plenty of it to go around,

Like during times of war,

all that cool air everyone gets used to.

None of it is blue enough, or green enough,

and we just don’t know how to end it,

and it almost always

never loud enough.