Pulling my eyes up to speed,

there is a definite deference

a distraction coming in droves , in plagues.

A heat that we love, a heat that we cant get through.

Whilst the very best soundtracks play too loudly in the foreground and too faintly in the background ,

front to back, end over end amidst heavy interference .

This movie,

our movie is the last thing on my mind,

I am thinking of the warmth that darkness provides instead.

about that black dog pressed against my arm, while I try to sleep,

about that glass house, and especially about the heat,,,

As the soundtracks and the percussions separate and begin to close in like snakes and I turn over to finally face the edge,

and wonder why Part II was ever left out, and what would have become of it if they pulled the trigger,

if they hit it out of the park,

or if it would have left the infield even.

what was, if they could have grabbed the reins at the time,

what is , if I could just roll back over, and ignored all the noise the horses were making now that someone had grabbed hold of the reins,,,,,

which I did,

I do,

I will.

The best squeezed juice the is often deleted or wiped up off the ground or countertop and funneled back into the bottle,

or jar,

leaving behind a sticky residue on the floor and fingers and, by the campfire,

or jar.

The sound, the taste, the texture, punctured, riddled with bullets.

and what you see that was squeezed out to fit under the microscope,

Is all that’s really left, practically,

there some still left under the fridge, left to coagulate , left to colonize,

left to smear its fingerprints everywhere,.

Left to nurse wounds and stave off infection,

while the campfire confidently roars on, without incident.

In between my overuse of the word ” and” and everyone’s attempt to decipher the diagrams on the back of the modems,

modeled, molded and blended to resemble the sun, or something in the sky anyways .

Some unplugged star,

waiting to be built, or to explode and then die , or a variation thereof;

Whose cord is so tangled into a knot that no electricity could ever pass through,

to release that hum that we all want to feel, to trip over it,

but we catch ourselves, and wait still

for it to bleed some momentum,

to slip through and ELECTRIFY SOMETHING.
STRIKE ANYTHING.

To untangle that same knot and feel the subsequent slow burn on your hands,

dripping off your wrist, running downhill

leaving rings behind ,

allowing you to run alongside it.

Finally aligned with fire and electricity,

if only briefly,

legs stretched further than the passing currents, with each passing current

parallel with it, and the other currents now,

panting , and sobbing

panting, and sobbing,

coming to to a stop, where it all evens out,

the end of a slope, or a line ,

if only briefly.

.

Sometimes we wonder what the light looks like pressed up against other lights,

aghast, covered with but a single blanket.

Brighter lights,

glowing pink in the bank,

standing in line….

Sleeping comfortably in a lonely , humming hamlet,

among the very best fireflies,

among the other lovely fireflies,

still glowing pink in the bank….though

still in line.. though

still glowing pink, even in disintegration, though.

Bowing out and ultimately discarded with the plastic bags and driftwood

and freezer bags too,

In the midst of this purge ,

After the moths have gotten hold, ,,,

We wonder what the sound sounds like pressed up against other sounds

and whether we will take part, or whether we will sleep,

and why we didn’t hear the moths chewing holes in EVERYTHING.

Ill forget those troves, those files,

having looked up a definition and then having forgot that same definition moments later

in real time, right now,

but no longer with a cat in my lap, cold and agape,

but not longer willing to conflagrate cooperate

now lost amongst the firewood stacked neatly against an empty house,

an inept attempt at total value,

at the behest of royal hands,

volumes , propped up against my arm,

against my hands.

At night; without pockets.

At night; working against me.

It just comes when it wants,

continues when it wants

bleeds when it wants.

What it wants is volumes, in volumes and square cubic feet,

swollen and immature, all the paragraphs grow and swell with every word, in real time,

right now.

Let them blow away and tear apart , so the titles will make more a little more sense now

the circumference , bloated with context,

bloated with contempt.

The perimeter , standing strong,

and I am left running, climbing ,

telling the story,

baby baby baby

trusting me , trying to ,,,,,,,

and telling me about the waves,

Lying to me,

trying to,,,,,,

Reduced to scars around the eyes,

craters and religious stones,

that I have learned about from listening to the radio

That I have seen by not listening to the radio.

Don’t let any drip out, relinquish

all of it.

any of it.

Before it disappears into vapor or into mist,

before the ravens become too monstrous

and before the ravenous become too famished

and have nothing left to feed on,

peck at,

bleed on,

or even drink.

In times of famine,

catch the tiger by his toe.

In times of famine,

catch any of that tiger

catch all of that tiger.

Drifting into the bank, face down

waiting in line, face down

bobbing, floating,

bobbing, floating,

in and out of sleep.

in and out of line,

Wasting time on guitar solos,

dehydrated, doubling down,

and tied neatly to to the undercurrent.

Eventually the disk will be too scratched for any computer to read,

your signature is still illegible, and compartmentalized,

your satin hair,

reduced to wet wavy strings,

attracting fish and algae,

more beautiful now than ever.

Thank you for reading my mind.

If you listen closely, you can hear the rest of traffic coming to a screeching halt,

and to the disk

skip skip skip skip skip skipppppppppping.

Spilling out onto the ground in black slicks,

some of it right onto my feet,

some of that heat will escape,

and some wont ever be deleted.

and It’s been said the music has always been too loud and now its known the scars don’t heal as fast,

they linger,

they sleep

and I can count them.

Like the heat, and the oil,

headfirst into the sun,

headfirst into something.

Crying over my cereal,

and milk

strawberry milk,

strawberry tears.

No apples today,

mostly sunshine today,

no shade, no vanity,

no strawberries today either.

New allergies today and tomorrow

and the next too,

in a vacuum, too.

I’ll still have my reflexes,

though, through

and I’ll still have you

and you,

though, through/

and watermelon for the first time, today,

watermelon for the first time ever

I will repeat myself probably,

I’ll repeat myself most likely,

I’ll find a way out, maybe

and I am still waiting

wearing,

staring, maybe,,,,,

Leary, probably ,,,,,

I can still care for him,

for you,

I do, and I will,

I like what I have to say,

I do.

Even its the same thing..

Over and over and over and over and over and over,

I like the sound if my own voice

over and over and over and over and over

I like the sounds of keyboard

and I think the keystrokes sound like me, too,

I think the angels like me , too…

to a degree, at least.

Tortured, and we get to tell someone finally,

to a degree, at least.

They already know, ‘

a keynote.

to a degree, at least,,,

\probably,